Posted in Updates and Musings

Love Is the Way

When I say that love is the way
I do not mean that I will keep my hands to myself.
When I say that love is the way
I do not mean that I will sit quietly
And hope love shows up at the doors of those who lack love
naked and transparent so that they welcome love into their doors
When I say love is the way
I mean that I will take the love that burns within my veins
into my own two hands and shape it into something palpable
Until it stands so tall
And so strong
It will knock down the doors,
Pull the  up the curtains,
Tear down the walls
And force its way in where it’s needed
I mean that I will find the courage to love so fiercely
That I will weave a beacon of love that surrounds us
And pulls us together
So that when we come up against evil
We can run, we can storm, we can yell, we can push
We can stomp, we can cry, we can burn that evil
right down to the ground,
And in those ashes we will stand,
Shaping love into action before our very eyes.

1.28.17

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Posted in Poems

The Dugout

I walked through the dugout this morning
and the sky on the other side was brown

and the cage was the dugout.
and the cage was empty.

And the trees reached for a sky
they could no longer touch
because we cut them down
because we pushed the sky back

and the cage was me.
and the cage was empty.

So I stripped down to my skin and shivered
among bare trees
then I shed my skin and let my bones fall away
and I emptied my veins
and then I was all muscle, all heart
and I opened.

I watched seven birds sing across the brown sky
I echoed the trees as they danced in the winterlight.
And then I let my muscle fall, too.
I was only a prayer, now.
For an instant, no more or less than the light and love
of this whole earth.

And my body asked for me to return.

and I was full.
and the cage was empty.

12.3.16

Posted in Poems, Updates and Musings

Down to the river at first light | Vermont

they tell me autumn is a time for death, but this is only another quality of life.

The river’s voice is louder now, I want to swim, but it is snowing and the trees no longer protect naked bodies from view.  I kneel and listen.

She sings, wild. I sip of my tea and this is the same water in her body, in mine.  All water is connected, all water is love, all water is life, all water is sacred, all water leads to home.

The source!  I do not see this, but still I KNOW this.  (A mountain spring) within me.  All water be free. Yes!

The water rushes high, river bed full.  Keeping the rocks on the bank wet and warm enough to stay without snow.  The undersides of the trees, too, are bare and the world grows light.

Colors take their qualities into their own hands, dancing in the freedom to dress up in their winter finest.  Together, the earliest part of morning colors and I, run amok.

Panting, breathless now. I am arrived, whole, whole hearted, hearty, and revived.  Inhale, there is movement in my peripheral vision.  Hello shadows.  Good morning spirits and ancient ones.  Thank you for joining me.

My tea is chilled now and I take baby steps back the way I came, not backwards at all.

Good morning wild ones.  Good morning soul and good morning heart.  Yes.

It is morning. Now.

Posted in Photographs, Poems, Travel

desert stars

the wind does not pull me subtly from sleep but wake my nylon nest into waves, creating an ocean in the land with no water.
I am encouraged to emerge and this land is singing, making no movement to elevate itself towards the sky nor emulate his light but thanking the sky from her very core, the earth and the atmosphere dance to each other’s blessings; these desert stars are magic.

I’d like to dance, too, nestled in the dry sand, laying on my back, this is soaking in the earth, grounding, thanking the sky for the depth of its mystery.

This is good to be alive, this is good to be awake in the middle of night.

excerpts from the days on the train

Posted in Photographs, Travel, Updates and Musings

October again

leaves hit the sky with their vibrance at six in the morning it is still not quite light out, but my eyes are wides open.  I am many things, rested not among them but early morning is my favorite time of day.

I watch the day grow lighter, shivering on these unattached steps waiting for the biggest shiver to send me in through the doors to warm tea.  Then I am no longer in someone else’s bed.   I take pen to paper then stop and hunt long kisses just before saying goodbye.  I don’t like to be caught with what I have found.  I write again, in the fall, not in intention but out of necessity, the only way to keep my fingers warm and my mind unfrozen.  Timer buzz, it is afternoon now, time for dinner soon and warm out of the oven.  —

 

Then, it has been a week.  I sit for few moments yet upon a bus, one side of this bookend that will be four days.  A car ride, a bus ride, two train rides, a bus ride, a car ride.  This is exciting, though I had not known how to let it be such for many months.  Only knew that westward bound one of these days I would be. So two false starts, and then here I am, on my way for real.

I smell chicken soup, strange for a bus.  I tried to write this in stillness as I rested my soul in fairyland, but now I have taken that well fed body of mine into this bus and I find it is comfortable here, too.   Contentment is not a place, but something I carry with me.  So from Maine to California I embark.  Across this country into corners I have never been, we will see.  Lately I’ve been listening to music I haven’t heard since I was fifteen.  Wondering who I have turned out to be, and who it is I will turn into, but then again, just happy to be me.

One day, the fall will remind me to hibernate, because I can feel this in my soul, but now I travel through the rain.  We will see where and when I will be.  I have learned that confusion may be relevant, that it does not have to pull me into a dream state, and that sometimes it is okay if I am angry.  And when I learned that, I learned that growing pains are true and real, and every seed has a breaking point, and I’m learning what it means to stretch my roots out. They may grow slowly, but they still grow.  And when I learned this I learned that it’s okay to be happy, again, in myself. I remembered that happiness and sadness are not exclusive.

This is about me, my dream last night.  I spoke to someone who wasn’t there, and he asked me why I was walking in a direction I did not mean to go, then I opened doors and let them sit while I boarded a plan. You, and he, and the oak tree on the other side.  Even my mama was there, and I let her be.  I sit with oak leaves and poems I wrote earlier this week about how I was learning to be still in a space.  Everything, again, is not only okay but exactly as it’s meant to be.  I know this, because I dreamt about the bus station I arrived at this morning. I had never been there before.

I wonder if my life will always be perfect puzzle pieces.  When I was seven years old, I wondered who the people on the train were that slept in their chair and not in a room with their parents. I wondered how, and why. I watched them doze and wanted to know them. Tonight I will become one among their ranks, and dream well of places I do not yet know.