so what do angels do after all of the hark heralding and heavenly hosting? 

after all of the fear not and beholding of glad tidings ...

dishes to wash?

cleaning up, taking out the trash?

lying down to rest their weary etheric limbs,

only to get up and do it all over again next year?

it is far more likely, 

caring for the human versions of themselves

—such as they do—

more likely they are harking it up 

constantly, loudly, insistently,

but we only hear them the one day or

one hour we are listening for them ...

and they are singing out this second

to Love on everyone, everything, everywhere, 

all the livelong day

and all through the night.

snow falling on the river

swirling on banks and trees

on fences and rocks 

on ribbons and garlands on the porch 

each tiny crystal settling to earth and home

with a sigh 

the wind finds its voice 

a shimmering powder cloud is whispered up and then resettles over the shoulders of the earth

over field and hill

over railing and porch 

shifting and molding lines with white fingers, 

rounding edges, smoothing surfaces,

a soft accord of mind and body, 

of houses and barns and baseball fields

in a grand unison of winter 

there is magic here

glinting with wonder 

pooling in mystery

desiring to be desired

there being so much Love,

whether bleakness or joy presides,

let this day be a Psalm for all of it—

a warmth of snow

on granite walls and bare birch,

and breath enough

for singing out the heart.

You are an extraordinary spark

igniting your little part of the world— 

coming here to create,

to bring energy and healing—

to push the edge of Good forward

with your own unique gifts of the spirit.

We are all the same under the skin,

each of us part of the divine flow

that moves light and being 

to become a higher version of everything—

a creative vanguard 

in a world expanding

to be more than dust

and wind and water—

to be the healing reach of Love  

in a universe of Want.

so what small truth comes this day

—piercing the heaviness of yesterday's fog 
and the foolishness of dreams ... 

comes the wholeness of being one.

yet another truth waits just beyond

—after grief bends the heart, 

and joy breaks into shards of light ... 
waits the profoundness 

of two being the wholeness 

of everything.

if hope is that thing with feathers

it crashed into my window yesterday 

falling on the porch

not moving

piercing my heart to see it so broken

heaped on its side.

went out, gingerly picked it up, 

shielded it from my hands 

with a hastily grabbed paper towel

tenderly enfolded it,

a gentle goodbye

against all odds, 

hope blinked. 

turned its tiny head  

probably to wonder at the hand of god. 

but this god couldn't fathom 

how it could possibly be that hope was still alive 

or how it would go from here

so this god sat down on the porch bench 

holding it, thinking,

wondering as well, 

slightly opening her hand ...

against all odds, hope suddenly flew up 

lighting on a porch eave

looking down at the giant still earthbound

without wings, apparently 

a lesser god, perhaps

so how might it all go from here?

against all odds   

I may yet reach safety in the rafters of heart and mind

to wonder at this larger-than-life love

that both catches me up and sets me free

to be the real me with you

 

Let it be said 

that I picked a rose the color of the clouds

of a Maine sunrise

on a November morning

for you, 

and chose a simpler life 

without causing hurt,

without the complications of a timeless love,

and went on alone 

to be a kind, less complicated woman

your tell me your dream 

without holding back

your words explode in my mind 

like a summer thistle

caught up in a gossamer wind 

of delighted laughter 

flying in all directions

to sow fields brilliant with desire

on some distant blue-eyed summer day

what is it in the beauty of this wondrous fall day that

strikes deep with a hopelessness 

and curries a wish for clouds to share my melancholy

and wants for a slashing rain to beat on these windows 

that would have so gladly looked out to watch for you

so gladly sought out only you among all others

but cannot

for want of a light 

for want of a word that you would come 

for want of a moment that should be ours

that should be here

but is not

the roses should not still be reaching out with buds 

to embrace the sun for their moment 

and the maples should not be so richly swayed 

by the breeze to shed their red joy—

the deception of this glorious blue day is 

a marvelous ruse

to welcome a new skeptic to the truth 

the evidence of love not bright 

with an eternal sun of possibilities,

but is instead an everlasting brilliance 

ushering in the midnight of never

reluctant fingers 
coaxed to move
over the keys
to draw down the music 
from somewhere
beyond mind
for comfort
a distraction
a measure of time away

yet even as chords and melody
fall into place
obediently lining out each phrase
the music itself 
mirrors a heartmind 
still vibrating with
splinters and shards 

no help there
no need to try that again
these weeks must simply play it all out
waiting to know
what comes of it

one honking goose flying south
fourteen yellow leaves on the lawn
and counting
do not a fall make.
fifteen now
a crisp day—blowy and bright
after yesterday's downpour—
sixteen
does not a fall make.
if the geese and the leaves stay put
awhile longer we can
paddle out on the Sheepscot
and pretend
eighteen
we are the very harbingers of
Indian summer.
twenty-four
twenty-eight
thirty-three
ohnevermind.
come fall.
bring it.
you know you are my favorite.

So,
do not let it be said that
meditation hath not
tangible
rewards and insights.

A guardian angel came with a name—
Tivrah—
and a gift:
a tiny toy sports car,
blue with white racing stripes.
She gently laid it in my hands.

A tiny message from the universe.
We take it that's a go.

... alrightythen.

vroom vroom

Looks like I go through all five stages of grief in a day
And then wake up
And go through all five stages all over again
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
They don’t even rhyme
They don’t even include humor or wisdom from past grief
They just march in and march out
As if on the appointed round
Postmen without mercy or guile to vary the route
Without leaving the comfort of letters to read to a wilting heart

Heartache is the consequence
Of love
Either you suffer
Or you have not loved
And have not risked
Your being for another
Or for a cause worth living out
In the desire for the highest
And best good in this life.

I risk.
I suffer.
And I wear tears like a badge
Between moments of bliss.

all of the roses are fat—
their branches laid over
with the heaviness of
unseemly exuberance

the days are long
and drunk with light—
and a passion of breeze
riffles the leaves of summer


yet i am numb to all of it
in the haze of uncertainty
of how it all comes and mostly goes
...
were it not for love's bright cast
no shadows would exist
on the walls of the heart's chamber

but here, nature's duality seems a reckoning
out of balance in its consequences—
what with a mere bright second of hope 
against the dark infinity of so much more to lose

song for this night

the long afternoon has gone tumbling to night
walk me home, love, walk me home
and the garden is done with its sensuous lure
walk me home, love, walk me home
let the mind unreel the story of day
let the heart soften memory of what has gone by ...
put your hand out
and take mine ...
walk me home.

so small are the lines and ripples in the current of time
that one must stretch the moments
to know the full measure of breathing ...
to feel the constancy and flow
of the tiny ridges of seconds
on the surface of the day as they go by,
the lines that are the shape of our moments
here ... and here ... and here ...
to hear the gentle lapping of our thoughts
coming and going and coming and going ...
it's a wonder how it all is,
and how we come to know it

Lyrics, Clarinet Solo, Rachmaninoff Sym 2, Adagio

You are my love, and song of my heart

...and the one who comes to me in velvet night
and in the morning light. 

When I dream, you hold the essence of me 

And all I am waits for you who are yet my lover to be, 

Though as two souls, we are one—

Knowing every thought

Feeling every nuance of the song we write...

The song I dream of you in the night

The song I know as you in the light

The melody of you

The one I love

i.
you are a fever
rough tongued and lapping
at the edge of my mind
all day your words insinuate themselves—
sliding between the crevices 
marking the too-often broken heart,
pushing into new seams 

stretching to hold me together,
insisting with every syllable their molten heat
bonding thought to feeling, 

promising an inflammation
of desire to come

ii.
you are a river
moving and rushing around the rocks of my defenses
bringing an aliveness in swirls and eddies
and calm pools of thought
where hope holds under the banks of lush surrender
and waits for the sweet hatches of your words
to feed the hunger that
grows and swells my spirit

iii.
you are the soft animal of my own lust
wherein a playful word lights a smile
and a laugh becomes a living thing
of wide-eyed wonder,
a wild being of nature, this thrill ... 

just now it's there on the path
running ahead of us
toward the adventure
of finding
and knowing
and mating

i was afraid for you
and was met with
despair and angst

so i asked despair
why are you here?

despair snarled
to show you the not way
that tears you apart

i turned to angst and asked
what is your purpose?

angst sighed
to add depth to your despair

but everything will be broken
and fall apart
i cried

the still small voice whispered
be still child
nothing is wasted
even now
time gathers up wounds
one by one
to weave into the walls of the heart
for holding even more love

a new mayday

the beltane fires tonight
that once leapt from the sticks of men
to kindle the warmth of women
are now not born of this earth
but are of a fecund heaven
where love begets love
and being known of each other
is gently held in the beholding
and in the light that leaps between us

east texas
east jeezus
there is a fountain filled with blood
drawn from emmanuel's veins
are you washed in the blood?

going to hell was a free ride
going to heaven was through a narrow gate

but the pine trees whispered
and the dogwood stretched out her creamy white limbs
the marshy bracken throbbed with the conversation of frogs
and the high piccolo of the wood thrush
put paid to all the blood songs
with a different salvation

we were children of the words from the forest floor
full of light and feathered of wonder
not fear
and we knew it
so praying to bloody jeezus
didn't make much sense

hell is not knowing who we are
heaven is always there for the asking

Even though love's words
written and sacrificed
become twice dear
and the cost of saying nothing
a bargain that spares the pain
there are yet more words to write
and no silence can swallow them up
for they sing out from a resilient heart

so it is my privilege to die
the ten thousand deaths
of love in surreal solitude

yet the ten thousand angels fly close by
an honor guard for a day that may yet come
and a surfeit of wings to secure this night

a path ahead

we did not come here for more of this passion
merely to reacquaint ourselves
with the wonderful nature of this world
not this time ... but we will need all of it
to sustain us on a new trajectory
to be the love we seek and become whole
to knead out the numbness and fear that seizes your chest
to fill my body with your intimacy
to align us with a sacred way of being

we have soul wounds to heal
with the ten thousand tears
and the softening touch of laughter

it would require all of your courage to make this path
and all of mine to help walk it
even if only for a little while
or for however long is love always

easter sunday 2020

it doesn't matter whether he lived 
or died
or broke out of the cave

miracles abound
in the everyday tomb
of self
where we break out
and begin to live
in the possibility
of the love
we are made of

slow dancing

so i take your hand and you

lead me down the garden path

of yesterday's moonlight.

in the gossamer night, our shadow selves moving

together, slowly, sinuously,

we are parentheses around a phrase

of Shos, a phrase of clever text,

a phrase of whispered things on the cel

but we move with a purpose

we didn't know until now

in a slow urgency to make it last

until time is no longer an issue

until three-quarter measures dissolve into

one long beautiful night of sighing

controlled free fall

sans meter, sine die

so here i came to be part of your story
to learn by your river the length of your cast
to shed our skin in the sweet afternoon shade
to sip the other's wine in the long shadows

had there been less fear of the moment to come   
we might have tried harder—but now we are here  
pushing out from the bank, to cast, sine die   
free falling, spread wide, entering the unknown

i believe love's arc, well cast, will never end
but oh for a day exploring your mountain
and a night to be your trout for the taking

i.
a new seam of light
strikes the heart
with blue beams
that pierce and enfold
oh no, not yet
not yet
wait
but you came in anyway
running like a ribbon of fire
down the soft tissues of my being
to the other heart of me

ii.
and so it begins
your brilliant star
of Being
shoots across the horizon
of knowing
and being known
asking too much
giving even more
seducing the mind
to believe the consequences
are worth the conviction
beguiling the heart
with a canopy of trust
but always
inevitably
leaving ...
just as these lips
were a willing accomplice
to the sacrificial yield
willing to be taken
wanting
everything

11:43 on a saturday morning in march 
hazy thrilled wonder happened

who knew love could be so precise
as to know the moment of it's leap
in the heart

only any fish that ever jumped
in any river that ever sparkled
under the magnificence of the sun's gaze