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.

BREASTS REPOSSESSED

And what if breasts were made to sag
like wounds are made to heal…
lifted and separated
no longer the goal--
just gravity grabbed and real.
What if breasts released and free
from commercially imposed immobility
are natural breasts…
nipples pointed earthward
and not at men possessed?
What if breasts had permission
to bounce in a wild
free-flowing jiggle,
no longer encased in a pupae
they could wiggle
stretch
and breathe free--
all released from the burden of looks
not packaged for men, by men
obsessed with protuberance
but owned
by the women that own them.
Breasts are our gifts
to feed future babes
and to share with our lover of choice.
Our children care not
how they stand over time
if in health we can sing and rejoice,
rhythmic in motion
they nourish and dance
and show us our way,
if given the chance.


P.S. Thanks to my self for taking a Breastplate Workshop with Arla Patch…a significant healing opportunity with a gifted midwife to creative expression.  Sanding the edges was particularly powerful. Thank you Arla!!!

WHITE QUEEN

Oh blessed mother--
find yourself in me
and guide my doubt-filled,
mistrusting mind;
my anxious anticipation
of the worst
that could be found….
toward a kind and fertile ground.
Dress me
Lady January,
in your crystal white lace
and gently, more kindly
pierce my frozen, fearful face
dawning streaks of primal red,
your kind of cold that hurts to breathe
and knocks me off my sled.

Ending-beginning...
Woman in white
you call my face to bleed--
but how the snowflakes sparkle,
scatter on a morning wind
backlit by sunshine,
all that stirs the heart to glow
to reach up
moving toward the stars
to dance…
but not to blow away.
The rooted dance of trees
sparkling in the sun
catching light,
the rainbows bow
and flicker just for fun
like candle flames the move
and dance…
but think you on the wick--
tis like the dance of trees with feet
embedded in the earth.

The ending-beginning queen in white
lacy, bonecold brittle one…
she who has the frozen edge
that cuts like tiny knives
shattering beneath my feet
her time is formed in ice.
I invite you in oh blessed queen--
I love your glamorous sparkle
and when the warm sun melts you…
soon I hear your trickling cackle
as you move toward earth deep roots--
leave behind your shiny form
get down to earth
beneath the storm
to foster in time
a blossoming.

STATE OF EMERGENCY

Silent, single
flakes of snow
floating free in space
they grow
in number,
ride the wind--
from heaven to earth
the freeze
sets in.
Winter wandering,
motion halted,
drives me inward.
Roads are salted,
sanded,
safe to drive--
but I have
nowhere to go…
only to arrive--
to touch the ground
like silent flakes
the soft sweet sound
of floating free
in space.

RIGHT OF PASSAGE

Dancing light
on burnished pewter
rolling in toward a high noon tide,
reveals a curious mound,
soft as velvet
with new moon eyes.
Stretching, yawning, sleepy
in the sun,
an adolescent seal
has wandered far from Mom
and used up all resources.
He's beached by exhaustion,
relaxed on the sand
waiting for the tide to rise
and welcome him in--
rather than pushing on
in haste and fear,
he calmly waits.
His way will be clear and easy
when the full tide greets
his trusting fin feet.
I could learn from this child
of water and earth
how to trust the natural rhythms
of death and birth,
of tidal ebb and flow.
Offer open space
to that ambitious adolescent inside
who may need rest
to grow closer to common sense.
Yes.
Give him space,
draw no fence around him…
if we humans could understand
that our heart can touch
as surely as our hand,
we may learn grace,
a balanced dance…
evolutions right of passage
giving wildness half a chance.

WINTER WINGS

The cold wings of winter
flap in the wind,
whisking leaves
in upward spirals,
stripping trees
to reveal bare bones.
The crisp air cuts through fog.
There is aching for the summer gone,
for resplendent autumn's
colorful song
and the vague memory
of hesitant spring.
We waken in darkness,
the challenge to believe
that life continues underground
where we can't see.
Cold mornings bring
crunching underfoot,
a shattering of frozen surface...
to trust the suns return,
we must let go,
allow the dying of the year
to lie beneath her blanket of snow,
to sleep
and in the sleeping state
to dream
the sun's return,
renew a trust in life
that begins
in mystery.

LOVE OF MOUNTAIN

I want to huddle
in the breast of the mother--
lay my sorrow down,
curl up on a meadow green
weep my tears and be unseen,
give away my bitterness
to sky and cloud,
to leaves and grass.
Let the pain and sadness go,
seep into the dying glow
of embers
by my own campfire,
daydreaming
as I retire
all the plans Ive ever made.
I'm sorry for the hurts I've sewn
my contributions to abuse
prying, shaking, let them loose
to lie within dark soil of Earth.
I gaze upon the mountain,
take in her strength,
her steady course
through eternity,
the northern star,
the stately hills
the powerful rocks
and endless sky
open to the constancy
of souls that soar
forever free.
To find again the joy I lost,
to rescue my vitality,
to surrender this deep inner struggle
and open to the freshening breeze.
Let me huddle in the mother's breast
small beneath the cobalt sky
spark a widespread joyousness
to light the dark inside.

SACRED BLANKET

A security blanket is familiar…
fingers know every stitch
the predictable comfort
of every well placed rip
and where the silky edging
contrasts with the weave
and how when placed just so
the smallest hand can grasp
the dual nature
and still believe
in Oneness.
The simple needs of infancy
linger in the hearts of every age.
Growing older,
I learn to loosen my grip
let air move through fearful fingers
I let go
so I can comfortably hang out
with what I do not know
and what seems strange.
I wake up
to the resistance
that is fighting with the change
that is bound to come.
We age into the infinite spiral
return to childhood,
turn to the One
and hanging out with the unknown
(like laundry in the sun)
the woven strands of all we've done
by angel hands
are sewn together.
The dream weaver's miracle occurs
when what I hid behind in fear,
I stand upright
proud to wear--
a sacred blanket.

ABALONE SKY

Clouds dance
stately,
slow.
Ripples mingle
milk white
with fragile pink fingers
folded over threads
of steel grey.
The air is cold.

Irritating
grain of sand
like a nail
embedded
in the palm
of the hand;
pain cultures
layer upon layer,
growing slow--
becoming pearl
under a dome
of abalone sky.

THE TREE

Suspicions wail
and dance
like shadows
across my skin.
He believes
if he swallows a pubic hair
he'll get sick.

The ritual of it…
the strange rejection.

Suppose he swallowed one
and in his belly
grew a tree,
not a real tree…
a tree of light
with luminescent limbs
adorned in colored leaves
wet with dew-
a manna tree.

Lying still
I sense the upward reaching
deep in my root.

A tree shines
in the dark void
that is born
of sex.

RANDOM WIND

The steel edge
of a tuned ski
carves a line
across the snow.
The sheer edge
of an arctic wind
carves a mushroom cloud.
The forces of creation move
in whimsical delight.
The wind,
a knife edge, whittles
graceful cornices of white.
A northwest gust
etches patterns
into frozen crust
that breaks beneath my happy skis
and tosses powder dus

A January random wind,
a deep and healing breath,
a growing trust,
a sheer delight
for soaring raven, blessed.
Creation writes her music
against snow
and open sky…
I fling my heart out
on the wind,
my voice
a rainbow kite.

FIRESIDE CHAT

Wet wood smokes,
hisses-
it's voice held back.
It takes a lot of urging,
plenty of tinder
to hold it steady
like small things
from fast passing days,
feeding it:
tending
and turning it,
I watch
as flames lick the air
in a song of orange.

Remembering the dark cave,
the long damp nights
of fear….
the bone creeping moisture
muffling the noises
of the night,
magnifying care…
the first sparks
like magic born of stone,
the soft blowing
on a bone whistle
calling the fire's spirit
to awaken
and finally
the sudden spurt
of firm commitment-
flaming wood
casting shadows on the cave,
inspiring pictures
painted with fingers
from the dye of roots.

Homes change.
The wood dries.
A steady burning fire
becoming glow…
and I
a hearth keeper,
feeding the coals,
watching joyful
the ever-changing dance of flames…
proud crackle
reminding me
why it is
that I insist
on raking ashes.

ECLIPSE

The yellow moon is full tonight
pouring down it's rays of light
upon the world so dark and still,
I watch alone and feel a chill
run up my spine
reminding me
of something that ought not to be…
and ever so slowly passes by
a shadow darkening the starlit sky.
I watch the moon as she disappears
and for a friend,
I shed my tears,
remembering how she let her light
make every heart a bit more bright.
And when the moon is wholly gone,
I tell myself life must go on…
but nothing can stop the flow of tears
that cannot change the coming years
as her light no longer shines.
In Darkness the moon
is put to bed…
I cry again because she is dead.


PS. This was the first poem I wrote during my first encounter with death…at 12 years old ... a friend's mother. I chose to post this now because I am about to make a trek to celebrate the life and dignified passing of a friend's mother. Somehow it seemed fitting. And believe it or not…I had to ad lib the last few lines because I can't put my hands on a written version. I had only my memory to go by.

WHO AM I???

Sit still
before the stark white
blank page
canvas
wedding dress--
the open moment
awaiting
your own creation,
your personal stroke
of bright color
unique finger print,
nature.
And fear not.
Instead of panic
wave on wave
of frightened thought
building
a vicious circle of storm,
and ask your self…
what do I want?

I
is the center
of the storm,
protected circle of peace
beginning with me
defining I.

DIVINING

Ssssshhhh…
listen.
Water is laughter.
Hear the rivulets
rising,
bubbling up
from beneath sea tears.
Oceans of envy subside
salted edges yield
to the sound
of sweet water
cascading over stone.

Strike
the secret grotto spring…
emerging
singing mountain stream.
Sshhh…
listen.
Eternal sisters
are laughing.

PLUM ISLAND SANCTUARY

20 years later, the golden rays fan out in the porch view.

The golden god-like rays
fan out
behind the marsh.
Light pierces the afternoon
November cold
snow, wind-
full moon.
It penetrates dark grey clouds
and leads my eye
to rest upon the Earth.
A doe
in passionate leaps
running full throttle
through cold water…
great splashes erupt beside her
and light pierces each droplet.
As she is running
a rainbow path unfolds,
a shower of rainbows wherever she goes.
The vital
 sacred moment passes,
caught by no technology
but this…
the image burning
like a candle
in the sanctuary
of my wild island heart.