S

Your story,

as important as it has become to you in this life,

is just a story.

 

There is something bigger at work here.

 

Your story,

as important as it has become to you in this life,

is just a letter.

 

It’s the letter “S”

with its roadway curves

and lack of edges–

it is a letter, in a word,

on a page, in a book.

 

 

The only truth is connection.

 

The only outcome is surrender.

 

December 3, 2016

Trees

My back

is strong

like a piece of bark

it has its edges

but it is stable,

it stands tall–

it is stillness

and silence

and me.

 

These elements

of control

have never been

my friend.

 

Illusive fears

of loosing

a self

that I had forged

by lack of force

the word loss–

I could write odes

to loss

and sonnets

to loss

and haikus

to loss

and I would still

remained

lost

in the same sentiment

 

Who am I?

 

Where do these attachments

leave me?

Where did I acquire them?

 

Did death bring up something

deep inside of me

that always needed healing?

 

An unknowingness of stability,

the entrance of doubt?

 

I am here, writing,

wondering,

thinking back to trees with hearts

written in their sides.

 

October 8, 2016

Home

Let them

fall out of me,

like rain,

these words on a page,

they are my blood

four drops in a row

you know

they’ll have me running,

forgetting,

wondering,

“What was,”

and, “What is…”

 

Let the open door

remind me,

remind you

that our hearts

are not just our house;

they are our home

and the rooms they have to fill,

honey–

they’re already filled with Love.

 

Happy Mother’s Day to all the beautiful mothers out there! 

May 5, 2016

About You

The day

I write

a poem

about you–

then

I’ll start

considering

love.

 

Until

then,

leave it

on my front step,

off with the paper

and my morning coffee;

let me read about it

in books,

watch movies

that make me cry.

 

I don’t know why

this song

keeps on singing,

over and over

in my head–

now remind me again

of that thing called love.

 

“A watched pot never boils,”

and well– a docked ship

never sinks

but land never did make

for a skilled sailor.

 

I will flip through these pages

and keep dipping my ink,

deeper and deeper

into my mind

until one day,

perhaps,

my heart

finds

its way

out.

 

February 24, 2016

I Write on a Blanket of Snow

Pen

finds its way back

to the paper

back to my truth

in the hopes that

“mine”

can still be

“ours”

in times like this–

white capped mountains

filling with the sound

of my shadow,

a lost soul

radiance

spilling out into sunlight

even the mountain missed,

talking with my sister

I know that the tradition

will pass on

the human way,

of knowing

the snow will melt,

flow,

and fall again,

just like the edge of my pen,

longing for love.

January 27, 2015