poetry
I was 11
when I began my mysterious and deepening
relationship with poetry.
It was like my first crush, my first love -
well, next to the boy down the street
who kissed me for the first time,
but that boy’s kiss
came and went to the next girl
and poetry has never left me,
even though there were times, even years,
when I left it.
Even then it was always there,
the voice inside the voice,
the intimate one,
the beloved who knows you completely
and still thinks your every move is beautiful.
It has watched me sleep,
witnessed my rage,
fed me when I was starving again and again,
helped me learn the words to pray by
and then let me question
god’s every move.
I have never had such a forgiving friend,
such a constant warrior
for my protection,
the guard who never sleeps,
gratefully giving it’s life
to keep my truth
safe.
©1998
One Cell in the Body of God…
poetry as a therapeutic & spiritual practice
On Honesty
What is
the right amount
of honesty
between people?
Those places
where we are
closely held,
the things
we don’t tell others
that go on
behind our doors,
who will ever know us
that completely?
Like layers of earth
we harden the places
that have never been seen
from the inside out
till the core is pressed
into solid stone
and only drills
could find us.
Who are we saving
ourselves for,
and who are we saving us
from?
To never be known
is like a flower
that never opens
to be smelled or gathered
and never becomes fruit
for the many
that are starving.
©1995
from once drunk / opening
Sitting Pretty
I used to practice sitting.
A pretty blonde lounged
in the picture window
of the sicilian restaurant lounge
leaned forward to speak
and backward to laugh,
secrets were always sideways.
Sleeveless arms stretched long along
the length of a red vinyl booth.
Head tousled, chin down,
she looked up through long lashes
to the longing looks
of her husband’s cousins
and the real estate agent sipping scotch.
He left me to wait in the car
two rows back
while he quickly closed a late deal.
What control she had of herself,
and of them,
what control he had of me.
I sat there, not daring to sob in a saab
for two hours in the dark.
I knew if I could sit like that,
he wouldn’t leave me out…
Lean back lazily, relax.
Cross the legs at the knee.
Dangle the sandal
off the half naked toe
of a slightly swing foot.
Now, one hand to the back of the head
tossed lightly to the side
where fingers comb and stroke at length,
lifting hair off seventeen year old shoulders
to give them a glimpse
of the nape of the neck.
That might be right, it feels pretty
good to put myself in her position.
Later, I could sit without thinking,
and in several different styles.
Intelligent ingénue or lost little girl,
carry me home in your coat.
The special someone you sought to see
before you knew you were looking.
Ivory soap innocence
or steamy shower girl,
I could say it with silent posture.
Still, I wonder who really held
those positions,
or were they just passed on to younger girls
each year like hand-me-down dresses,
bringing the scent and shape
of the last wearer with them?
These days, I sit by myself,
gangly, like a 10 year old girl
half laying on the floor
putting paper down under my words,
and wondering when the voice
inside my mind that reads them
will be mine.
©1989
fromInside Voices
Long Arm
My father was the long arm of the law
and the longer arm of the army,
we were only privates at the core.
He could reach us
anywhere we were,
waiting for his orders.
I can still feel his hand inside me,
a puppet,
fingers moving my head
and mouth,
grip on my middle
where my stomach still clenches
against it.
One man’s army,
little toy soldiers
with shoulders to carry his load,
marionettes
with strings attached
to dance
while he took his leave.
His hand still has hold of my hair
from the grave
where he lays resisting sleep,
but I have the scissors
to cut him away from me.
He had the law on his side
as he carried out
his secret plans,
and he won all the battles,
but I will win the war.
©1991
from used to the dark
hers
She cried on her 30th birthday
because she thought her life was over,
no use left for a used woman.
Would she have been useful longer
if she hadn’t started at 10?
Men gave her her only value,
and men take it away.
She lived her life in possible response
to their hopeful need.
Did she ever have anything of her own,
that was hers?
Who was she? Who is she?
She had a few good years in the middle,
unexpected happiness. Accidental love.
It fell into her. And she almost believed it
till he died, left her alone.
She gave everything she had,
but it had all been taken from her
before that, hope removed
like a nameless prisoner in the night.
No one knew where it went,
or even who to ask for,
but I still wonder if she thinks of it
sometimes,
in a pocket of the night
given to nameless memories,
and the nearly absent residue of
‘what if’.
She cried on her 60th birthday,
wondering if her life would ever start.
And she tries to keep a smile on her face
in case someone’s looking.
Maybe he will come again,
the one who can almost make her believe
that she had something
all along.
©1997
from unpredictable as breathing
Single Drop…
I am like a single
drop of water,
I try to be clear.
Sometimes I fall.
Sometimes I fall
from the sky,
from grace,
but I try to water something,
grow something.
Sometimes I fall
into grace,
bearing sadness out
of a body.
Alone, I don’t seem
like much,
don’t seem like I
could do a lot,
but every molecule
of my body
is filled with the intention
to make something better.
I’m a single drop of water,
sometimes alone
and sometimes collected together
with others,
an ocean of movement,
of possibility,
or a rainstorm that finally
clears the air.
©2002
from Lucid Moments
and even this…
…and even this is just me talking,
not even coming close
to what I wanted to say.
Closeness.
I wanted to feel you near me,
notice you are me,
finally.
Words can bring us
so much closer
and words can take us away,
what do we dedicate this,
our effort of breath,
to?
Just these moving lips,
this breathing out
through the flute of our tongues,
what could be better said
that couldn’t be better said
in silence?
In silence, I can feel you.
One glance and your warmth
is on my face,
on my body,
more close
than even a body embrace.
And what comes through my eyes
to meet you in yours?
Is it substance?
Am I giving or taking?
My mouth is such a small tool,
my pen
such a hopeful servant,
this paper
which could be filled with emptiness
when there’s enough said.
Like that first blank book,
Essays On Silence,
leather bound
from 1919,
blank page after page,
a reminder,
a permission to contemplate.
But even that
is done in words,
traveling, wafting through my brain.
I want to remember who I am,
and then never
speak
again.
©1997
from unpredictable as breathing
Becoming Food
I am a pear.
I want to be
soft on your lips,
easily swallowed,
taken and digested
each bite completely
until I am a part of you.
Until I can add
myself holy
into your growing,
into your strength,
into the lack of hunger
of knowing.
I am a bowl of pears
offered
to each one in the room,
plenty for everyone,
never empty,
if you’re still hungry
there is more.
I am an orchard
of pear trees,
strong and rooted,
wood in the sun,
flesh of fruit
ready for picking
many different times
through the summer,
many sittings,
many meals.
I am the pear on the ground
giving in, giving myself in
to the soil
so that I can grow
from the seed and the pulp
into new ways
of being.
And I am the full mason jar
on a grandmother’s shelf
ready to offer myself
still to you
in the dead of winter
so that you will be nourished
and I
will still be food.
©1998
One Cell in the Body of God…
poetry as a therapeutic & spiritual practice
different
We are different.
We are new religions
that don’t ask
anybody
to join them.
We are quiet
and don’t look like much
to the naked eye.
We are different.
We didn’t want to be,
but it is our
crowning glory
now,
not indifferent
to anything,
anybody.
We are one of a kinds
coming true to ourselves.
We don’t fit
and we finally know why.
We were braver.
We could make it.
We were different.
for Philip
©1997
