Rejected

Dejected poets stand beside 

  the cliff dividing 

  sea from shore and fold 

rejected poems to gliders 

  that fly high then sink: 

  slide slowly to the 

  sea and melt like puddles in the sand 

reflecting thoughts that never made it 

  to the pages that they tore 

  from pads of paper filled with words that poured in streams that flowed like rivers to the 

  sea only to vaporize:

a mist of letters, floating down 

to land and calcify inside a shell,

 imprinting thoughts they feared 

no one would ever hear.

Unmet expectations

I’ve read so many books in which 

The characters describe with pain 

What disappointments they have been to their parents 

That I’ve begun to wonder 

If it might be that the Jesus myth’s at fault: 

That knowing that poor Mary — 

Who wasn’t even married — 

Could give birth to the savior of the universe, 

Each parent, pregnant, then develops expectations 

That each child must inevitably not meet. 

And then, when they’re born, 

And we see those bright eyes, 

Taking everything in, and learning so quickly, 

We project into the future and begin to imagine 

How much they could accomplish 

With all that intelligence, 

Taking each new small learning 

And extrapolating potential into miracles 

That, unhampered by the stuff that held US back, 

They might achieve, as we, like sweepers 

In the curling rink of life, brush away, 

That they might have a clear path to success.

The end of daylight savings

It’s Sunday, and the sky is glowing 

Pink again; doesn't the sun realize 

it isn't time? According to the automatic 

clock in my computer (not the one in my kitchen, 

which apparently got ahead of itself, 

somehow, in the night) it's only 6 am. 

The moon knows -- she’s still hanging in the trees, 

waiting for the branches to lower her to the 

sea but they're confused: it's hard to pick her out 

when the sky's so light, so early, 

and what if they forget and leave her hanging there,

resting in the eagle's nest, vulnerable to his claws 

should he return and find her there, cluttering 

his space -- oh, wait, I see her slide into the sea, 

all pink with effort to escape and yet still fading, 

overpowered by the dawn...

The honesty of dreams

However calm or wise I feel,
however full of love during the day,
at night my dreams reveal another story,
acting out the anger and frustration
that accompanies the minor slights,
the tiny imperfections
in an otherwise perfect life.
How can I delude myself
that meditation's made me
this kind and grateful person;
non-attachment, acceptance,
and surrender the order of my day;
 

compassion, love and gratitude
welling up from within my heart,
when in my dreams I'm snarling
at someone who makes me late
and gritting my teeth to see another's accolades
from those who never seem to notice who I am;
what I've achieved?

But perhaps that is the purpose of our dreams:
to keep us humble, while allowing us
to explore and express ego's resentments;
to remind us we are human, after all,
and not immune to the very weaknesses
that we abhor in others.
perhaps our dreams help us to love even more broadly,
and forgive even more gently
as we learn we're not impervious
to life's selfish temptations...

When, o when...

when will it stop? 

At what point do we break down and confess 

that we can no longer bear to watch the news; 

Don't want to hear the latest thing, 

don't want to know what someone said 

or how upset another is 

to learn the latest dis-information. 

True or false? these days they're both alike: 

what’s true to you may well be lies, 

and so might what I'm told and i believe, 

and so i hibernate; sit in my chair, 

play on my phone, and watch my Roomba 

spinning pointlessly across the floor. 

we're giving what we can, 

spending where we hope it helps, 

and wondering what difference 

any of it makes in times like these 

while penning daily words of hope 

to help other lost souls keep on believing...

A virus in the woods

Awakened by a gust of wind

  (The bedroom door,

      Shuddering in its frame)

I sink into my husband’s arms again, and then I hear it:

The telltale gathering clatter of branches,

Grasping at the wind to ease their fall;

The slow inimitable build of sound,

And wonder — should I be leaping out of bed?

What if it falls on us?

The final crashing thump, so close; so loud,

And then he says, “I didn’t see a flash!”

“It wasn’t lightning, I reply; a tree has fallen:

I’ll go look,” and so, grabbing my headlamp,

I stumble out of bed in search of answers; reassurance;

Step out the back door, seeing nothing,

And return to bed, uneasy, then give up 

And rise again to prowl the house In search of damage,

But all our rooms are safe,

Lying quiet in the dark, untroubled by the sound,

While overhead I hear the helicopter blades,

Far louder than the tree, transporting

Some unlucky soul across the water

   To a hospital; we are safe for now,

But for how long?

The virus trembles in the woods and shadows,

A hungry ghost, seeking its next victims...

Waiting for change

When the wait for change

Seems to go on forever

It’s easy to lose your head in harsh imaginings 

Of all the possible outcomes 

We’re unable to control;

Harder by far to lean into the present

And stay grounded...

Butterfly

This letting go,
This paring down --
It's surprising, really --
What we're willing to set aside,
The joy of leaving things
(And lives, old definitions of our selves)
Behind in the surge to something new.

Middle-aged men do it (or so we're told)
But here I am, so ready to do the same,
So ready to say no:
I don't, or won't, or can't do that any more:
I'm done chewing through this trap I built myself,
And happy to be on my way,
Not looking back at the old cocoon,
No longer nobody, small and gray,
But new, reborn and flying, finally
Into my own -- and possibly immortal -- skin.

Trust and stay the course

Though the winds of change have filled our sails,

I worry that the light is growing dim

And we’ve still miles to go before

We reach our destination.

When will I learn to trust

That where I am is where I’m meant to be;

To stay the course and revel in

The beauty that is Now?

There will always be light

However entangled our thoughts may become

In the concerns and tribulations of the world,

We need to remember that however dark

Things look, there is always some light.

Bright seas

Through the lacy ruff of trees,

The long white neck of the sea

Gleams bright against 

the dark gown of the clouds,

The shore an onyx necklace at her throat.

And seeing this, who could deny

Her beauty is divine?

As we turn to flame

Watching the dying tulip 

As her petals turn to flame

We feel an echo deep within:

A heart that aches to burn; with luck

That inner light glows brighter as we age,

Consuming muscle, leaving in its place

The luminous incandescence

Of a life well lived.

Grieving

It’s weird to be grieving
The loss of a cat I never liked;
The only cat to whom I ever was allergic;
Who cried incessantly until I picked her up;
Who was only ever happy on my lap...

The scent of her urine (so annoying)
Stayed embedded in her fur,
And my office often reeked of it.
Her constant shedding clogged my keyboard
And gummed up my mouse,
so I confess I was grateful
when the masses in her lungs
(not to mention her arthritis and her asthma,
her irritable bowel and the sores in her mouth)
Grew too significant to be ignored
And we could finally let her go,

And yet...

Something in me is saddened by her loss.
Some part of me is grieving,
Not just guilty,
But regretting that I never loved enough,
And realizing
That all the times I told her that I loved her,
When she rolled onto her back
And demanded that I rub
The soft fur of her belly,
It was true.

Breaking

He sits, slumped, at the table,
nose almost but not quite buried
in the cauliflower she so carefully braised,
hoping to stimulate his waning appetite.

She’s breaking, I can see, though she hides it well.
Nothing in her highly successful life
has prepared her for the pain of this:
the agony of watching as he writhes or slumps in defeat,
the sudden cries of pain, the lack of sleep; the odors, so pervasive,
the opioid prescriptions that run out all too soon;
no break in the constant watchfulness; no mobility
to plan or to anticipate a moment’s peace or a healing walk.

We watch her breaking, brittle mirror of our own mortality
for those of us who fly in, hoping to help
or say goodbye – she can’t or won’t say which --
and watch, him slumped, her breaking,
as she clears the dishes from the table,
breaking – she could throw this handmade cup against the wall,
watch its breaking match her own;
wishing back to when its clay was slumped upon a wheel
and spun to life between her highly successful fingers;
spin him back to life before he crashes into the wall
of his mortality.

Ah yes, the chocolate

I watch as you come sliding down
     that long path on your sled,
          squealing with joy;

Watch as the dog bounds up,
     and barks, and licks your face.

Watch, and remember other snowy days,
     the taste of snowflakes on my tongue,
     the long slow slippy climb
          up to the top to speed back down again,
     the way the snow would tangle
          hardened lumps of ice in our wool mittens
     the tingling of my toes in their rubber boots
          when finally our mothers called us in,

     the redness of our cheeks, and knees,
     the wooden rack on which we humg
          our socks to drip and dry,

And always, the hot chocolate; ah, yes, the chocolate --
     marshmellows melting in our mouths...

I think I'll make some now, and skip all the rest!

The lonely cypress

She stands stalwart, braced against the wind,
her branches, furled like outstretched hands,
reach up to touch the edges of the clouds.
Alone of all her kind, at water's edge,
charcoal, etched on the vast canvas of sky,
an ocean of wonder roiling at her feet,
sunsets to crown her queen at each day's end,
and mountains to distract us in the distance.
Enchanted with the scene, our eyes inhale
the sea, cloud-spattered sky;
the evening light a symphony,
sharp counterpoint to the darkening shore.

Between the showers

The rain has stopped. Let's step outside
and find a path that we've not walked before.
Let's treat this like the new beginning we both wish it could be --
an end to tears; to winter...
Imagine there are crocuses,
edging us toward spring, toward tolerance, and reconciliation.
We could set aside our differences,
clasp hands and walk together toward the sun,
inviting all the fallen leaves to dance beneath our feet,
and smiling at the squirrels who scold us from the trees and beg
for nuts to hide away in case it's all just an illusion
and that damn-ed rain returns.
Oh, never mind, it's back:
I hear the clatter on the skylights and see the patterns on the deck:
You can close the door.

These last months

I watch you bailing out the boat
as if there's any chance you'll sail again --
your back, so stooped with age and pain,
and still you dip, and pour
and dip, and pour,
the water in the boat is slowly ebbing,
like the life that leaves your veins.
My shoulders ache in sympathy,
but I'm silent: I cannot condemn
your efforts to convince me -- or yourself --
that all is normal.
I'll watch, and smile, and throw bread to the ducks,
and I'll pretend to lean on you as we walk to the car,
though we'll both know the truth: you'll lean on me
as long as I can stand.
You'll drive, but I'll be at the wheel,
following wherever you need to go
to make these last months easier.

The cafe of my thoughts

I've grown superstitious, now that bad news
seems to have taken a permanent place at the corner table.
The cafe of my thoughts seems interminably busy:
a never-ending rush of unexpected patrons,
desperately seeking sustenance, or prayer, or simply time --
some drug to slow the passage to oblivion,
to keep the restaurant open, keep
the dark waitress from removing
the plate of life.

Hymn of Tonglen

I'm sorry you feel broken:
There've been times when I felt broken, too.
There's a way I've found to deal with it
that might also work for you.

Whatever fills your heart with sorrow,
whatever causes pain,
try to spare a thought for all the others
who struggle with the same.

Think of me,
and I'll think of you,
and if we all think of each other,
then somehow we'll get through.

Pray for me
and I'll pray for you
and if we all pray for each other,
then somehow we'll get through.

Whatever makes your heart break,
there's a way to help it heal.
Extend your prayerful thoughts to those
who know just how you feel.

One way to bear our brokenness,
one way we can get through,
is to breathe a prayer on behalf of those
who are broken just like you.

Think of me,
and I'll think of you,
and if we all think of each other,
then somehow we'll get through.

Pray for me
and I'll pray for you
and if we all pray for each other,
then somehow we'll get through.