The Frozen Shape

They gazed at the little shack,

and the family who lived there.

Nobody moved. 

The sides of the shape – frozen.

Nobody’s gettin’ out,

or in,

here.

I yelled:  “Scan the periphery of your life, little shack!”

“Notice the eyes in the woods of the night!”

“There are a few in there who will let you out!”

“The owl hoots for your freedom.”

“The birds rise with the sun and call you forth to a new day!”

The sharpness of the gaze held them there.

I wept. Then, whispered:

“These plants over here are rare and mystical.”

 “Harvest their bounty and let their seeds bear you fruit.”

They glanced at the edges of the forest,

and moved for a  better view.

They dreamed that night,

of fullness.

The Plants will Teach You Reverence

“The plants will teach you of reverence” she whispered.


If you listen with ears of tenderness,

and eyes sentimental,


They will tell you stories,

of all the ways you can be free.


Their voices lift, together in song for each ray of sun that warms their backs,

and bow humbly to the drops of rain that seep into their roots.


At night, they tell secret stories to each other of the prizes of the day,

and play quiet symphonies under the silvery rays of mother moon.


The wind tickles their leaves into dance,

as they giggle in flight.


When the sun slips behind the curtain,

they lay their soft petals down,

sure they are safe.


Each morn’ they rise with laughter in their hearts,

for the breaking of the dawn,


And bow their heads,

to the grace of twilight.


They stand firm and noble for the passerby’s,

and let snowflakes dangle on their arms.


They grow up and down and gracefully offer their leaves,

to the forest floor, certain they can trust

all that they are.


Sometimes they softly weep together,

for the gentle way the soft earth holds their toes.


You can learn their hidden language,

in the silent spaces of the forest.

Sometimes Weary Warriors Lay Down their Swords

Sometimes weary warriors
lay their swords down ,
and mothers with dry, worn out hands,
cracked and bleeding,
come in from the cold,
and put their feet up on the hearth.

Sometimes old village doctors still come,
to your house to check on sick children,
and place their hands upon young foreheads,
to check for fever and illness.

They pull ancient potions,
from worn-in old bags,
and offer kind words,
in the hushed tones of dark rooms,
and soothe young mothers ,
who know not of childhood illnesses and uneasiness.

They’ll ramble down the twisty path,
from the house,
and you’ll be grateful for old ways,
and the kindness and wisdom that comes,
from a life well lived.


Sometimes life is a circus ,
sometimes days drag on,
as if night will never come,
to wrap its dark cloak around to you ,
to sooth the weariness out of long working days,
and too much talking.

Sometimes the sun rushes to greet you,
and applauds your arrival,
to the glorious play about to begin.

Sometimes the sunrise hides himself,
in gloomy old memories ,
of childhood tears spilling on to the curb,
from a kickball game,
with too many captains.

Sometimes it feels like,
we can take in everything,
become full! Overflow! Pass it around!
Sometimes winter stream-beds dry up ,
and wail in longing to drink,
from spring rains and cool melting snow.


The trees! Oh, the trees! They always remember!
Stand tall noble knights! Perfect your gaze!
She will bring it all around to you again…
as She always does,
since time started to tick.


They will tell you - the trees,  of all the old stories,
when birds laughed in their branches ,
and they bowed to the sun.

They will tell you the times,
the carrots got rotten,
and small little chipmunks ate,
all of the berries.

They will tell you of blooms,
that pull breath from your lungs,
and of oceans of lavender that drift in breeze,
as they wave their thin arms at the sky.

They will tell you the times,
of the birth and the death,
and of all the cycles and circles,
that roam under your feet and over your head.

They will call you to stillness,
to a deep quiet place,
so you can watch and bear witness to all that will be.

They will tell you to sit a while,
take a rest from your running.

“Come hither, come yonder, I’ve branches for you!
I’ve roots for deep sleeping and leaves for the shade!
Worry not your small mind for all will be well.
Rest here, by my trunk and take in the show.

It will rain and get cold,
then sunny again!
You’ll see it all…become real, like one of the forest.

And then you will know without hesitation,
you are safe beyond safety,
forever to live,
with those who have held ,
the ground for you all this time.

The Clearing

The Clearing! The Clearing!

The rivers are moving their bodies!

And seeking new beds for the sleep!

The crack of their corpses drifts into my eyes.

Ghosts waking  slumber.

I make tears for the dust of the morning.

 

In between the Waters well up,

behind the dam,

and wait for the possibility,

of afternoon.

She seats herself in prayer.

Holding.

Watching.

The dragons dance,

upon her skin.

Listening.

To the trickling cleave,

of relatives,

in the distance.

Girls with Braids

Smile nicely,

when you ask for that.

The women are fetching the water.

Make gentle steps,

When you enter the home.

The bear is sleeping In MY bed.

The ways are tricky for peaceful nights.

(Don’t lose yourself there.)

I will tell you sometime,

of grandmothers,

and women who ride with the bulls,

when you’re your youth has rested,

and the sheen of the disc,

weaves itself into you.

San Culpa of the Lent

Digesting and rejecting,
spoonfed marmalade,
The clever, costly comments,
that seep into your head.

Your waitin’ for tomorrow,
leaving trails of bread and crumbs,
I got the golden ticket,
comes with knives and cuts and guns.

I churned it up inside of me,
regurgitated heat.
I wondered if you ever knew,
that even moon rays weep.

I wanted you to read right through,
the covers of the book.
Where leprechauns and fairies,
dance beside the laughing brooks.

A deeper magic - way beyond,
small minds and straying thoughts,
I tried to cast the sunrays,
into mirrors that you bought.

Reach beyond the ether,
and  shapes the bind you in.
Coming home to angels now,
baptism for the sins.

Of lonely ones out in the cold,
you try to lift them up.
A battle of a lifetime,
-reaching for enough.

Plant seeds of magic fairy dust,
underneath their pillows.
Then light the fire of your life,
beneath the weeping willows.

I’m praying over candles,
and beads that heaven sent,
that forms fly forth and plant themselves,
- San culpa of the lent.

Talk to all the children,
take them on your knee,
They’re wearin' ruby slippers,
- sippin' nector of the bees.

Arms of the Shining Island

Among the dusty, dirty bags,
that blow along Her curbs,
Within the squeal of subway rails,
that beckon to the burbs’,

A Shining Star! - announced in torch,
glistens in the sea,
For promises and refuge kept,
of weary ones and me.

Big and small move into one,
- a timeless, sounding weave,
Eyes ring forth the truth of things,
- when mother never leaves.

Holding still for each travail,
and show upon her grounds,
embracing windy wishes,
of starlets and the hounds.

The hands of swinging bridges,
reach for her open soul,
Her gaze - a mighty astronaut,
for the weary and the bold.

The Beginning Rhythm

You came rushing out of my words last night,
from the papers that I read.

You surprised me.
(I thought).
I forgot about you.

Was it your voice threading its way through me?

You colored my lens.

I’m glad.

Your tiny verse,
Returned,
to the beginning rhythm,
where no one is lonely.

The Promise of Cogs

Cogs in a wheel churned,
over and over and over,
in pictures,
on the new walls of a little girls room.

She turned her face,
and hid,
from a future walking,
hollow halls and  faceless streets,
where thousands wandered.

The birds called,
through the window (that held secrets of the ocean),
and caught hold of her ears.

The threads pulled her,
into the sun,
for rest.

The Fierce Gaze

The lines of her gaze were broken one thousand times.
By the lilt of children’s voices shooting arrows in the air.

A mother weeps in silence.

For every picture left unfinished in her head,
and all the roots of possibilities that lie,
 withering beneath the winter’s earth.

Shh-sh-sh!  The expanses of her mind are wandering!
Into the mystery of unknown spaces,
past the laundry and tedium of your world.

The twilight calls her in again,
for birthing beautiful things,
among the dishes.

Mourning Whales

I rose to the call,

of mourning whales,

pulling me into the daytime,

of yellow school buses,

and signatures for teacher.

I slid under the covers,

seeking salvation,

from the big-small voices,

of wants and needs.

Kisses at the door,

brought  silence,

of a day’s birth,

bursting it’s seeds,

into wild chambers of my soul.