Thank goodness

How is it your lips found mine

from a thousand miles,

in that sudden night warmth that wraps a person

in some late, dark fogs

while salt foam hisses closer up the sand?

How is it, stranger, 

there’s familiarity in the creases on your face, 

the new color of your eyes?

Proper ones on a beach 

may never know

what every particle of sand and

hidden star understands.

There’s this,

now,

nothing more-

the breaking, dying, spinning, softening, flowering..

It doesn’t get easier, or more beautiful.

Following fear

knocks agony into coves where

it never belonged.

Thank goodness for wind.

Ashes fall

Not leaves

but ashes

fall.

What bits land,

finding their way through closed windows,

into lungs,

are the remains

of your house,

your physical memories blazed.

I hesitate to breathe,

resisting

what is true.

With each opening of the door,

grief swirls,

covers the floor,

in grey, white, black.

It, too, will one day join this soil,

grow new forest,

stronger community.

But now,

staying inside,

I watch what has replaced rain.

Winged shadow

Were I to cull a story,

cut off its wings to still its tongue,

would you be any safer from the past?

The chills walking your spine are not

exiting belief but

sashes and

passages of truth.

Words have no allegiance

once the fire is struck,

and winged shadow escapes, up,

out, beyond-

toward a second

a third

an eleventh

pulsing heart

with ears to hear.

Practice your listening-

what you fear most may be 

the balm of the deep.

Nowhere but onward

I have searched, reached,

spoken, cried, and delivered.

My arms have ached in fullness, emptiness

and longing,

my legs have quaked miles into the journey

with nowhere but onward

left to go.

Muscle blood bone

register waking 

like petals opening toward light.

What I now carry will remain behind

in this daily offering 

of God

back to God.

Take the risk

A black and white world

hasn’t any lines to blur-

            what relief to fearful minds.

And if a smudge

tangoes with reason,

snapping the bra straps of rationality?

Waters might move in,

     fill bleached arroyos,

          and offer liquid to dry, cracked,

sorrowful lands.

Take the risk.

          Invite chaos to play.

I am a shooter

I am a shooter.

In all the ways I hate myself, in all the ways I hate others,

in any destruction of life in which I partake,

in my cruelties and holding on to misunderstandings,

in any willful resistance to seeing difference as beautiful,

in my own brokenness, impatience, refusal to love,

I, too, am a shooter.

And how

may 

my life-

this singular life-

be a devotion toward loving and mutual living 

on this planet,

the one inhabitable wondrous place

we all share

and call home?

Born into violence and out of grace,

how may my breath move

from the one toward

the other…

With each day

I ask,

in the face of violence,

for grace.

Golden bridge

If dreams rise

of planting marigolds in snow,

yet the spiders that plague you still

have not yielded

understanding,

can we love each other in our differences?

While you wrestle with your ghosts,

and I with mine,

is there a golden bridge between us

where

the songs we sing,

the tears filling our eyes,

the breath aching our lungs,

the laughter erupting before placid waters

may join?

We mustn’t forget

how many languages we share 

even without knowing

any of the words.

This body is my drum

This body is my drum

beating

inside out

into the world.

If your ears sense the beat

we both may

smile.

If your heart does,

we surely will.

Pulse rhythm cracked a shell

holding me back

from the raw thwack and rocketing yes

of unrepeatable

moments.

Hiding, shrinking, running dulls

music

all of us are here to create,

together..

Pick up your drum.

Let’s dance ~