Impostor

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Si vous croyez en Dieu, vous n’avez rien a perdre.  – Pascal, Pensees, Le Pari (The Wager)

(If you believe in God, you have nothing to lose.)

See me, the impostor.

Hear me pray every morning, wanting to believe.

Hear me affirming the nature of this Power and Presence

from a heart like an empty bowl.

Hear me say I’m one with the One,

yet I’m behind a veil, lonely and separate.

See the tears I weep for my past of guilt and anger and loss.

Hear me ask for guidance, not knowing what words are real.

Hear me confess my misperceptions, asking how to forgive.

See me bent under a burden of leftover emotions.

Teach me how to liberate myself.

Teach me the Truth.

Not Trash

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something out of place

drew my eye

that cold spring day

on the way to the recycle bin

pale orange on dark dirt

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a cat it was, on its side

not resting, not breathing

pretty, young, dead

with a bloodied head

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the manager said,

bag it and throw it out

this I could not do

with what was, once,

a life, lithe and warm

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with sighs and quiet words

two neighbors helped

to bury it in the woods

under a small cairn

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later, I marveled at the weight

of that stiff, soulless corpse

and wondered if my body

when dead, would weigh more

when empty of me

Old Couples

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Eat at the same speed

Trade green peppers for olives

Rearrange the furniture together

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Old couples

may not hold hands

may help one another up steps

take turns walking the dog

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old couples

don’t shower together

have learned forgiveness

share the extra cheese pizza

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old couples

plant trumpet vines

plan for next year

know the limits

Grackle

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Who is he dancing for, this grackle

perched in the crepe myrtle?

He preens neck feathers,

calls out a few measures

of grackle love song

flutters his wings, takes

a bow, and starts again

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There is no other bird in sight,

no grackle girl, no male rival,

no robin, crow or sparrow

Perhaps it’s a grackle rehearsal

Perhaps it’s grackle OCD

Perhaps it’s an expression of joy:

I am God’s perfect grackle, and I dance.

Music in the Hour of Waiting

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A youngish man, the music therapist

passes out maracas

to folks in wheelchairs, side by side,

many doze, a few eyes are open

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He glides through the oldies,

Patsy Cline Crazy, Everly Brothers Dream,

These boots are made for walkin’

under the boardwalk

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David, who rarely sits,

shuffles across the room,

smelling of shit—again—

Someone alerts the staff

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Leaving on a jet plane

no one here will fly anywhere

Talking ‘bout my girl

No one here talks much

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The music therapist always ends

with Amazing Grace, this being

a Catholic facility, those

who are here were once found,

but now are lost

Snow Moon Month

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yellowing willow limbs waken

in the slanting February sun

first of the trees to rouse

with roots still buried in snow

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while cardinals and juncos

forage for winter’s remnants

under scraggly pines as

jays shriek from higher branches

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squirrels skitter across ice crust

recovering buried acorns or

padding their dreys with a

mouthful of dry leaves

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the bitter cold retreats

all those living breathe relief

relax muscles in the feeble light

anticipate the surge of spring

Elemental

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after Fire by Joy Harjo

To know the voices of mountains

is to be planted deep in earth

rooted in the heart of the planet

where the sacred fire song begins

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To know the voices of oceans

is to dissolve in swirling waters

inseparable from waves and tides

singing the song of the sea

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To know the voice of the sky

is to shed all boundaries

relinquishing shape and form

an eternal  member of the celestial chorus

Once

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Once my skin was smooth and firm, brown like an acorn.

Once my heart in love turned like a Ferris wheel.

Once I had feet that moved faster than thought.

Once a man said, Dancing with you is like driving a Porsche.

Once there was more time than the ocean.

Once dreams were only waiting for tomorrow.

Once there were no indigo regrets at twilight.

Once the face in the mirror matched the face in my mind.

Sonnet II: Generosity

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The Saint marks time

in circles and reverses.

For us, she knows, worse is

the illusion of a single line.

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We hear her dictum: all is one.

We meditate in reverent quiet,

eliminate meat from our diet.

And pray for the ego to be undone.

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Like birds, we flutter at her feet,

pecking at seeds of wisdom and advice,

our vision of freedom growing faint.

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Like birds, we forget and repeat

our hungry pleas.  She complies

with the patience of a Saint.