Poetry

Poem for Joe (on our wedding day)

Five years and seventy-four days
your lips have known mine,
two shells of burning sage
musty and sweet.
This is my favorite smell
your breath mixed with mine,
threshold to an older world
where words and thoughts
melt quietly as snow.

This breath takes me to the desert
where spirits dance, branches
in pine shadow breezes
and men and women gathering pinions
make love on soft juniper beds,
and the deer come, full bodied,
silent and strong (just like you)
and offer themselves for no other reason
that we may know
the mysteries of love’s sacrifice.

This breath takes me to the mountains
and leads me to the back country
where cold winds blow
over small proud flowers,
and the lakes, ancient and deep,
a black, blacker than black,
captures the light of the stars
the backs of a thousand
shimmering snakes
moving upon the waters.

And this breath, yours and mine, takes me to the oceans,
air so thick we can hardly breathe,
dry kelp and crab art,
tiny fleas tickling feet.
We laugh and let go
throwing ourselves into the water
finally released from these heavy bodies,
our burdens laid down
we are free
turtles returning to sea

November

The days are softer now
and the sharp edge of summer
and its glaring push
have subsided and turned
into scarlet leaves
of Cottonwood,
Sycamore,
and the old oaks
leaning over
the quiescent creek
reflecting upon
all that once was.

Something has shifted,
a slight turn of time
and all the crazy pieces
fall into place
with a “snap”

I can hear ourselves
exhaling
as we say
“It is round”
Nothing more to add
It is just right,
at this moment,
It is round

Lunacy

Luna, Lunar, Lunacy
a silver fish, glistening
wet, slippery and subversive
untamed and unreachable
forbid, I even touch
her painted scales

Still, I grow ill with madness
She pulls strong yet remains
distant, fickle
a warm gust on a cold day
No sense to be made
words belong to her

This is not my ceremony
this is a ceremony
earth and moon
sky and stars
all blown in by the wind.

Put your ear to the ground
Shut your eyes
Listen
Can you hear?

When I am quiet
she speaks
A spider weaving a  web
for catching fish.

Moon poem #4

She takes scorched hair,
with slim hands of soft light
combs through forgotten fields
of unwanted land, dry and harsh
brushing aside the cinders,
all that is consumed with ash.
In the brightness of her grace
even the old creosote
casts a shadow in this place

How the liquid of the moon
bleeds from beneath the shadows
to soften these hard lines of
barbed wire and rusted tin,
How her waters round out the valleys
like an old bear’s hip
and softens the edges
with mugwort and sage.

Moon, Moon
your name rests upon my tongue
colors my lips
drips down my jaw
onto belly and toes
dreams edge from the deep comfort of sleep
a drop of water falls
a perfectly smooth bead
awakening the tortoise

who moves slowly
not by clocks, or fancy thoughts
but by inner rhythms
of trees and of seasons
to the place of beginnings
of birth, and death, and where
the expectant earth,
waits without time
for the rain,

for the moon

illuminating

the stone

Father Loss

10/12/08

 

October landed hard this year,

not soft and slow like the leaves that fall

in the sweet turning of September.

It came quick and harsh, crushing summer

under the cold weight of bitter sharp,

a knife thrust into frozen ground.

 

Everything has fallen toward Earth,

even your body, which no longer stands

on strong legs, that once harvested the

crops that you planted, or lifted me into

the air, flying freely, pleased with the

lightness of another day.

 

I bring you a glass of water

hoping it will fill you with God’s grace

like rivers that flow after a spring thaw,

or birds that find their way home each year.

Just one more chance for redemption,

but the glass remains untouched.

 

There once was a staff planted in a great field.

I used it to navigate through this world.

It was a center piece, a homing device,

a bearing of my own belonging

in an unknown land. 

 

But now I am truly lost.

 

Driving the Manti-La Sal loop

 

We reach the summit and he says

“This is where I come in the fall

to camp beneath the Aspen

and watch golden-haired maidens

spinning in the wind”

 

Stepping out from beneath the trees

across the road and into the silence

we contemplate the valley below

spread open in a dark haze

 

eight

thousand

feet

deep

            pre me

            pre you

            pre history

 

and multi-layered

with heliotrope and

scarlet,

a tint of yellow,

 

ashen

 

“It’s hot down there”.

                         

And out in the distance

we could see where the river

has carved a path through the forest

seducing the stones, shyly and purposely

into her own design

 

and then leaps

into the canyon

 

A green serpent

uncoils,

shifts

and slides

            into the fire.   

 

Bighorn

Walking on clouds

of dust and dreams

Movement without sound

 

“Stillness”, you say

Hush.

 

A faint path of

slippery rock and creosote

you beckon me

 

into the backcountry.

where the mountain

has eyes on every

 

stone

Two Mothers

 

August 4^th, 2005

 

One has traveled far

through generations

of forsaking

flesh, stone,

tree, mud

earth-body,

weighted down

with number

and time

 

The other has a plan

well put into place,

rise and fall,

chaos and creativity,

A columbine gently

bends toward the river,

abundant,

spirit melting into soul

and moving

with great force

 

The first mother

knows this but does not                             

remember. Does not

recognize what

in her body

once was

a river

with a flower

that wanted

to sing