Category Archives: Poetry

My poetry. Mostly Collects

A Slip

There are not enough corner pieces
of brownies in a pan, of puzzles incomplete
and places to go and sit with a nose 
against the cold, convergence of walls
or to lean against with a pillow just so
at that place in the lower back,
wrenched by that tiny backward slip 
on the ice-covered second step 
where one is always careful to avoid 
the debris from the kids - dolls, action figures
skateboard, roller skates, marbles and jacks -
but failed to see the ice while paying attention
to something that was not even there.

For Giordano Bruno

(For not renouncing eight statements, Bruno was burned at the stake on this day, February 17, in the year 1600 at the Campo de’ Fiori, Rome)

I refuse to renounce my writings.
     Words revolve around worlds.
I refuse to renounce my beliefs.
     Each leans along the other.
I refuse to renounce the work of my mind.
     My teachers lived and died to shape what I know.

I affirm: the beautiful earth rounds the fiery sun.
     The light moved across my face this morning as I lay in my cell.
I affirm: the world has a soul and all matter derives therefrom.
     My mother and I screamed together when my soul-full body arrived.
I affirm: all reality is accompanied by a spirit and an intelligence.
     The breezes crossing the seven hills of Rome bring voices from Tuscany.
I affirm: the bread and the wine are bread and wine.
     Sister Paolina’s slipper-shaped ciabatta tastes of heaven.
I affirm: the earth moves.
     How many times have I injured the bare ground when falling?
I affirm: the infinity of the stars and the infinite number of planets.
     Counting the lights in the endless night sky never ends.
I affirm: the spirit and the body are one. 
     Cut by a knife, I bleed.  Cut by a word, I bleed.
I affirm: the stars are messengers and interpreters of the ways of God.
     Just look up.

“Perchance you - who pronounce my sentence - 
are in greater fear than I who receive it.”

May the fire of my burning body 
in the Field of Flowers flare 
brighter than the sun on that day.

Old as the Universe

Looking through the wall
with my x-ray vision I said,
"I can see the neighbors."

She said, "Maybe they don't 
want to be your presentation."

I turned and looked through her.
"I can see your heart and it beats."

"Oh," she whispered.  "What else
can those eyes of yours see?"

Dazzled, I said, "Your soul 
is as old as the universe."

She smiled. "Now tell me 
something I don't know."

It

Is it true?
Is it useful?
Does it work in the garden?
Can it sing?
Walk the dog?
Knit?  Crochet?
Is it willing to clean?
And go to Radio Shack?
Will it play with the kids?
Not moan and groan?
Does it pray to Lady Luck?
And do presentations?
Call friends?
And be nice to enemies?
Answer emails?
Can it buy ice cream?
And do cartwheels in the lawn?
Is it considerate of others?
Does it consider time?
How much does it cost?

Love Poem

Washing dishes I hear the piano
     - or - is it the sound of vibrating strings,
          - or - the meeting of felt and wound steel?
From the tenderness of notes
     - it must be - 
          the slight pressing of your fingertips
on ivory.  
     - Those same fingertips -
          - curled -
          - resting -
          - on my chest - 
an hour ago before you awoke.

ginger beer

homebase can be mortal 
with all the starts & returns
of puzzled faces who
once again did not understand
the point of Sunday's sermon
& come only in the hope
of loan forgiveness for last
night's dinner tab itemizing 
roasted leg & puree of soul 
which never tasted so good

trust the story & remember 
how richly good grandma's
cranberry sauce tasted each
season of giving thanks for things
known & for things unknown
& how she would smile when
asked the secret of her recipe
& say, If I told you it wouldn't be
a secret & how she whispered
with a voice sounding of the end
in that last week, ginger beer.

Like Sisyphus

I learned to work like this
from Sisyphus who, tired
as a dung beetle after rolling
the last dung ball of the day
up its small food hill, let 
his ball go rolling into the sea
where ocean waves like eyelids
rose and fell, leaking salty tears
upon the feet of the child
who trembled like the slow, roll
of bones turning over in graves
of saints long-dead and gone,
never to tread again upon
the sacred ways, red 
as worn, sanctuary carpet
in the morning light.

“A Place For Your Name”

How is it that salvation history depends
upon scripts unwritten and words incomplete?
Weekly festivals do not make the passage
of time any less difficult or slightly trying.
Dancing elders celebrate with high-leg kicks
the message their generation received long ago
from the bottles others tossed into the seas.
A conversation about the next memorial wall
slows, weighted with the wax of last night's
dinner candles which burned too fast.
Writing checks to the cleaning company
and first-time talks with new-found friends
will not create the forgiveness you seek
nor secure a place for your name on the wall.