Category Archives: movement

Mimosa blossoms

16 Wednesday Aug 2023

Posted by in change, motion, movement, poems, poetry

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Mimosa blossoms are falling,

pink stars upon the ground.

A greatest turning point has arrived,

no fighting it.

But Beauty tumbles on; Steller’s jay pecks

into the plump dense seed of a hazelnut

still wrapped in its ruffly green,

his strong feet holding it against a branch.

I hear him, though now he’s standing

on the arm of a towering black oak.

A man living on the streets sings

while he walks the sidewalk along the fence.

Triple digits again today, most will be hiding

indoors

as long as air conditioning holds out.

Nothing’s the same.

That’s alright,

Same was a comfortable illusion anyway.

Shadow

29 Thursday Jun 2023

Posted by in community, movement, poems, poetry, rebirth, receiving, release, return, shame, transformation, welcoming, wonder, work

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Wrestle your shadow until sweaty and limp,

stand up,

press powder to forehead and cheek,

adjust pants and what’s in them–

whichever or both or none–

but set yourself right for the outer world to see

that nothing is happening, not a thing is at stake

and amble down the road as if not fully consumed

by what you almost let slip.

Your badness, your weakness, childishness and

ugliness and incompetence.

Tattered cloth, disheveled hair

they give you away but more

the look

on your face

of shame, perhaps shrouded in pride,

with taste of bile

flooding your tongue

Ah!

What effort and energy wasted

on the inevitable.

Rather than hide and deny,

cover up and clean up,

try turning,

turning toward your shadow in greeting..

Soften instead of wrestle,

invite instead of deny,

look gently, giggle and come to know…

in the folds of great being–wonders and understandings,

unexpected magics and compassion.

Light, dark, braided.

Depth.

Beautiful.

These are the last days

27 Saturday May 2023

Posted by in abundance, approaching, change, history, honoring, movement, poems, poetry, transition, violence

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These are the last days

of watching the valley open slowly

her soft green eyes,

of waiting for jackrabbit to come for breakfast,

of the coyote pack ushering in each full moon

with choral rhapsodies,

of tarantula pilgrims crossing the sagebrush mesa.

These are the last days of grit and clay dust flying

through any open window,

last of the sheriffs far more dangerous than the criminals,

of dried chiles and turquoise sky

against pink hills,

of churches holding centuries of prayer deep

in adobe walls,

of a boiling pot of cultural conflict

passed generation to generation to generation

onward making anyone arriving

within their own lifetime

a tourist.

Listen to the wildflowers and thunder, though,

and it becomes obvious–

they don’t care about endless strife.

They celebrate life and sing upward to our supportive sun.

These are the last days preceeding

the very first…

In her corner

18 Thursday May 2023

Posted by in anger, father, food, grief, mother, movement, pain, poems, poetry, story, water, words

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She sits in her corner, turning page

after paper page…

Held by two walls, floor and wood ceiling,

she removes herself

from still more broken connection.

Out there, nothing but loss.

In here, with pictures and stories, friends and

a giving, participatory world.

With father gone for work, back for dinner,

home only for irritation, judgment and sleep,

With mother avoiding pain through worry,

busyness and food,

anger unthinkable,

The girl is left knowing–

beyond the material,

she’s on her own.

Books act as balm

until, later, distance and exploration

return her to the early grief

of being alone

surrounded by people.

The nectar soothes her broken heart,

tear by reclaimed tear.

Sweep the threshold

12 Friday May 2023

Posted by in freedom, generations, ghosts, grief, home, honoring, movement, poems, poetry, ride, unlearning, welcoming

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Sweep the threshold,

unlock the door,

put the busyness away–

what comes is far

too important.

Build a fire,

quiet the house,

all your sensing is required.

Hear the hoof beats?

The full horse breaths?

Mice may scratch in the walls,

spiders rattle the roof,

you’ve nothing to do

but be home.

Movements beneath your skin,

flashes of thought,

quickening heart,

allow them.

This is a welcoming.

You don’t know who approaches

only that they must.

Freedom blooms

as we set

a place for everything.

What you carry in your blood

has voice–

Let her sing.

With one slow turn of the head

21 Friday Apr 2023

Posted by in dreaming, Immortal, movement, night, poems, poetry

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With one slow turn of the head

eyes sift softly through glass and

who should appear but the swallows;

The swallows are back,

zipping and gliding and making mirth–

they are the mirth-makers–

and my heart goes lightly, up and out

with them.

They emerge from a crack in the world,

from beyond there to right here.

How lovely to be with them again.

Together, as sun says goodbye this evening,

we will cut the sky.

We will cut silent sky,

and pull down a net of stars

to sprinkle dreaming

across a blooming desert night.

The borderlands

11 Tuesday Apr 2023

Posted by in dark, death, fertile, laughter, light, Loss, movement, offering, poems, poetry, presence, transformation, welcoming

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I live at the borderlands,

between mountain and grassland,

river and sea.

Here, vultures gyre above the hollows, high

as the peaks

in gliding circles,

where death meets light

and darkness greets the sun.

I live the in-between,

not expected, not sane, full

in constant emptying,

I rise as others fall, gather while

the confused lose.

Accompanying all, I am ever ready

to catch the tender hand

finally opened

by life.

I can not be held,

you will never be without me.

In cracks cursed for tripping you up,

that’s my nestling place.

I can not be found where money buys me, nor

in the thing anyone else swears will conjure me–

but my laughter will.

Eventually,

you will feel within

the kindness in those peals

and the years of loss, confusion, pleading

shall mulch the most fertile ground

you could set restful, strong,

willing roots into.

Welcome the borderlands,

for in them I dwell

ungraspable.

The wind is up

09 Sunday Apr 2023

Posted by in listen, movement, poems, poetry, receiving, story, traveling, wind

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The Wind is up

and her voice big. She sweeps

and dips, grabbing and forcing flee–

her humor boundless as her movements.

She carries tale from far, far away,

distance being her spirit flying,

and your ears are the intended settling place

for the riches of that unique story.

However we have cuffed our own ears after

having them cuffed,

we need remind them gently,

open,

yes, open–

gifts are coming and

we must prepare.

Yesterday

15 Wednesday Mar 2023

Posted by in movement, nature, poems, poetry, welcoming

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Yesterday,

I walked the streets through heavy snow,

wet lumps falling

slowly.

From across a large pasture,

a footstool of a goat, wide as long and

well-furred in big bodied apricot eruption,

ran straight to the sparse metal fence in greeting.

I stopped, realized he really was trotting over for me

and broke into laughter.

Excited to make his acquaintance, I squatted down.

He arrived, turned his butt to the fence,

tore large mouthfuls of long grass, chewed in exaggeration

and ignored me completely.

Laughing so hard I nearly fell over, I stayed.

He never did introduce himself.