A face emerges from stone, as a horse from a cloud or a ray of light from the swollen mid-winter moon. We draw ourselves forth. Howling and clanking as we go, we chisel and drink and draw ourselves forth. - akka b. May we all find the courage to have our voice be heard and our heart be seen.
A little girl she is a lot; but a child—oh no she’s not.
Wisdom, to be fair—belongs to no age;
truth or dare.
One eye on you, one eye in,
coy and tease and sideways grin.
Leave her wild and let her speak,
but don’t be fooled okay?
Twice tricked and you are prey.
Yes, this girl will eat you,
but touch her heart—her soul will greet you;
mirror to us all
small but grown,
beyond us tall
Even in my weighted need to stand back up,
in my not care, care
not wholly there,
but holy there—
I made my way to the top of the ledge at the bottom of the mountain.
and every step an effort
to move beyond the shadowed path,
to reach the bony ledge,
to hold the fading sun
with dirty hands
as the full moon began its rise.
as a poet stands,
between two kinds of heartbreak
goodbye and hello
The last push and first breath of the rest my life. She tore through the veils of my body like a rocket and turned me into a mom.
To birth is to be handed life and death on the same platter. There's no way else I can explain it.
I'm not sure why this photo reminds me of her birth. Maybe because she is just so plainly there? Like when a baby lands at your breast, they are just there.
They weren't there and then they are, in all of their extraordinary baby-ness—
a life force,
the meeting of eyes,
the clasping of hands.
I was asked to give a toast at their marriage.
Camera in one hand, goblet in the other.
100 million degrees Fahrenheit.
Mid-day, hot white sun.
End of Summer.
Gusts of bluster wind.
I almost fainted.
Poet, on a stage,
with goblet/camera mixture,
His mother's ghost arrived, but that's besides the point.
Here's the point. I have no memory of what I said on that bluster gust afternoon, if I said anything at all. But here is the one-year later revised mini version:
Angels. They may look like humans and talk like humans and act very much like humans, but I have it on good authority, (because I watched Highway to Heaven with Michael Landon when I was a kid) that these two human-like-looking beings are in truth angels walking amongst us. It must not be easy keeping their wings tucked into their bodysuits all the time, awkwardly grounded to this playing field, while changing lives exponentially as they juggle the density of earthly existence with their talent for transcending it.
I would have topped off all that 1980's style sentiment by saying something really funny then fainting dramatically and rolling off the stage.
Backwards walk, backwards talk, backwards see, backwards—
Roots run out, not down,
plays the clown
His tale is short,
but the journey, long.
She doesn't wave her flag in the middle of the field, she watches from the tree limb, binocular view, information retrieve, blend, digest, filter, purge. She worships her independence, but some days you'll find her in a back-alley kicking it, as in soccer cleats and socks up kind of kicking, then softening. Persistent softening. Hell and angels walk on coals, fire, ashes, softening.
It takes a while to get to know her.
Obviously a poet,
hides for a while
her storms into yarn.
and hands that bury,
the bones of her people
It's a big responsibility to be sage. Everyone wants you because you look good in photos and smell good in heaven and taste strong like medicine and storytell like a son of a bitch. Protector of everything and everyone and all the time. I solute you.
It wasn't an official photo shoot.
I brought my camera to the house where prom kids mingle before the big parade.
I didn't ask her...I told her to find her light;
by the door,
overlooking the pool,
where people chatter.
She didn't need the dress, frankly—she didn't even need the hair.
She's an artist. She doesn't need anything.
But she wants everything.
And with one look, she shows you her entire schedule—
free of charge.
God bless the crying men who forge and fight and resist and pursue. Who break hearts and build hearts,
and show hearts,
(and hearts and hearts, I say hearts a lot)
I'm actually trying to say 'thank you', to the men who have shown me my heart;
for better or worse,
vaguely or direct,
through love or neglect,
via strokes of unspoken self-reflection,
my gratitude to the crying man
for inducing resurrection
It took me 15-minutes to fall in love with her, she named me 'Cracker' and I called her 'Contrary', only because it rhymes with her name, not because she is, although maybe she once was, but I didn't know her then, I only know her now; now that she is rosy, twinkly-eyed pudding. I love every wrinkle, every thought and absence of thought, the memories of loss and the forgetting of why all days feel the same. Her identity unravels between daily chores and rituals of letting go, but not her love of a hearty chuckle, a hunk of good chocolate and airplanes. She worships airplanes—she lived through war and is grateful daily to the life lessons she earned because of it. The particulars of her treasures may grow foggy, but she will always remember the planes, as she settles into her place watching the sky...
like a hawk,
in the garden.
If you ever want to sit in a field of cows, I suggest you do sit in a field of cows. They are very nice and good and healing those cows. But if you ever want to sit in a field of cows, please make sure there is a fence between you and the healing cows, because cows eat humans. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I have seen it with my own eyes and I thought you probably should know.
We took the table dressing and turned it into a crown
for her royal wildness.
Consort to the dancing garden of elves
and snake skin remedies;
those who ail,
with eyes, big and round
for you to finish what you started
details of union
feather breath of morning
phone calls from grocery store
car rides, no shocks
prance about, bed down—
ceremony of love
pays the bills
kiss the day