Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Moving Day

The refrigerator is empty and clean.

The smudged traces of our time here
are gone from doorjambs and cupboards,
like the vanished tracks of winter pilgrims
when spring returns.

An echo mocks my final steps through the place.

The loaded truck outside leans toward
the road, eyes burning, head down.

But the work is not quite done.
In the high corners there lingers an
accumulation of things that are mine—
shuddering cobwebs I dare not disown:

every ashen word that began as a fiery ember,
half-formed dreams waiting for my return,
poems that ran away from my grasping demands
in search of a new world,
thin-lipped moods and brooding silences others
had to bear away,
and milky flecks of small-minded fear.

With a broom and a basket I gather them all
in the hope that I may yet fit these jagged pieces
into the improvised puzzle of myself
and one day live in a house 
with fewer cobwebs
in the high corners.

Monday, December 30, 2013

one wound in two hearts

1975
thursday
6:37 pm

sounds sift in through the window screen—

the car door slumps shut, his keys fumble
for shelter in a worn pocket,
unrepentant shoes scuff sideways
and vaguely onward across the porch
like sleepwalking serpents on
hopeless hardpan,
syncopated and
stuttering

spirits fall back out of the wishing well,
whispering

in my room, homework and hands
are now a still life in G-minor, my ears gone rigid—
gangling antennae sweeping for mines

front door open
front door closed
and night falls

my ozone dread and his electric shame
strain to arc through the emptiness again

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Last Night's Dinner Dishes

There is some beauty
In last night’s dinner dishes,
The way the spoons
Recline at the edge of
Soup bowls like women
On porch steps after
The children are asleep.

On a midnight blue salad plate
A smudge of dressing
Looks like the Milky Way.
“You are here, and all is well.”

This crust of buttered bread
Proves the alchemists were right
To believe in transformation,
While empty potato skins
Declare “We are what
We are – no more.”

The last sip of Burgundy
In that crystal glass
Is the color of conversation
And other precious jewels
We mined from deep shafts
Last night around
The noisy table.

Friday, December 27, 2013

directions (3)

what if this house
and all the life happening
within the circle of your sight
is the world?

what will you rush to save now?

Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Light Bent Low


There was a time before the child.

In that time, the first
fathers and mothers
knew the light and
danced its return each year,
joy in the world when
descending darkness was
caught in the sun’s rising hands
once more. And it was good.

But on the night of the child
light bent low—
entered through the lowest—
to say that hope is not
a sky creature after all,
but clay-made, like us
with hands and breath and bones
perfectly suited for the
precision of love.

Follow the star,
but look to the earth to find the child—
not a harbinger of something new at all,
but a reminder of truth beyond time:
Who. You. Are.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

This House

by Rachel Wartes

Rachel shared this poem at the family solstice and Christmas celebration--a bittersweet gathering this year, as Issa and Elle and I prepare to move to Gunnison in a week or so.

This house has been home for ten years, but more than a dwelling, it has been a container for the life of the family. We say farewell with much gratitude.



Within these walls lie many secrets
whispered in the hushed hours
of snowy mornings

This house could weave you stories
of pain and grief
and the long, dark nights of the soul

It has seen the impossibilities of youth
and the slow patience and wisdom
of age

These walls know that laughter and a warm embrace
are the inevitable consequences
of the ebb and flow of anger

It has borne ideas and revolutions
of spirit
it’s heart keeping rhythm to the beat
of the drum

This house knows that God resides
in the smell of fresh bread
and sun-warmed peaches

And that the sweetness of warm honey
is worth the sting
every time

It has heard the music of the rooster
calling to rise the sun
and the children

This house knows that the secrets of life
are whispered on the sweet, warm breath of a goat
during the morning milking
as you lay your head alongside hers

But most of all this house would tell you
that the memories of joy and sorrow
woven deep into its walls
through time and love

are not its secrets at all
but belong to those who have lived within






Saturday, December 21, 2013

home road

while I slept
the road reappeared
that had been
washed away
in torrents of circumstance

stained pavements
unpacked then
and swept into
dull water
downstream had

crept back uphill
on new moon nights,
shoulders low against
the sedimentation
of surrender,

to reassemble
possibility and
draw the lost country
over the horizon
once more

Friday, December 6, 2013

Watching Bear One Morning

The rippling whole of him
rolled from tree line to meadow
like a meticulous mud flow,
clawed and sharp-eared,
the forefront of himself
trailing himself through time
back to the molten shoulders
of the first volcano, mother’s womb
erupting with life.

Monday, December 2, 2013

So you want to know what a sacred world looks like?

Good question.

For starters, look away from the
televised drama of things gone wrong,
what doesn’t work,
what we don’t want.

Close your eyes.
Breathe.

Then perhaps you can see
that in a sacred world everyone eats, and no one is left
to look into the eyes of hungry children each night,
a nesting place for wasting demons.

In a sacred world no one sleeps under a bridge,
or in a box, or not at all for lack of
a safe place.

In this world we dream of,
wellness is as free as sun and air,
and proper care is not a luxury or privilege.
Here, a lack of legal tender is never
a death sentence.

In a sacred world, the work of our hands is a labor of love,
each of us pouring our offerings into people and places
near enough to touch, never to be wastefully spent
by the distant rich hungry for more.

In this world, war and its many weapons
are only found in old stories we tell our grandchildren
in broad daylight—so as not to frighten them
too much—just enough.

In any sacred city, artists hold court
where centers of detention once stood,
music and dance and poems to mend what’s broken
and soothe the sleep of those once chained.

Here, the words “death” and “penalty”
are never heard together.

This is a world without television,
where discovery is not a channel,
but a way of life that opens minds,
lifts backsides off of couch cushions and
puts feet and hands and eyes on the earth,
and arms around each other.

In a sacred world, every circle of counsel
leaves open a seat for the four elements:

Earth, Air, Fire and Water,
and a fifth, which is Spirit.

These are the faces of God,
male and female,
within and without,
above and below all
we are meant to be.

A sacred world looks like this, simply this:

Human hands moved by love.


Friday, November 29, 2013

To Settle Old Disputes

There was a time, when all else had failed,
when plainsmen journeyed
to see the holy mountain
for themselves

and settle old disputes about
how high a man or a woman could climb
without slipping upward
into the deep.

Those who returned built stone temples
and carved stirring tales into wood.
Midnight bells called novices into a discipline of
retraced steps.

As for me, I’d rather hear from the ones
we never saw again.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

what the wind knows

deer knows grass
      and soft places to lie at night

coyote knows grass
      and low places where rabbit hides

grass knows wind
      and far places scented with love

wind knows God’s face
      in all places soft and low

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

A Peasant's Peace

I walk this morning
through a tentative remnant
of snow, an inverse shadow
lighting the low places for once.

Winter’s campaign has moved on for now.
A peasant’s peace opens behind.

So I walk.

Monday, November 25, 2013

still no sign of beyond

I returned last night from the frontier—

after years at sea the depths and I
could find no bed to share,
a frosted longing through windows

then I was cast onto a strange-eyed shore
and into caravans of virgin slaves
plodding under a burden of books

no echo validates their sorrow
emptiness possesses the kingdom

returning last night I wrote in my journal:
it’s an odd business, this search for
the edge of myself

Thursday, November 21, 2013

The Unbearable Fortune of Now

Life is meant 
for making
love. 

More. 
Freely.

For giving 
and taking
love 
in riots of 
reckless
being,

for spending the 
unbearable 
fortune 
of 
now

down to 
the last
penny.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

it happened

last night
your hands in mine
God’s breath through
our fingers

a silent downpour
of bright stones
from black
sky

seeding the waters
with new words
for love

Sunday, November 17, 2013

On Winter's Shore

An armada of leaves embarked
This morning from moorings
Outside my door.
Workers on shore cheered

Their summer's labor as
The cleansing tide of autumn wind
Rose and lifted golden hulls
Free from earthen cradles, and

Ruddy faced captains trimmed
Yellow sails skyward.
Youthful crews sang
The adventure from which

They will never return,
For the hope of love,
For the priceless treasure of
Living and dying.