Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

Jumbled Prayers

I do not understand the prayers of jumbled letters
I throw in the direction of whoever will listen.

I pray them anyway knowing that in the praying
some ways perish and new ways appear in the along.

I pray them for the possible, rare arrival of some peace,
my heart communing with the stillness of a morning.

I pray them to be less troubled by the persistent roar
of the ungodly seeking to destroy the change of mystery.

I pray them to rebuke my anger before it moves 
and wreaks destruction on the loves I love.

I pray them tumbling from my lips to remind myself:
I am not alone yearning for righteousness.

I pray them to negotiate with myself hoping 
for a lessening of my participation in tyranny.

I pray them not to be humble or prideful but simply
to sort the jumble and get on with my life.

The Moment Itself

Some say we remember remembering;
memory being so elusive it is easy to forget.

I want to remember the current collection
of events, emotions, accidents, transactions,
coincidences and especially the moment I 
wrapped my daughters in my arms 
the last time we were all together.

Perhaps not the moment itself.  Instead,
the sense of my arms around their
shoulders, the smiles and familiar
chatter of sisters, the play of light
creating shadows of ourselves
on the ground, the wishes
for wellness until next we see
each other, not knowing our 
numbers would never
be the same.

Promenade

I said, "I dreamed last night of an inchworm
measuring the distance of our suffering."

She said, "Distance times time equals 
the speed at which things fall apart."

I asked, "Do you think creation could
have been made any other way?"

She answered, "In the space we inhabit
change only happens at the edge
of where chaos and order frolic."

I asked another question, "Don't take 
this the wrong way but can I have 
the next dance?"

She replied, "Only if you fondly promise
to promenade with me all the way down
the corridor of time."

…a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together…” – Ecclesiastes 3:5

God of stone, rock, gravel and of shiny crystals,
dancing before us in form and structure billions of years old,
knowing the life of an ancient crustacean kept
between layers of limestone wrapped like a gift.
How can we throw one pebble of our experience away
knowing somewhere someone else will pick it up,
turn it over and, perhaps, skip us across another lake?
Weigh us down.  Put a few stones in our pockets,
not so we drown in the waters of life, but so we
feel the weight of things together and apart.
Amen.

After the Memory of Death

I remember my life after death
where my body no longer struggles

     against the struggles which a body longs for
     thrown into the pool where fear plays.

Playful fear splashes in the neighbor's pool
making cries mocking the pull of drowning.

     The mockingbird cries pulling drowning
     sorrows into the radiance of blue.

Blue radiates, mirroring the drops of sorrow
upon the neat page listing summer plans.

     Summer pages turn neatly as plans list
     according to the number of joyful shouts.

I shout with joy counting the number
of times I live after the memory of death.

Repentance

In my conversation with God last night
God confirmed that God does not have
the power to end the universe.  

Which is a very human quality as humans also 
set in motion events every moment that cannot 
be undone even by the most fervent wishes,
giving birth to regret and anguish, heartbreak
and disappointment, grief and remorse, creating
a space for the creation of possibility: repentance.

Direction

The dollar calls from the direction of irony
where spirit, this time, attaches itself 
with blessings and Sunday ceremonies.

The voices of plenty shout from the other side,
dwelling in pages of countless books lined
on shelves dwindling to the horizon.

I live uncomfortably in the space of paradox,
between incongruity and enough, hoping
for the strength to simply abide.

Duplex Dream

I said, "Last night I dreamed of living 
in the lower level of a duplex."

She said, "Surely it was a nightmare
knowing the space where you lived
when I first met you."

I said, "Though my stay ended so lovely.  
You riding in on your beautiful stallion 
to save me."

She laughed.  "I remember calling out
for you to let down your hair so I could
pull you up."

I laughed too and added, "And here 
I had just taken the clippers to my hair."

She said, "And thus began our long
tradition of making do with what
the other has given to us."

Shoes

I have changed residences once again
     though the front porch I sit on remains the same. 

The play of the sunlight and of the maple tree leaves
     dapples the ground at my feet and I think of you.  

I am eating blueberries, one at a time, careful to not
     get the tiny seeds caught between my teeth,

the way yesterday’s problems tend to tuck
     themselves between the floorboards of my living space,

as if taking a nap will make them fresh for the journeys 
ahead; a trip to the grocery store, the gas station, 

to the place selling shiny electronics which
     eat up whole paychecks in one bite and to the shoe store.  

I like shoes.  And, if my small pocketbook would
     allow me, I would wear a different pair every day

And walk before you.