exploding beauty like you

words used
to describe
what? exaclty?
the edges of an ever expanding universe
moving as it does
to the ever expanding edges of forever
starting at the core
of the big bang
spirit lovers
loving
one
another
in whole
reverberating
ecstasies
of yes
i remember
i remember
put this firmly in the past
long for
just the reverberations
now
the ripples
from where the rock
has allowed itself
to drop
all the way in

same day
this missive
same day
the coconut rattle
at the end of the trail
of webbed universe
falls
on the chocolate mixer
what happens?
he remembers
when he was the coconut?
i was the train?
he fell into the ocean
of chocolate
that made a world
of yummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
some explosive
beauty
that shattered the fractal
universe
of love

jungle love

steve miller band sings jungle love from book of dreams
i watch on xm
the floating time and place marker that bounces
from the edges of the screens
i write
poetry
today
i sit
i move between ancestors and alchemy
spirit guides and cleaning up
move through the day following my own impulses
to various soundtracks
downstairs, the dead can dance
upstairs, jungle love
across the room a piece of toast
stands in the toaster
waiting for butter
bacon waits
to be eaten
i have served the dead
and this living one
bounces back and forth
between her facebook life
and her ac-chat
i am here
hearing
the bird calls and bass beat
of jungle love
it's driving me mad
it's making me crazy

naked ass on black couch

love songs from the television
bouncing titles like pong
look back at the line and want
to fix the titles line
sure it its talking about tits
but i am not
except now
that consciousness has formed
i know where mine are
resting on my thighs
i sit
here
wafting berlin
1986 take my breath away
it is not that easy
the down beat beats
i hear it
change the channel
classic rock saves me
with the rolling stones
emotional rescue
on classic rewind
she's so cold...
i consider
check the nipples
no, it is still
a sweltering east bay
summer day
naked ass
on a black leather couch
alone

on the night before he comes...

i will see if i can find my phone--not in my bag--i think in the car
but let me say this here
root and grow
root
feel the roots shooting out of your toes
tucking gently under the ground
pull your hands up your body
and out in a flowering expanse
feel how totally full and beautiful
YOU are
with the thought of him coming
without his being here
you
are full
a goddess
a poet
a dream
a writer
an artist
a seer
a joy
full, whole, perfect, beautiful
you need nothing
you have everything
in you
already
that you get to open
to this moment of
intersection and possibility
this moment
of love
arriving from afar
to share itself with you
to open you further
to who you be
in connection
in partnership
in possibility
in joy
in freedom
in all manner of breath
and expression of love
that you have this moment
of longing, looking forward,
feeling giddy and on edge
and hope full
that you have this joy
to bring a wider smile
a swarm of butterflies
to your deepest belly
this
is to be savored
as the miracle it is

he will arrive
you will share yourselves with one another
do every bodily thing you can
to set yourself free to enjoy every blessed moment
every sacred second of this connection
give yourself all manner of permissions
all expanse of invitation
and allow, allow, allow, allow, allow
what flows to flow

stay in the now
never mind the forever
stay in the here and now
of touch and taste and see and feel and hear
stay in the this
of manifest reality
and leave the spinning of dreams
to later
when you are again at your wheel
if indeed you are ever to be released to it again

stay here
in the rooted ground
of the glorious beauty
of all that is you and whole

you are love enough
and tomorrow, you will be loved...
let it be
all
it becomes
in the moments
strung together as shiny beads
one holed wholeness at a time

i love you--
relax--
into you--
and enjoy...

which one is dead?

which one is dead?

i look at my father
his pictures
this strange altar i have made to him
to his mother and father
to my family
the farm in sweden
where he came from
grandfather
oldest
hung by his ears for wanting to go to school
instead of working the farm
someone told me
i was married to him in a past life
he did not know
how to love
bought the only thing she asked for
a colored tv
after she died
turned it up
way too loud
for decades
until he died
in the bathroom
when i was in high school
colostomy bag
applesauce with big spoons
brown roman meal bread
i watched as he bent down each year
to scrape the earth with a homemade tool
a piece of wood with long nails
he pounded through himself
he on all fours
pulling that comb across the landscape
scattering his seed
purposefully
into the furrows of all he was trying to forget
he came on the boat
1900 something
saved every bank receipt
no love letters
built his house with his own two hands
was a fine stone carver
mason
built a church in parkville
that called me home for awhile

beltane rites

a tutu twirls
young men run through
the costumed ones
who knew what it was
finally let go
of expecting
expecting
and the commentary
allows
some revelation
and the spinning
spins itself
the dance
lulls into real
and the up down
in out
joy of joy
ribbons of ribbon
webs of web
weave
their willingness
in twists of yes
and still
goes wholly
on
in dreams
willing
journey of maypole
dancing
the heat of things
to come
the summer swelter
of combining and recombining
a festooned thing
of remembrance
there is a chalk giant
on a hill in dorset
the barren sleep
in the intersection of testicles and penis
the giant
brings
what can not come
any other way
this pole
a testimony
to that giant
magic wand of love
making itself
in dances and ritual
laughter and bumbling
humanity in tennis shoes
joy is joy
in a twenty first century miracle
of bothering
at all
to gather
to up and down in forgotten remembrances
of the dance that brings all dances
to fruit
to fruition
to fulfillment
life loves itself
still
in these beautiful, wonderful, ordinary ways
of starting over
and again

Read more: "artandhealing's posterous - Art heals yourself, others, and the earth : www.artashealing.org" - http://artandhealingblog.com/?page=5#ixzz0EjHWxcTA&A

showing up

every moment
to the end of breath
there is only love
and beyond the last
the stuff itself
to be everywhere at once
in the love of all the lovers
loving
forever
the stuff of that ocean

such a person
such a dyad
such a promise
is life, of course
when love so big
sparks something bigger
and gives itself
a place
to birthe
the miracle
of re-creation
anew

ohhhhhhhhhhhhh,
enso
the circle of love
continues
breathes itself in
expands
wider love
is the honor
deeper love
more
of the precious stuff
so vital

how great a gift
to show up
as one's ordinary self
in love
for another

healer healee or just
two
ordinary beings
being ordinary
in the most extraordinary
ways
of love

Read more: "artandhealing's posterous - Art heals yourself, others, and the earth : www.artashealing.org" - http://artandhealingblog.com/?page=2#ixzz0EjCVeDPw&A

day 14

a love poem

he comes
as in a dream
finds a small animal
in a closet
i watch
as it rustles the
paper surrounding it
grow
it becomes
an enormous thing
visits
with mother and daughter
opens something
wider
hope?
healing?
offers love
to fill the empty spaces
brings light
brings springtime
brings joy

the anti-love poem

i notice the moon
hiding in the tree
on the hill
claiming me
taking back any new life
growing
sickle
scythe
she carries as she walks away
pretends she hasn't been here
takes
what rightfully belongs
to only her

and he is in springtime
somewhere else
in mysteries
of light and place
not
ever
coming
home
to
me

she sings her goodbye song

whoooooah whoo whoo whoo
and i notice the moon
shinging down
from behind a tree
the sea of sky has separated
again
into rothko bands
of color
the moon receeds
pretends she can sneak away
back
into the morning
she is still
and always
there
sneaking up
in ways that make me feel
that i belong
to only
her

she ties me
with red bandannas
she holds me
silent hostage
she waits for me
to ripen
then calls me
to join her ocean
red seas parting
for parting

noooooooooooooo

a habit of morning

on good days
i wake up
to see the owl
cut the sky from the earth
and the dawn
leave its orange
in her wake
i step down the seven steps
to the wide open doorway
move the leaded glass rainbows
aside
and loop
a magic loop
greeting deer
and turkeys
rabbits
and what is left
of the snakes
i say hello
to the sacred oak circle
i step through the portal
into the magic
just beyond my patio
and wander willingly
accompanied by spirits
of dead and alive things
i love
i go off
on a sentimental journey
into deep magic
and emerge
with feathers
from dreams
i return
to the light of the world
the love in my home
crack open the eggs
and call my children
to the table
for breakfast

every good morning
i remember
this
is
love

a picture of greece

he showed me a picture
of someplace i've never been
someplace i've been 2000 times
every moment of the ceremony
awakens
the stones of it
the song of it
reclaims the bones of me
shoots marrow from all the way
back then
to now
bridges
the universe of time
between the mysteries of now
and the mysteries of then
reassembling themselves
in sacred circles
of reverberating claiming
the memory sewn into this
moment
physical presence
sacred landscape
holy being
wholly holy
reclaiming
everything
that was ever
part of what i am
a part of
one drop
in the miracle of
this
LIFE

good friday

friday light
falls early
wakes
with enthusiasm
dresses
in its tightest jeans
readies itself
for the mysteries
of saturdays
turning into sundays
of endless bliss
or
calls
in the business
of the weekend
if we have done it wrong
forgotten
what fridays are for
deeepeeeeeeeeening
in mysteries
that take days to
recover
from
and for
fridays
good fridays, especially
always allow for something
to get nailed up
and die completely
so that resurrection
in the coming sundays
brings a joyful noise

the thing i brought to class on the first day...

she asked
if they were
carved
in tibet?
where did i get that,
she asked?
fourth street
maybe it wasn't tibet
she mentioned
iron thing
heavy
molten
melted together
entwined
lovers
hugging
themselves
back into
one ball
like
and not at all like
the buddha
contemplating his own
navel
turning back
into
the enso
of all life
snake eating its
tail
its tales
spinning in
sacred dance
around the center
of connection
interpenetrating
life
living itself
out loud
and alive
in the rich joy
of his now
of this now
a gift
for my
hymn
of endlessness
it weights the papers
it waits the promise
of eternal
love
loving
itself
in and
out of
time

fishing horse

she comes to me
says "mommy, i've decided."
"volleyball will be my sport."
"fishing will be my hobby."
she makes the fish she's
going to catch
big
wide arms
to indicate the length
says, "it will save daddy all
that money he spends at the
asian supermarket."
goes
googles the rod and reel
the fishing license
the boat rental
the perfect place
next to the perfect
fishing
hole
to stay at
worms
presents me with the bill
sums and totals up
all we are going to save
daddy
in pursuit
of this
big
fish
hobby

trojan horse
of wonder

daughter
spinning
sunlight
off water
glazing
yes
in her
daughter love

this
is
joy

day 7

clean

there is something
a blank slate
a white wall
a deep breath of spring
a wash of light and air
freedom

dirty

there is something
a black slate
a white stare
a deep ache of stale winter
a slosh of muck and wear
freedom

words

lonely
muse
hung
poetry
painted
flashing
bard
rushed
writing
feeling
slow
pushed
speaking
night

courtesy of stumbling onto shadow poetry's magnetic word poetry:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/magnet.html

poet's challenge: a poem on something missing

he is somewhere else
my lover
he is on the moon
he is under the sun
he is riding the pollen to
grecian urns of flowers flowering
in sacred circles of elusian
mysteries unfolding
he is gone, off
picking wildflowers from the side
of some other road
he is missing in action
he is out of time
he is gone
and yet
the sun rises
sends its rays to connect me
and the moon, she comes too
and brings all of her universes
of stars
and love spills out from every basket
dripping joy on every floor
the earth sings, sings the story
and joy is mine once more
so is he missing?
is he gone?
or has he sprung from everything?
is he here?
am i wrong?
or is it love that gives these wings
their joy of flight
throughout the night
a flying kind of dream
i go, we kiss, i wake again
back where he is not
what happens now?
to missing things?
when missing is forgot?

the first full moon of a new year

shards of it
lay easily
in patches of clear light
like a sheet of glass
that one might not know was there
except for the glint of it
the white patch of it
laying easily
like it belongs
bathing the deck
i once took a full moon bath
at a girl scout camp
on a night much like this one
glowing
in the full moon white light
sunbathing
under the moon
feeling it paint me
like the shards
like the sheets of glass
with all the magic of night

we stayed up
she reading about vampires
and me
winstaring
until 4am
when i thought i ought to be a better mother
and sent her to bed
i couldn't stand the loneliness of without her
and followed her, cuddled her
just like she was still a little girl
until i could hear her snoring
and then i extricated my way from under
her covers
and sat staring
at the moon
through the double paned slider
watching the moon
and the reflection of the moon
and the shadows of the growing things
dancing on the edges
of the silver coin
the clear white light
of this first full moonlight
of this opening year

i stared at the moon
just for a moment
that will last forever
as it is written here

enso

wu wei is no way.
wu wei is the only way.
do way.

is it a poem

if i say it is
if i use my mouth
to form the quiet words
in the silent space
of chirping crickets
and faded tv
from too far away
and music
from somewhere else
with the drum beat of churning laundry
in the washing machine
and the hum of spastic keys
struck with deliberate chi
moving
across the wide and open
space
of soon to be forgotten
is it a poem
if i say it is?
these utterances of moment
trapped in strange american words
spoken in the head of the poet
as she types the black letters
of an unutterable alphabet
is it a poem
if i say it is?
is it my poem?