with all its skin removed
and moonstone lotus arms pulled back
the onion has no center
only tear provoking sharpness
seeping from its pores
but you and I have hearts
that feed our souls and break sometimes
laid bare in throes of love
or simply listening to the echoes
of a whispered thought
a memory of longing sweeping back
to fan regret at loss
we wear our years like onion skin
the proof of who we were opaque
of how we danced or soared
looked at the world from eyes that saw
time infinite us invincible
too quick to jump into the flow
of forces greater than our will
to hold them back
where war or danger
grabbed us by the throat and shook
tossing what was left aside
or living tamer slower lives
bumps and buffets taken as they came
no matter what our start
we all arrive at later’s trailhead
wondering where our eagerness and joy have fled
energies no longer at our ready beck
resignation sometimes held at bay
and yet our beating core
holds all of it on layaway
to draw on if we can
so when I lie with moonlight
shadows raked across my skin
and you reach out with forge hot hands
time falls away leaving elemental us
certain only of this moment
and its gift
Tag Archives: poetry
haiku for a cold Monday
edges after frost
silver rims the still green leaf
tree crowns lit by sun
_________________________
we have had our first truly cold nights. things are dying back. the sun comes up later over the mountain arm, and light proceeds down from the tree tops. today I start feeding the birds again.
scattershot season
like random bursts of color
or drought licked leaves
my transformation waltzes slowly
through the thickets of impatience
skirting good intentions
wanting every item on my
inner laundry list of psychic tweaks
checked off in double time
to quit the job of Tantalus’ understudy
reaching for the ease I see in others
never tongue tied in the light
of those whose minds and gifts
can freeze me in my tracks
as adolescent echoes chase me down
my blurted words so many zombie zits,
I crave deliverance from this dread
to stamp distortion into weightlessness
and see it float away, swept on by
migrant wings that set me flying too
the empty hour
driving south with dogs and moon
my sole companions
through a world now shuttered, faceless
not quite dead, a piece of time
between the dregs of night wound down
and any thought of lighted day
no nameless lurkers crowding thoughts
as unaccustomed full face brightness
pushes back those waves of menace
rushing from the black hole dark
until their clinging dread recedes
then trickles off the shouldered road and trees
fades dark blank glass and shadowed cars
to question marks, a thousand lives imagined
in the moments we pass by
my honor guard lies nose to tail
the comfort of their smell and noisy dreams
has wrapped my shoulders well against the chill
and we move on
_____________________________
we all know this time of night, and driving through it in the light of a full moon changes everything.
conversation with a horse
it starts again where it left off
no steady stream of cogent thought
but snips of words implied
and whuffing breath upon my hair
a toss of eyes, soft nosing in my hand
fingered lips come for their gift
and stay to glean the remnant juice
I stand between them
under arching heads and necks
unafraid and shivering with joy
our steps retrace
an imprint starmap dance
away from stepping heavy hoof
and back, to look up
into eyes that hold infinity
_________________________
for Pamela Moshimer Rickenbach, Mithra and Brian, and the horses of Blue Star Equitation.
top of the eighth
numbers (have) never mattered
no importance given,
celebration while rome danced
the very thing,
my road stretched out ahead
endless to the next rise.
today I pause to count
and though the exit sign
is out of sight and mind
I sense it up ahead.
memo to the fates
you are heard and understood,
but while
music is in my blood
and on my tongue,
words spring from my hand
to shout upon the page,
light and color unshutter joy,
there is love to fill me up
and to return without reserve,
my legs strive to scale the heights
and cover distance yet again,
the tendrils of my soul
reach out to wetlands
and woodland heartbeats
in the company of birdsong,
my flesh can still be
branded by a lover’s hand
to summon undiminished ecstasy,
why then, oh yes
I am most certainly alive,
not just living, treading time
but riding it full throttle
to the very end
more alive
walking from
machine cooled dullness
into hot sunlight,
mid July high noon
even if I could
there is no avoiding
this cloak of
fecund summer air
settling on my skin,
the scald of
gentle lover’s fingers
prompt me to accept
their gift, and dance
in the heat of the day
signals from the bird world
flashes in the lilacs
after days of rain
semaphores of water drops
silent signals
from the master singers
are they warnings of
our imminent arrival
at the cliff’s edge
or waves of vibrant
ecstasy sent
to heal a broken heart
journey to my tribe
the sky’s first star night’s scout
piercing the scrim of fading light
that hides the spirit dome of heaven
once seen it must be wished on
our lore never for ourselves
to make the magic work
my heart stored its wishes where it could
in the beams of other stars
under the wings of catbirds
in the warmth of sleepy dark
deep in thrush song
or layered in the lamp hung blue of early night
all forgotten over time
in the flow of life away from wonder
wearing down the prickly instincts
of a younger self
walking in my wake unseen
there was a dream gatherer
Ninhan my ancestor of the Mohawk people
taking wishes to her heart
against a future need she knew would come
some years ago my heart connected
with the force of messy life
in a nearby marshland
talisman and refuge
where my feet felt rooted
its spirit cloaked my shoulders
settling on my skin and filling my eyes
the very heart of life
seeing this she knew the time had come
and sowed the air with a wish become a dream
and so I sang again
another as a glowing drop to open up my eyes
rejoice once more in line and color
my deepest wish was to create without restraint
to find the headwaters of my soul
almost buried by the dark paned windows of an early time
faces of blank fear following me from age to age
until I went there in a dream
to vanquish them and bring back light
her answer was
to shower me with stars
a million wishes worth
that set me sparking
whirling to catch words
and once more find my voice
to shout aloud with joy
o chippie my chippie
bright sunlight this morning
coming home I leave the pond flats
almost turning in
you run gaily out across the road
right in front of me
from the gap in my fence that
all you chippies race along
and drive the dogs mad
(stop oh stop go faster)
fast but not fast enough
a tiny thump small pebble sound
(oh no oh no oh no)
one of my own maddening
sleek sloe eyed chippies
and come back fast to get you
I know your markings
pale backed curious explorer
(tears flow helpless geysers of regret)
only a glancing blow
no crow carrion not today
you are part of this place
I gather your warm soft body
(the child inside my heart wails
oh no chippie why why oh why)
with a poachers spade dig a hole
by the door it needs a guard
now that is you safe soft shrouded
under a small river rock cairn here in eden
(I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry, I loved you)
Tiptoe to a full on run
It is my turn to jump
into the hero’s journey,
face first two miles up
but with no roar
of penetrated air
drawing every sense
as I fall free, knowing
this a dream to ease
my heart’s reset.
I rip the cord,
look back,
there is no prickly
pilot chute of skulking anger,
only honest tears flung up
to join the clouds,
my testament to
innocence and joy,
the early days of
rose tinged hope.
A silken arc of honesty
slows me to a gentle float
compelling truth,
namely, that this jump
will save my soul.
Earth comes up fast
and I begin to walk
on timid toes,
then gaining speed
I leap and raise my fist
exulting, thankful
to have known great love,
running on to meet
my warrior fate.
__________________________
A nod to my inner tough chick
Licentia poetica
You were spinsters then
and from our blinkered perch
we saw two ancients
despite a force of nature stance
and razor gaze conviction
flavoring snail paced tours
through plays and poems
or god help us Hardy
our take on you parodic
not ready to imagine
the depths of passion
you would later find
in brilliant marriage
to a Bishop friend
become a lover
or cloud dancing pilot
pioneering aerobatic ace
a red and yellow blur
carving skies in perfect loops
tweeds and twinsets flung away
your lessons had such legs
and far from trudging through
dull furrowed fields in metered step
we learned to track
and slither catlike round each word
to seize intent and voice and pace
in short a brilliant Poets Ed
put to the test at last
with gratitude
_________________________________
For Joan Ford Rutt (Fordy) and Frances MacRae (Muck), who did all those things and more.
