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.