A Long time Ago

I dreamed of hummingbirds
and a field of flowers
painting the yard behind my house
Purple and pink and white
But when I woke, the ground still clung to winter,
and there were no hummingbirds
drifting through naked branches.

If I close my eyes I can see their wings,
a blur of busy motion, lost between worlds,
hovering on threads of time and space
carrying souls to the other place.

Out of mist and early morning light
when sunrise is a heartbeat away,
when night fades like the end of sleep,
I might see them
suspended above the trumpet vine
and sweet honeysuckle.

Birth and Death

We aren't born alone
we enter the world
slipping into gloved hands
between wet thighs
wrapped in the soft cotton
of hospital blankets
placed within the waiting arms
of exhausted mothers
who would do it all over again
and we feel this,
the cushion of protection
an anchor in a dark world.
It may be our soul's purpose
to experience love
to have bodies that bleed and shiver
to know the bliss of touch
against skin that folds itself
around our spirit
but we must die alone
even children, even babies
as our our mothers' hands grasp
and pray
and plead
Death pulls children down
it has no bias,
no sense of justice or tragedy
Death becomes like days, months,
autumn moons
a thing of heavy reality
Mothers can't thwart it
love isn't enough
and so we must go alone
into the dark

Twelve Weeks

When I crested that hill,
rounding the bend on Route 32
a known road, a familiar road
it happened...
The curves and bends were foreign
as I spend towards home
uncertain, disoriented
the road became unfamiliar,
my brain waiting for it to click in place
where I was, who I was,
the purpose of my journey.
I found my footing
as I coasted to a stop
at that same traffic light in Rosendale
I've been stopping at for a decade.
But the fear lingered like a fine mist,
a cloud of agonizing reality.
We've always been four,
like the solid directions;
north, south, east, west,
stable and strong,
and now we're teetering,
balanced on three legs,
a tripod of grief.
Even the landmarks can't save me
their familiar shapes are ominous
as I wander among them ,
trying to find my place
without the fourth direction.
I'm so afraid of getting lost
but I'm already lost
there's no finding my way
until I find you.

Eleven Weeks

I'm floating in a vacuum
resisting the gravity of real life
drifting, not caring about seasons
or passing days
I don't understand these things
I have more in common with the dead.
The veil lifted and I'm stuck
seeing things for what they really are
seeing myself as dust, a flicker
in an endless arc of light
and I don't care
I really don't
My ego evaporated
I don't want joy
I don't want to leave a mark
I want to melt away
to unbecome
there's no relief from my life
oh god, this life
I don't care
I have no more illusions about today
and the goldfinches,
those bright fingers of yellow
pointing out the joy, the now
They're not for me.

Nineteen Weeks

Time is as transient as air, as breath
It's useless to keep tracking it
You may as well have died yesterday
or 100 years from now
or never.
I want to believe you're talking to me
the skeptics are wrong
mediums can channel the dead
I wish I had that gift
I would give anything
to feel you near me
Wanting is the worst thing I can do

Preservation

Observed along the country road,
a bed of russet leaves
beneath the drift and spin of autumn
foreshadowed by an ancient Yew,
its needles green as midsummer
Watching the season so keenly,
Studying the daylight shrink,
October dances toward its finale.
I'm counting on the conifers
to foliate the coming days
while cardinals, like crimson gems,
perch, ornamental, on winter's doorstep

Burning

The candles want to burn
who who am I to hold them back?
There is something perfect
about fire, contained
a calming sense of order
as the tiny flame hovers
quietly, solemnly
above liquefied wax
I feel my own sorrow
crackling like brittle wood
at fire, released

If I burn all the candles down,
every single one,
maybe it will release me
from clinging to dust and memories
the truth wants to be known, fulfilled
holding it back won't stop time,
but it might drive me crazy
it might destroy me

Stillness

I catch each thought between my palms--
a tiny fairy with damp, burdened wings.
When I dry them off, setting them free,
the deep quiet of my uncluttered mind
frightens me, echoing the stillness of a grave;
bottomless and mute.
It wants me to see it, needs to be seen.
A place of solace beckons me
through the uncomfortable dark
where more tears and pain await.
Oh, but I'm so tired, so very tired
of the impenetrable black.
I only want to close my eyes
and see you.

My Endless Search

Are we the things we leave behind?
The faded jeans and coffee mugs,
and dark, silent phones.
Are we our data?
I don't think so.
All this rational thought
is going nowhere,
and that's a place I can explore.
Nowhere is the coiling and uncoiling of stars,
expanding and contracting,
like my grief.
Nowhere is the deck of a sinking ship
sliding below the surface of the water.
Nowhere is the space where souls drift.
Is that where you are;
Halfway to me and halfway gone?
I'm looking for a place that is no place
because you're not here,
but nowhere's wrong too.
Maybe you're everywhere?

Moon Series 2017 - Day 11

10/11/17 - Waning Gibbous 6:50 a.m. (morning moon)

I saw it when the celestite sky
was brightening, a wraith
fading against the almost dawn
an accusatory moon
willing me to see it
before turning toward the new day
lingering, ghostly and proud
as the horizon blushed
a hint of rose against lapis
and the morning stole the moon
I recognized myself, then
disappearing, irrelevant
swallowed by the bluing sky

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