About Hope

I know a boy
with a dent in his head...
it must have happened
when his mother got mad.
"Women", he sneers,
even though he's now older...
then timidly places
his hand on my shoulder.

it don't matter what he said, child.
love don't act like that.
rid your mind of those lies, child.
he ain't where it's at.

i got love that purifies.
solidifies.
doesn't victimize.
it don't matter what he said,
child.
love don't act like that.

take back what is yours, child.
don't let him come stealin' round.
love... it ain't no thief, child.
it ain't gonna bring you down.

so get down on your knees, child.
it's time to restore your crown.
they're dancin' round the throne for you.
grace is showerin' down.

i love you so very wild, child...
so don't listen to what he say.
you're about to be adorned, child...
you're a phoenix and you're rising today.

gentle is what you were... at a time when life and circumstances were very ungentle.
i don't remember you ever uttering a harsh word.

an oasis is what you were.....
an island where i first let it all out, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the end of your bed.
the filtered sun coming through the bedroom skylight,
casting morning shadows on the patchwork quilt.
you barely having the sleep out of your eyes.
but you listened.
every single word you took in.
and that is what you did every time after.

you had plans but you canceled them.
"nothing is more important", you told me.
if only i still believed that.

you always knew tears were coming before i even did.
you wouldn't let me run away.... or lash out.
you just sat me in your lap and let me cry.
let me vent.
you never uttered a harsh word.
you understood... sometimes even when i didn't.

i wanted to write this to thank you.
that seems so small.
in some ways, you saved my life.
that is, you made me really want to LIVE.
the oppression, anxiety, and anger were never there when you were around.

and now i know.
since Love visited in the flesh...
now....
nothing less.

Home

i'll paint the fences white for you
if you tell me you're coming home.

i'll put candles in the windowsills
to guide you in the gloam.

i'll wear your favorite dress and put a flower in my hair.
i'll warm the stove and light the fire
and sweep the front porch stairs.

i'll bake your favorite cake for you...
if you really are coming home.

i'll put away every fear for you,
if never more you shall roam.

if you knew how i watched you while you slept
and how much pressure i felt
pushing against the insides
of my metaphorical heart
then maybe you'd understand

how the same heart
feels
when i crumble on the
kitchen floor
every time you leave me...

even when you are present.

sometimes i dream
that i walk down the gravel lane,
past the moss covered granite...
the angel presiding over the tiny plot
of the little child
for whom i created a life in my childhood imaginings.
the one i talked to
and wove flowers for,
along the ground where she rested.
a reminder that the soil of my youth
had been tended by the toil and tears
of lives without longevity.
the dichotomy of my childhood bliss
forming a contrite heart.

i wake to a vapor of
unsettled nostalgia,
a distant sort of longing that rises and dissipates
almost as tangibly
as the groggy remains of sleep.

sometimes i dream
that every acre of land now has a house.
the farm that raised me no longer the sentinel
of the bottomland
and the field of daffodils
that a kindred of miss rumphius sowed,
maybe imagining pig-tailed girls carrying
bouquets so big,
their hands aching on the walk back
to scatter their harvest in jars and cups
along windowsills and farm tables.

i wake
and the panic flees with the weighty sleep.
the knowing
allows peace
to continue watering the kentucky soil
planted in the fields of my heart.

i wrote a prayer for you on shale.
i wrote it carefully.
then turned it over
and covered it with leaves,
so that the rain
wouldn't wash the message away.
i left it along the trail.

it may still be there.

the tears may wash the prayer
out of my heart.
or they might harden
and solidify
and make a barrier.
and i will forget
that i longed so much
for you to know the things i wrote.

but the earth knows..

and Love knows.

and my hope is that
maybe....
someday...
they will conspire together
to manifest earthen prayers,
buried under leaves.
even if the elements
conspire otherwise....

i have snuffed out this candle,
again and again,
determined to live
without the light it casts.
i don't see the shadows
when it's dark.

eventually
enough stumbling,
groping,
hoping,
reignites it,
long enough
to gather
bearings.
then the leaning over,
exhaling,
exterminating.

brief solace.
i will let you light it now.
when you are ready
for the shadows.

love note

surrounded by strangers
not acclimated to this air
i am right here
you're over there

ask to borrow my days
they are already lent
i've been on a spree
everything is spent

there is no change
nothing to give back
i poured it all out
from the longing....
and the lack

of air that is familiar.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

-mary oliver

whisper

in the hush
away
i want to lean
into you
whisper
sacred things
in supine repose
so many voices
outshout
i still whisper
softly,
alone.

Free Flowing...

i was peaceful before i met you,

but i wasn't smiling.... or laughing.

i wasn't lonely before i met you,

but i wasn't hopeful, either.

i thought i heard a sound when you came around...

but maybe i was just hearing things,

like when you are expecting someone

and your ears are extra alert to every noise...

you think you hear a car pull in or a door close shut,

but no one's really there.

i want you here.... and i don't.

it's too much and it's too little.

they say the journey to joy and sorrow follow the same road.

i thought I was choosing joy.

now I'm unsure of the destination....

i guess all we can do is walk.

MY Redemption Song.....

... sounds like the creaky chains of the porch swing

as my son and i snuggle in motion,

while watching the hummingbirds at the feeder

and the morning mist slowly lift off of the mountains.

it sounds like the screech owl,

crying out from its moonlit perch by the edge of the creek...

the shrill call echoing through the dark vale.

it sounds like familiar voices of family and friends...

milk and honey flowing from their lips,

a soothing balm of comforting words.

it sounds like the strains of a fiddle,

the tapping of feet,

the crackling of an evening fire...

laughter at dusk.

sometimes it is barely audible, yet still tangible...

felt, more than heard.

in the quietness, i can still detect the faint melody.

so as the morning mist loosens its nightly hold on these hills,

this blanket begins to relinquish its smothering grip on my heart...

and new stanzas are written and imprinted

on this fallible, hopeful human soul.

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

-William Wordsworth

Why...

why did you knock,

but not enter?

why did you whisper in my ear,

knowing it would echo

as a shout in my heart?

why did you find me beautiful,

only to leave me ugly?

why did you come,

only to go?

you came,

my heart to accost....

i once was found, but now am lost.

Stars

Here in my head, language

Keeps making its tiny noises.

How can I hope to be friends

with the hard white stars

whose flaring and hissing

are not speech

but a pure radiance?

How can I hope to be friends

with the yawning spaces

between them

where nothing, ever, is

spoken?

Tonight, at the edge of the

field,

I stood very still, and looked

up,

and tried to be empty of

words.

What joy was it, that almost

found me?

What amiable peace?

Then it was over, the wind

roused up in the oak trees

behind me

and I fell back, easily.

Earth has a hundred

thousand pure contraltos--

even the distant night bird

as it talks threat, as it talks

love

over the cold, black fields.

Once, deep in the woods,

I found the white skull of a

bear

and it was utterly silent--

and once a river otter, in a

steel trap,

and it too was utterly silent.

What can we do

but keep on breathing in and out,

modest and willing, and in

our places?

Listen, listen, I'm forever

saying,

Listen to the river, to the

hawk, to the hoof

to the mockingbird, to the

jack-in-the-pulpit--

then I come up with a few

words, like a gift.

Even as now.

Even as the darkness has

remained the pure, deep

darkness.

Even as the stars have

twirled a little, while I stood

here,

looking up,

one hot sentence after

another.

~Mary Oliver

You are my ship

that didn't come in,

sailing on the waves

of what might have been...

YOU

I finally told someone about you.

I said your name out loud.

I whispered it into the universe....

and I told my closest confidante.

It made us real.... not a figment of my imagination.

Not a secret to hide.

It felt good.

But when I got home, you were gone.

And it made me sad.

But now someone knows about you.

They know you came and perched on my windowsill,

even though it was only for a short while.

They know that somehow you made me believe that I'll fly again...

that I may be able to find my song again.

And that's how I know you were real.

Reflections...

My trail of tears,

where did it start?

I follow it like bread crumbs,

that lead back to my heart.

Fire..... Ice

Warmth.... Cold

Light.... Dark

If our fingertips touched, would mine freeze? Or would yours melt?

Would your breath suck all the warmth from my bones? Or could mine ignite the tiny ember that is still ablaze in your heart?

Inhale...... I'll breathe on you.....

Exhale...... You breathe on me.....

I want to see.