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.