GOODBYE WINTER ...

I began this posting of a daily poem in myredberrypoetree.blogspot.com back in December as the winter descended. Surprisingly, I have put out a collection of 75 poems. Stephen and I are heading out for a breath of southern air and blossoming trees and I'm hoping when we return, winter will be all gone. I plan on self publishing this blog and will dedicate it to my mother…Phyllis Ballou who began her 90th year the day or two before I began this process…and to my cosmic mother, Mother Earth…who like my mother seems sick and exhausted. She still deserves to be celebrated, cherished and appreciated in every way possible and every effort should be being made to save her health before it's too late. I hope it is not too late. And I pray.

ONE HEART

All the dead wet leaves
are lying on my heart,
pressing down,
heavy on my love
and the worms are busy
making soil,
and I am raking.
Raking away years
of brown decay--
and as I rake,
I sweat
and as I sweat, I smile
because everywhere,
I am unearthing
small red tipped shoots
and tiny greens
pushing upward;
hard working for the light.
A dawn of recognition
as I bring them out from under--
hopes, plans for better love,
prayers of growing peace,
a cleaner place to live…
these are the shoots
that I release to light;
by raking, preening Mother Earth
helping her shed her skin
helps me shed mine
into understanding
the common boat we are in.
As her losses are pulled away,
put in the compost heap,
her springtime gifts of growing things
emerge from winter's sleep
and she redecorates our home
with love,
and vibrant color;
poems of waxy petals shimmering with dew,
sketches of greening landscapes reaching out
for a wider view
and ah…the music
trilling birdsong
that can lift the heart
to nod in recognition
of the unity that bonds
my little aching single heart
to the planet we live on.

TALKING LEAVES

Trees make the firm commitment
to be rooted where they stand…
digging in, drawing down
the taproot burrows underground
seeking moisture, sweet sustenance of life.
Growing closer to the core
the web of rootlets spreads
weaving beneath the obvious
in fragile fabric threads
a net for all creation.
Trees reach beneath the surface
seeking depth and fertile soil
absorbing with their roots
what nourishes the soul.
They seek the deep connection
with the breast of mother earth
and move through the circle of seasons
without complaint, sure of their worth.
They teach us to be flexible in youth,
to set a multitude of buds
to bend and yield to forceful wind
but yet, hold to our ground.
They teach us to be broad leafed
in adulthood, openminded,
using every surface to survive…
they teach us to go deep
so our crowns might reach the sky.
And in the fall of life,
they teach us not to care too much,
prompt us finally, to dare
to show our brilliance, colors true
and then in faith
to set our leaves upon the wind
before our cycle starts again.
Once we've given all to the beyond,
the winter of our life begins its song.
We dig in,
return to Earth--
we recognize the beauty of bare bones,
comprehend the music of the stars…
piercing the black velvet dark of night
with startling melody, laughter and light.
The joy travels swiftly deep into the root
and spreads through root webs underground
sending heavenly music through
Earth's fabric of color and sound.
Yes, trees stand rooted, firm
silent teachers at the center,
sacred instruments mediating exchange
between pulse of earth
and the primal dance of stars,
receiving the universal light,
they spread understanding,
encourage what is right.
If we listen, we can hear
creation's sermon loud and clear
delivered by Earth's minister, the tree
breathing love into eternity.

AMERICAN BITTERN

This bird is actually a heron...

Plunk, plunk, strange
otherworldly voice
balking from the bog.
Lonely hiccuping sounds
more like frog than bird…
more like me
than my own species.
My heart knows oddness,
the loneliness that goes
with having a deep voice,
bitter horn croaking through fog.
None listen
enthralled by the music
of your song,
but Bittern,
that does not mean you are wrong.
Keep croaking
plunk plunk in the bog.
Let out your bittern song
mysterious language
rhythmic prayers to God.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS..memorial for Dad

The are no words-
no frills to cover the pain…
no snares to contain it
no traps to confine it
no dictionary to define it.
My heart writhes
a river of aching,
longing, wishing…
this daughter's heart breaking.
I miss the nearness of you-
the smell of rough tweed,
the peeling leather elbow patch,
your roast-beefy hands
drawing lines on a napkin
to make a point.
The way you cherished
that noon balloon,
the perfect viscosity
of a crafted martini…
the way some men appreciate
a beautiful woman.

I was so hungry for those lunches
when I had you all to myself.
I was careful
to dish up the best of myself…
me the thinker
me the listener,
the cautious balancer of facts--
I showed you the wise woman
I might become.
I showed you the defiant individualist
and the soother of souls
but never, never
that needy little girl
who needed more of your light
illuminating her world
because she was the one
who frightened you away
by her yearning tears
that begged you to stay
to hear her out.

The door slammed against churning emotion,
unbalanced demand for attention.
Thats all she wanted…
the being near you that wasn't planned
sustained her soul,
affirmed her wholeness.

It's OK Dad.
Those days are gone
and so are you…
but the need hangs on.
Her ghost appears when I'm alone
except now it is me
who slams the door
in angry defense,
the final "No more!"…
yet still
she stands
begging
on the threshhold.

JEWEL IN A CROSS

(in memory of Will Shakespere's sister…be-
cause she left no name and never raised her voice.
She committed suicide and was in fact, buried at a crossroad. And with thanks to Virginia Wolfe who first told me Shakespere even had a sister.)


She died…
crippled by confinement
in a woman's body
in the middle ages--
never having felt the flow
of pen's blood
etching words on pages.
She was young
and yearning
for the great beyond
that lives just out of reach,
in some untouchable place
where the freedom of silence
can screech out
in peace,
breathe undisturbed
by needy voices,
the call of dusty furniture,
the constant droning noises
of a woman's life
in the middle ages.

She was buried at a crossroad;
cast no shadow over time,
left behind no legacy
no neatly ordered rhyme
nor prosaic reason
for her presence.
As if she never was.

Her only failure
was to follow "natural laws"
that stipulated every woman's move…
how to breathe
and who to love.
She had genius
and adventure in her heart
but qualities like these
were never written in her part.
And so, naturally, she broke the rules.

Dying,
she broke free…
somewhere in the glow of stars
the whispered soliloquy
of the female who failed
to be a mister…
jewel in a cross
the buried song
of William Shakespere's sister.

ODE TO IRIS

Tight furled in pointed spikes
your bud holds fullness
prayers of life inside.
You stand erect and
point your way to God
for opening to light
would never be denied.

Permission for your purple drapes
to open and relax in light comes not
from reaching high to up above
but from daily nurturing of corms
under a dark earth blanket tucked with love.

Years warm thy feet,
urge sensing roots to spread
weaving a fabric of elements
that intermingle-
friendship between air and light and rain.
Space for reaching deeper still
that you may not reach in vain
for something
you have not the strength to stand.

Your elegant velvet petals
open in memory
of fallen lives who fertilize
your souls eternally.
Love undraped, full open to the sun
was written in the dark void long ago.
Permission feeds the roots beneath the soil-
the hard labor of building, the physical toil
of spreading ashes, dung, digging in decay;
All…informs this passionate purple blossom
shining ephemeral in light this day.


Easter blessings of spring, growth and fertility upon all….

DOING NOTHING

I am riveted
to one stark
beam of light
as it pierces the dark--
it is the eye of the needle
demanding one point focus.
I roll my fingers
feeling for a thread,
something strong
yet tiny
like the lyric of a song
that I can grasp
between sweaty fingers…
push through
that beam of light,
that thread that binds
the essence of a dying life
to some unknown future time
when light and dark
again together play
on fields
or waves of dawn
as morning friends
and growth brings forth…
the darning
making one
of endings and beginnings
yet to come.

THE FEARFUL PLUNGE…a story poem

Down in the forests of Cherokee
flows a smooth stone river
telling stories for free.

The only payment that's due
is a listening ear,
an open mind and a heart that is clear;
for the stones tell a tale
of a youth in her teens,
who loved the woods,
the flowers and streams
and a little retarded girl
dreaming sun dreams.

She once climbed the cliffs
that border the river-
overlooking the swim hole
the height made her shiver.
Her knees were a-knocking.
Lord, she wanted to jump
and be like the boys she admired
but the lump in her stomach,
the fear that she felt
had her frozen like a statue,
iceberg that won't melt.

Down below the waters ran,
the falls filled the hole
as fast as it ran out.
The children were laughing,
the boys calling her name-
she wanted to prove she had guts
much the same as the boys. But
her delicate heart filled with fear and trembling,
was stuck on the cliff
as her mind tried assembling
the courage she needed to jump.

Alas one young man forced the lump
from her stomach into her throat.
He pushed her.
Fear had held her mute-
but as she fell
she let out a scream-
the long moment of falling
was out of a dream
she had had as a child.

Proving her guts was a failure it seemed,
but deep in her heart
a victory beamed--
that she leapt off the cliff
and joined river's flow
at the touch of a youth
that she didn't know
The fear was cracked,
the task was done.
Now, deep jumping might be fun
thanks to the boy who gave her a push.

Though her mind angered
that her guts were mush
compared to the boys,
her soul was elated,
not angry at all-
that it took the touch of a male
for the fall to come.
Losing her pride
led to her fun.

The stones sing lightly of moon's love for sun,
of a girl in her teens
who tried so to run
from her woman's heart,
her fear of heights
her deep inner passion
for laughter and light.

Yes. Down in the forests of Cherokee
wisdom flows from river to sea
and the stones tell stories of a heart
that is free.


I worked as an aid for a special needs 5 year old girl the summer I was 18. I traveled with the family on an extended camping trip. One favorite spot was a swimming hole in Cherokee National Forest.

LESSONS FROM A SUBSTITUTE TEACHER

I am…
               Acting substitute
               Filling a gap
               A temporary lack.

Someone is missing
                The glue holding it together.
                 The authority of one who knows.

I am set up-
                 Tossed blind
                  Into a strange pond.
                  I don't know the rules.

The children play me.

I know.
                   I have lots of life
                   under my belt…
                   Greyed hairs
                    Sagging breasts
                    Lines around my eyes.


I'm worn out-
                  Worn thin by lies
                   by my own faithful waiting
                   For those who, otherwise
                   have better things to do.

Acting as substitute teaches me-
                   There are no worthy substitutes
                    for the real thing…
                    And only I myself
                    my song, can sing.

MAPLE MENTOR

When the wind rustled
the tree whispered
"Learn from me…
let me be your mentor".
I listened in the stillness
words were forming in her vapors.
She sipped up sweetness
from damp Earth's depths,
she shared her liquid gold
and in the quiet shallow breaths
she opened up her crown…
I'm rooted. Yes. I learn from all
who gather around.
I know the touch of gentleness
from a pair of Mourning Doves…
both tended to their babies
with their strong sustaining love
and when a soft peach wing was stretched
to feel the lift of air
I learned to let my light fly free.
In gentleness, I dare.
I learned the rhythm of persistence
from the woodpeckers who came…
from the powerful pileated
who drummed their way to fame
and drilled holes upon my limbs.
But that is ok, I didn't mind
when Eastern Screech moved in.
From Screech Owl I learned to put
my sound out to the universe
to let my call be taken
even in it's Hallmark verse.
The orioles sang their joy-filled notes
while my boughs were all a-flower--
their golden trills could lift my heart
and fill me full of power.
When seasons changed and I became
dressed in vibrant color
the red squirrels chattered
the gray ones chased
and they put up such a holler
that I happily spilled forth my leaves
to hide the nuts they gather.
In the cold pre-winter wind
I let go my year's grown leaves.
I let them chase each other spinning
and I have a heart of grief…
but it quickly is released
as I become slowed down
and make ready for my sleep.
The cold and dark have come around
and I have grown another ring,
added a year beneath my belt
and I have faith because
the sun returns to make me melt.
During winter I will dream
and listen to the heartbeat of Earth.
I will gather up her sweetness and
 in March will share my mirth
in maple syrup as I await
the bird's return, expectant birth.
I learn from every generation
share myself with all who come.
The joyous celebration of life
turns round and round
and round.

ODE FOR GAIA

Even she is growing up--
mountains stand where once were seas.
Volcanic evolution moves within
and fires her pleas for change.

Giant plates shift weight
and her continents rearrange.
Every act of apparent destruction
is part of her emerging creation…

mysterious and unplanned by man-
her fate a secret of her own.
Inner urges refashion her crust
and her facade is blown

by her natural yearning for peace.
Hard core eruption is her release
of pent up energy, moving her
toward what she will be.

She is a breathing, living being
journeying forward from her birth.
Her growth is slow, her malleable form
evolves…this woman Earth.

NIGHT TRACKS

Awakened by a small boy's sleepy gait,
complaining of a tickle in his tummy-
frightened by the wind whacking windows,
beating rain, the restless
wanderings of the unseen.
The walls come to life…
the gnarly hands of shadow trees
move deftly across the room
weaving the atmosphere
into patterns unfamiliar.
I coax him back to bed and try
to ease myself back into sleep.
The clock ticks and the bells toll
and hours pass, creeping
for my listening soul, alert
to the echoes, to the sound
of footprints crossing the room.

Repeatedly, I approach the edge,
prepare for the plunge into the pool of sleep
and repeatedly I'm shaken, brought to…
I'm awakened by the sound
of footprints crossing the room
but nobody is there.
Someone is here.
I feel mystery beginning to bloom…
heightened senses aware of a presence
refuse to be coaxed back to sleep.
I have to sit up to see for myself
that there is no one crossing the room.

The rain stops…morning comes
like an early dawn snow
and the night tracks disappear,
leave no trace of where they go
or from whence they came
on the beating wings of wind
to the drumming rhythm of the rain.

SONG TO STEPHEN…(you'd think the people would have had enough of silly love songs!!!)

God has given me a woman's body
soft with curves and wanting…
a moist dark soil
a secret garden
red with life
for planting.
Beyond stone walls
a fountain springs
and every path toward center
sings a woman's heart.
It beats in quiet trembling,
cascades of water love to bring;
and like a flower opening
to light
and wind's carress,
I open to your longing touch.
I cast aside the less important
transients…squatters on my land,
the weeds within my garden pulled
by careful woman hands.
A tomboy child is growing up.
The flowering is slow--
but in your warm sweet gentle ways
spring rains
and breezes blow.

MUD-BOWL

Dedicated to Sandra and her beautiful bowls….


The deep, dark mud of middle earth,
the medium that molds the birth
of an earthen vessel marked
by many colored glazes.
Cobalt blue and china white
a simple bowl for child's delight,
to upward stretch to spacious skies
collecting raindrops from God's eyes.
Sweet seasalt tears of springtime storms
captured by the earth pot, fired and fixed.
Just now the muddy vessel sits
in a molten red, deep sandy pit
with bits of seaweed, wind blown pine-
stones gathered in the darkened time
of storm approaching.
In the heat of the carnelian blaze
black mud commingles with the glaze-
a palette of sea and sky.
In time,
the firing moments die,
in time the pot is done.
A little child lifts it high
to raindrops, dew drops and sun.
Sunrise sees her drink
the love that brings renewal,
Dawn…a crystal jewel caught
in a mud and sand fired,
simple pot.

CRONE STONES

Crone stones
croon.
They vibrate
for my bones,
waves
of deep, lasting
pleasure
here
upon the Earth,
beneath the sky,
withstanding weather…
they sing
in the warmth
in the light,
deep sweet humming
from a broad
anchored base
of joy.
Waves smooth
their ancient faces
as evolution
changes
the expression of stone.

MOTHERLOVE

Mother's love
is a full time job
answering the needs,
the whims,
the wonderings
of her boss…
those little people.
Flashing eyes of mischief,
sometimes rebellion,
tear with frustration,
shine with elation.

Sometimes
I look
into those eyes
I care for day by day
and wonder,
who will love mother
and nurture her
the way
she cares for these,
the little people?

Reflected in those
sparkling eyes
I see…
only me?

Only me.

BLACK HOLE HEARTED

The center
of the quasar, a hungry
black hole…
at the edge of the universe,
the mystery goal?
To generate enough energy
for starlight
to shine
throughout eternity.
So the mythic black hole,
unfilled jelly donut
sucks on the stars
that dance circles around it,
digests the in fire…
deep inner combustion
that explodes in it's time
with a magical fusion
of darkness and light.
Jelled,
they unite
and all of the magic
occurs beyond sight,
beyond hearing.

TUNNEL VISION

Alone
we push through
the narrow
birth canal,
enveloped
in a red
and bloody sac-
alone
we pull our roots
up bit by bit
and to Death's door,
no man
can turn his back.
Birth
and Death,
they circle wide
around us,
connect us all
each to the other,
and though we share
the same encircled fate,
our entrance and our exit
make it known
that on the threshold
of each great gate--
it seems we stand alone.

LOVING STONE

Raphael whispered to his marble madonna
before she had a full formed face
of plans he had for her features,
her round and feminine grace.
He breathed hard upon her
chiseled long into the night
and sleeping, dreamed of glistening wings
replacing shoulder blades, for flight.
He felt her body come alive
one moment while he worked-
instead of cold hard stone
it seemed of warm earth
that she took her form.
And he, in fever, felt a madness come upon him-
fell in love with pure white stone
that yielded to his bleeding fingers,
slowly taking form--
"o elegant beauty conceived by man,
whose labor loved, designed and planned
his perfect mate in statuesque pose-
if you could be brought, right now, to life
my madness might be cured,
that I might lie beside you,
feel your heartbeat…strong and sure."

One moonless humid summer night
he heard her whisper back…
"Dear, proud Raphael, there is one thing that I lack.
The great creator, God on high
is just a little angry
with your vain impassioned sighs.
You work so hard and long to bring
this shapeless slab to life,
to force your image of beauty
to come alive…
to be your wife.
Please let some stroke mar your perfect ideal form.
See that imperfection turn
your hardened heart to warm compassion.
Love God's creations as your own.
See that perfect beauty as an image cast in stone
is no replacement for a human being."

In the morning
Raphael took a chisel to her face.
He made her nose too big, her eyes too wide,
her full lips to taste, no sin denied,
her features slightly wild.
Forsaken pride and prudish stance
gave way to imperfection
and behold…she came to dance.

ALL IN THE SAME BOAT

The man might be the skipper
of the family sailing vessel
and as the small boys grow, they learn
that they can offer muscle,
provide ballast in the wind
while Dad directs the energy
and pulls the main sheet in…
chooses tacts and timing,
navigates the course,
reads the patterns of the wind
focusing his aim
provides the family sustenance,
the slow growth over time.
None can deny
the importance of the skipper,
or the value of the crew
but to assess the worth of woman
needs a current, novel view…
grounded in the truth
and given distance for perspective,
space to view the vessel
can be taken as elective,
though not a prerequisite course
it casts the lines
of bitterness and remorse
and frees the boat from it's mooring…
although she is mentioned last
her role is central
at the mercy of her stays
she is the mast
that holds the sails into the wind,
the gravity, the staying power
that drives the vessel into open sea
she is the emotional balance
of the family's journey.

LUNAR LIGHT

Knowing without knowing
I know
is a lunacy
that's beginning to grow
within me.
Like the child
conceived
in the fires of love,
it grows and developes,
eventually shoves…
pushes it's way out.
The knowing
without knowing
I know
is a gift
that starts showing,
showing me how,
to raise flowers,
pull weeds,
to see shiny thoughts
as colorful seeds
to plant,
to watch grow,
to release
when I will
without knowing
I know
the right time.

HOLY GHOST…Written November 21, 1985 Beth's first birthday after her death.

Watermusic, fire sparks,
the dance of light
upon my heart…
I am joy, I am pain,
I am sour and sweet.
I bring laughter, tears and love…
I make life complete.
I bridge the gap,
the rift between
nations, sexes, races--
I'm the X the physicists lack
to unify all spaces.
I'm the utterly simple idea,
the rare and precious jewel.
I 'm the exotic unnamed quark
that sparks creative renewal.
I am the silence
surrounding the words,
the pause between the verses
and from my motionless, being less space
all life ever emerges.
I am the unknown, the untried
the unnamed-
the cause of birth and death,
I am the numinous unseen thing--
the ghost, the prayer, the breath.
I am the mystery.
I'm the divine…
I am the light
that needs darkness to shine.
I am the pleasure
that follows the pain,
the voice in the silence,
thirst quenching rain.
I am what cannot be caught
or explained in science jargon,
I am the ungraspable love
penetrating every layer.
I am the voice in the wilderness
the quiet spoken prayer
calling order out of chaos,
calling pleasure out of pain,
calling light from darkness
I dance round and round
and then I change
and dance some more;
every face of me
a door.

MINDSCAPE/HEARTSCAPE…written in 1980

Muddied jungle mind--
                                    lush green layered
                                    dew clad leaves,

begins to wander now.
                                    Into a tapestry
                                    it weaves

Mojave pattern fine,
                                    slowly
                                     between space and time,

the warp and woof.
                                   The raw sienna tones
                                    become

a warm wool blanket,
                                   made to cloak
                                    cold, caring bones

when alone I lie
                                in Winter's white
                                 free form fantasy;

the fire sparks
                                 emerging lovers
                                  like mirages
                                 in a Kalahari heart.

WOMAN'S WORK…In honor of National Woman's Day!

My own Mother…just 3 years ago.

Bowl hardened belly
ripening--
nature
taking her time
fulfilling her term.
The moment
chooses itself,
invisible.

Heavy in these palms
pressing down
on these shoulders
I bow…

Pains asking me
what
have I known of pain?

My open bones
yield to pressure…
some breath
is breathing me.
I writhe
pushing deeper
into the Earth
beyond my body,
surging upward.

I straighten
brace myself
against the hardwood frame
my pelvis circling
I bear down
and scream
primeval--
oh mama.

ON FLIGHT…In Spite of Fear

The weight of the cryptic censor sits
heavy on my shoulders, whispering
reasons why my work is worthless--
senseless sentiment blistering
in pustules make-up barely masks.
For far too long, I've listened
thinking this must be my teacher.
He hardly lets me think my thoughts
before he turns to preacher;
sermonizing how I might become
clearer, better, much more clever.
Time has taught me he's never satisfied
by any artistic endeavor I might attempt.
I sit motionless, feeling the wind
fill me with fresh, fragrant clarity.
I see that his unasked for charity
is not a kindness. I've ceased listening.
His heavy weight has forced my hiding
hunchbacked, in darkened caverns
glistening with tears.
His hallowed voice that once seemed wise
rasps with my own haunting fears.
But he's losing his grasp.
I shirk my aching shoulders to the wind
and with a sense of soaring weightless,
I begin to write again.

DIALOGUE WITHIN

Just do it.
But ...
nothing is "just".
Why the lingering at the threshold?
Go through.
It's simple.
One step at a time
and you are there--
as long as you don't look behind you,
you can do anything
you put your mind to.

I press my body
against the vast erection of tree
warm wind rustles leaves
like the whispering of a soul
the wordless language weaves
it's prayer
like lace against the sky
and I
feel the breath
the movement of the crown
nodding YES to the beyond.

Sitting at my desk
the typewriter hums
in readiness.
I insert fresh leaves of paper,
wait for the breeze
to stir elusive words
to form the image moving in the clouds,
to catch the life
that prays from deep set roots
to be realized.

A golden drop of sap
shimmers in the sun…
the piny essence
fragrant
like a poem.

ROCK CLIMB ON MOTHER'S DAY 1983

Steeping,
seeping fluids,
creeping
through the point of aching,
weeping--
clutching to the high rock's face,
immobilized
my courage breaks.
Sweat eeks out upon my brow,
my vision blurred by tears
I bow
before the task ahead.
Trusting friends
and ropes and trees,
words of encouragement
prod shaking knees
to relax, to move upward
to conquer degrees
of tight, neat, logical
categories.
Giving in to the magic of heart,
to energy flow
that pushes beyond
the stuck feeling
that is so overwhelming.
I hear a blythe bird sing.
Frustration subsides.
I move forward by courage
that seems to reside
in this moment of silence--
a quiet let go
of mind's limits and lines.
Heart shakes my fear
and in trust redefines
my capacity to feel
the love at the crux
of my need to be "real"
and scale stone.

GROWING JOY

My sadness spills out
wetting soul
wetting eyes
wetting my hard tight heart.
Moisture spreads
and I am the seed
splitting apart…tearing the bad
from my goodness,
the mean streak
from my kind self.
I am ripping in half.
As my child self
from her urban oasis screams,
the old country lady I've become
whispers soft, soothing words
to ease transition.
The pain is ME
splitting apart.
The weeping, my submission to moisture
on the warm black soil
where I now find myself
becoming a tenderness--
a fervent green shoot
insistent on growth
pushes against my ribs
reaching upward in yearning
my form changes.
I begin to move forward
leaving behind
the hard casings
of my ungerminated heart,
My growing joy
spreads tendril
and climbs
one step at a time
toward the sun's shine

BEYOND SELF PITY

Oh,
you voices of pain,
you lonely, whining sounds
bemoaning your fate,
you aching notes
of worthlessness and despair--
be still
and listen;
angels gather
where you least expect them.
Anger, fear, disappointment…
dark as they may seem
are messages made audible,
screams of meaning.
God lives in your pain,
in despair,
in your strife
as much as he/she lives in your
high points in life.
Love encompasses all,
not one over another.
We all feel the pain
and it joins us together.
Perhaps this is the truth
you forget to remember;
that love extended
returns to the sender.
You need only receive it.
Feel it.
Believe it.

SOLDIER COMING HOME

I remember well
the long months dragged out
like soldiers trudging
carrying the weight
of lost buddies
on their shoulders…
they passed in slow motion
stunned by the waste
the violence none could own.
The trenches were filled with the dead,
unconscious
and exuding the stench
of their rotting journey
bones headed for Earth slowly…
those moments
wanting
to come home.

And you,
asking to wear your boots…
like a man marching
toward the unknown
manning the ship
that was your bed
the four years
of war against disease,
of holding onto life
you fought alone.

My wedding night
I dreamed
a young man
wearing knee-high boots
uniform of the civil war
approaching me
with begging in his eyes.
Accept me
is what he seemed to say
but all I wanted was to turn away.
Today he comes again
and I'm awake.
I look on him
with softer eyes
his dusty boots tug on my heart
and in myself, the grand surprise
of seeing that I value
what I once despised…
I take his hand
and wipe away the blood
and in the boots where he just stood
I find the leather smell,
the sweat and struggle gone.
A garden grows. A soldier has come home.

WILD BOYS…from the early days of growing boys

Wild boys on wheels
challenge-
cause my mind to spin.
watching
as wheels grind
pipe and curb…
the walls
reverberate
with smacks
and bodies sprawl.
They take each cutting edge fall
as if they are made
of the same material
as concrete or blade…
falls that would send me home to bed
are part of the daily moves
to get ahead,
to be better than yesterday.
The rhythmic
repetition of movement
exploring outer limits,
the physical extreme…
the pounding,
tireless
getting up and trying again.
Wild boys challenge my mind
flutter like birds
against the wall of my heart
as I hold myself from sympathy,
restrain the urge
to start to comfort every fall.
When the flesh of bottom
greets concrete with a pound,
I give an understanding smile-
dare not make a sound…
wild boys dream of air
regardless
of the wear and tear.

MUSIC OF MARRIAGE

Two hollow bodies
occupy one chair,
touching slightly
there is room for air
to move about…
betwixt and between
the musician master
is just unseen.
Someone plays upon the frets
a song that time can
let us forget
as we become such familiar folks
that romance is buried
in layers of hopes,
layers of disappointment
sedimentary matters
harden upon us
and we lose faith
that there is a music playing upon us.

Sometimes it appears to be
we are 2 hollow bodies
leaning, at ease
so comfortable in each other's presence
that we can't quite hear music
that sustains our essence.
Then a day comes
when air moves just so,
the notes emerge
and the music flows
and yet again, we remember
that something divine
is plucking our strings
and making us shine
because marriage is music
a song about love
plays our hearts
tunes our souls
so that even deaf ears hear
the joy that unfolds.
And hearts that lie under layers of silt
are moved by a player of strings--
melody soothes
rhythm releases
notes and riffs fill empty creases
and couples
recall
they can dance.

SEEDS OF A REMEDY…for Grace Caswell b 1906..d 1997

milkweed waiting on the wind...

It takes fire
to crack open the old
medicine seeds…
fire magic
pops them out of sleep
and forces them to open,
to show themselves alive
and reaching green
into the light.

Anger moves me.
I stamp my feet
in my refusal dance
and call myself
not-mother
not wife
not-lover…
and I crank up electric guitars
on the car radio,
step too hard on the gas
and launch myself
into some kind of other
where I become part
of a sacred circle,
bellow sounds
from deep in my heart
and shake
the toenail rattle
while Grace begins her passage
into light.

I receive
the gift of story…
I am moved by other's words
to feel
the kind affirmation
of the music
that wells from grotto springs
cool and deep and somewhere
beneath these moss covered stones
lying heavy on my heart.

Thank you.
Perhaps I need
no longer feel ashamed
to be a poet in a closet
with no name…
but can emerge now
like a shoot of green
upward, reaching…
sister
granddaughter
shaking a rattle of toenails
as Grace passes
a whisper of petals
falling from the tree
like tears
in the May sun.

THE HEART LETS GO…from 1985

Love….
She steals in quietly
on luminescent wings,
and takes the fears
the much-afraid
of dying
difficult things
and turns them
into courage,
grace,
the strength to hold
death's hand
to take your place
in light--
the source from whence
you came.
She paints you
rainbows
in the rain,
shimmering sun
upon the dew.
She gently opens you
to freedom,
to the joy of flight--
a tender, holy spirit
passes through.

THIS IS IT!

Love
lets go…
all your reasons
differentiated seasons
compartments of glass
shatter.
Now,
only the opening matters,
the going through
the glass darkly
the spirit
animating the matter
of LOVE…
of love
letting go
so the heart can know
that it is.
Yes. It is.

SURFACING…a poem about grieving and written after my sister died.

1.

Hungry for adventure,
impressed by boys leaping
into the deep eddy
beneath the waterfall,
I make my way
up the steep path
to the jumping place--
through sentinel stones
hugged by mosses
to a narrow shelf
high above the water.
Massive pines stand rooted
so much closer to heaven
than I…at eighteen,
barely able to stand
the power of the falls surging
beneath me.
I might have stood for hours
if that boy hadn't come
up from behind
and dropped his knees
into the backs of mine
breaking my fear,
sending me falling
half-gratefully
beyond my paralysis
through the narrow cliffs
where lichens listen to evergreens howl.

Instinctively, I suck the air
break the surface.
Underwater,
a deafening noise…
the pressure could pummel me
against rock.

11.

Your death plunged me
into the pull of my grief
like that boy, years ago
on the cliff…
beat me black
into it's heavy shroud--
no use struggling.
Efforts to swim are flails of panic.
Nothing to do
but yield to the flow
swirling down and under.
Buried memories rise up:
your blue face gasping for air
as a small army of white coats
hook you up to a breathing machine,
your face ashen grey
stone cold
with mouth wide open,
protruding eyes fishlike…
dead.
Years have passed
and now
when I find myself
longing to see you
you slip healthy
into my mind's eye.

111.


Taken by the thundering falls
white-veiled in the sun…
I know the momentum
of the downward spiral.
Losing you still teaches me
nothing is bottomless.
The grave power of grief consumes…
but that same pressure bearing down
spits me up…
I reel
careening to the surface,
lightheaded…
an insatiable appetite for air
and still impressed
by leaping.

DEAR GOD

Do you mind awfully much
if I come to you
wrapped in my blanket
horizontal--
seeking rest?
Or am I to come
in aerobic shoes
with my heart
racing
to catch my breath?

In the quiet
I lie
in communion
wakeful but at rest…
listening to the creaking
of the the old house;
hearing no demands,
no multiple choice tests,
no grade to make or break.
You
take me as I am
or so I hope…
having long outgrown
the schools of youth
that feed you information
and demand
that you regurgitate
their truth
to make your mark.

Here,
in the stillness--
in a moment
of restful peace…
a spark is kindled,
a pressure released
if I could only grant myself
permission
to create you
as all-encompassing
and kind,
like the simple warmth
of my blanket
gently wrapping me
against the well educated
misperceptions
of my mind.

FEBRUARY THAW…Just wishing for one I guess, so this old poem from the 1980's struck a chord.

Finger wrapped
in flimsy white
lint-free paper,
gently circling
I dust the lens…
with aperture
fixed wide,
steady hands
need no flash.

Focus on little things--
the dancing candle-flame
glowing in the dark,
the pink snow
of setting sun.
eight brave crocuses
full cupped
in mud and ice
blossoming
in the illusion
of spring.

ESSENCE RELEASED

Finally
at fifty
I
am the child
within my belly.
My pain layers
fiber upon fiber…
crust is my defense.
Time hardens
a shield
built of softness--
armor of tenderness
I bear down
I breathe and groan
upon the threshold…

GET OUT OF MY WAY!

I
am coming through--
I am my trial heart.
I am my human weakness
I am a pale pink newborn
little girl
female phenomenon.
There is power
in tenderness
gentle softness
vulnerable tears.
Armed with my shield
I surrender to truth.
I bleed.
I have large breasts.
My twice pregnant belly
protrudes.
I am beautiful.
I am strong.
I am a woman
giving birth
to my Self.
.

GIRLS BLEED, PERIOD

Who speaks
from blood flow
period on a pad
to the blue ink scratchings
of a menopause mother?
The word blood
leaves its trail,
making wild tracks
against snow white
virgin white
bridal white--
making tracks for those girls,
those strong colorful girls
who instinctively know
all that really matters
is breath
voice
dream…
those bright shining girls
who dare to write truth,
who dare not to care.
Promise not to let go of dreams,
not to put them simmering
on the back burner
while you wipe counters,
listen to Joe Schmo
throw pity parties
or brag of deep adventures
while your own stories
go untold.

So I say to you…
Girls
don't stop bleeding
across your pad
writing across your page.
And when your bleeding is done,
let your writing
be your blood.

TRAILS OF GLORY…For the little girls..for my niece and all female phenomenons who live their own deep nature as their story unfolds!!!

Listen little girl
coming
little girl coming
up the road of time,
listen to the rhythm
of your own footfall
hear how you sound
like the clip clop of hooves
across a field.
You make a path
walk a rhythm
beat a drum…
the heartbeat
of your mother.
Your feet fall, your beat sets the pace
and it is natural.
You
are Nature.
Your rhythm
is your nature trotting
across open fields,
a field of green,
a field of white…trotting,
breathing, sighing
air fills your lungs
and you exhale
in and out,
right and left…
first one
then another
page after page
lay your glory trail.

SYNTHESIS

The sin is the beginning,
the crack in the heavens--
the wound
that fills the cup,
drop by drop,
each minute fear
fills the bloodcup
and a jewel-scaled serpent
emerges--
Rainbow snake,
the daughter
of the dawn
of creation.
In her mouth
plucked from the heart of the chalice
is my heart.
She places it
tenderly
on barren sand.
Behold,
there springs a ring
of desert roses,
Eve's fertile blessing…
the garden at dawn.

FOR GRAMMA SAL

I hear you
out there
laughing--
where nothing
is as it seems.

A small girl in your closet,
steps into brown pumps
for a walk to church,
we select a back pew
among lavender ladies…
I echo your passion
consult psychics on missing keys
dream of chasing fire trucks .
I reach up...
adjust the net
on a pillbox
but I don't wear hats.
Who can call you ghost?


I see you smiling
through the dragon smoke
big bosomed apparition
weaving white mist
in your silver grey braid,
arms lifted
flesh flaps quivering
as you secure
the giant hairpins.

I feel your peppermint breath
at the nape of my neck,
cool winter breeze
across sand.
My fingers loosen,
stretch out.
…reach for you.

REGARDING DAD'S PHOTO OF (4 year old) ME…hanging in his Architectural Office at 125 Derby St.

Do you see me Dad?
Do you see how I search your face?
Mine your eyes
for a glimmer
of heartfelt approval?
See me smile.
Watch me Dad…watch me make
underground temples in the sand.
See how I square the steps
so wee worshippers can go
down into secret caverns
gracefully,
without tripping.
I work hard building
roads to my temples,
muscle shell doorways
that open into secret spaces.
Stone tables and
sea-glass windows
my whole soul
caught up in my creation…
See how I build Dad?
See how like you I am?
Look in my eyes Dad…
can't you see me
your son?
Don't you recognize me
in the face of this little girl?
Don't be sad…
No. I am not a boy--
but I can build
and I can fashion steps
and I can smile across the years
and I can bait my own hook, Dad.
Can I go with you?
Will you take me fishing
and be happy you took me…
the light in my eyes,
the beam of a soul.
Can you love me Dad?
Little girl that I am?
Woman that I am?
Boy wannabe??
Here I am, Dad…
do you approve?

BIRCHES

Slim,
lanky saplings stand
emerging adolescents
they gather in small groups
swaying easy
with the wind,
their lithe muscles
offer no resistance
to the flow of air.
They shed skin,
peeling strips of paper white
without self loathing,
without a fight
for a sense of belonging.
They stand
moving
amongst their peers
adding rings
with passing years
waving
in a ritual dance,
mysterious vibration
giving in
to wind.

INSIGHT

Sunlight
starlight
moonlight….

Yours
 are the trillion

twinkling night lights
you radiate ancient firelight
eyes beam
dancing candlelight
love inside your heart light.
Outside,
gold-rose twilight…
your light
my light
our right
to shine light.

ON BETH"S DEATH…B. 11/21/58-D. 05/21/85 after 4 1/2 years lying in a hospital bed.

Lord,
for years I've tried to understand
your purpose in this horrible tragedy--
and now that you have taken her,
this vision comforts me.
I see you walking in a garden
your eyes are captured by
a gentle, radiant rosebud
reaching upward to the sky.
You watch her taste the morning dew
and soak in springs warm light.
Her fragile shimmering colors,
luminescent, grace your sight.
You linger long beside her
petals yearning to unfold--
you stop to smell her essence,
fragrance lovely to behold.
I understand now, totally,
how moved you must have been
to clip that bud so new to life
to take her beauty in.
I see you place her on your table
in your favorite earthen vase
to watch her glorious opening
happen right before your face.
I've walked on early mornings
and I've clipped a bud or two
to watch the layered petals slowly open to my view…
so I withdraw my judgement
that you nipped her in the bud
and feel--with more forgiveness
that you chose her out of love.