*
*
At the end of my street
is a small stretch of woods,
bare now, layered in snow and sleet.
I crunch the crust of icy ground,
startled by a sudden whoosh of sound.
*
A wild turkey explodes high
between the trees with frantic wings
escaping my presence to safer ground
where the flock scratches, stalks and pecks.
*
Winter sun pale and thin
outlines every trunk and limb.
The turkeys move on, unconcerned.
I stand transfixed in the winter wind.
*
*
At God’s behest
I gave up being a star
to come to this sorry planet
and be a beacon of love
among the billions
who’ve lost their way.
*
But then I forgot my mission
believing I was a fleshly body
believing I had agency apart from Source.
I pursued comfort and riches.
I was unhappy and afraid.
*
Now I am old
and in this wrinkled skin
relearning what I forgot, that
the Truth of my being is holy.
I am light. My purpose is to love,
to shine.
*
*
As God plays bells along my spine
Each hollow column joins the choir
The sacrals sing of roots and fire
Lumbars chant birth and desire
Thoracic bones play joyous light
Heart hums warm through ribs of night
Cervicals voice the spacious blue
skull bowl chimes its violet hue
A hymn to grace lays tone on tone
My life’s song in bells of bone
*
*
Wild winter night
the old house creaks and rattles
Outside in the leaking dark
an old woman smiles
*
Wrapped in shabby shawls
carrying a shuddering candle
she seeks a path around the grief
that stabs her groaning heart
*
Keening low and lissome
shadows sigh and sway
a song of the lost and lonely
a song to singular pray
*
She swallows the candle
She swallows the night
She swallows til nothing
is left but the flame.
*
*
Old lady nails a yellow 5 on the door post
Raises her reedy voice to the widening sky
Moonlight, starlight
the solstice is coming
Ice light, snow light
winter stars humming
*
Redtail, blue jay,
woodpecker, finch
Sing a song of four birds
a pocket full of leaves
Round the house
Round the house
a pocketful of grief
*
Old year, new year
heavenly wings
Angels, ancestors
what will they bring?
*
*
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
From Remember by Joy Harjo
She came in the door today, carrying a bundle of leaves.
You sit there, she said, like a rotting avocado, picking
out your black spots with a spoon.
She flicked her fingers through my hair, kicking
up puffs of cat fur, humming a windy tune.
*
She ruffled the pages of the book of mandalas.
Ha! She puffed, The universe began on a breath.
Only love is real, nothing else, not even death.
You sit there wringing your sweaty palms,
examining the dirt in your closet.
*
She threw the leaves, dry and crisp, on the floor.
She blew a scatter across the planks.
Pick up your broom and sweep! Leap
into the present, foolish woman! Your heritage
is splendid, daughter of Isis. Fly!
*
*
If half the spinning galaxies of the universe have sun stars with planets
and
if only half of those planets host intelligent life
and
if half of those populations resemble humans on Earth
and
if half of those peoples take their lands and seas and skies into ruin,
the Great Mother of Creation must have known this would happen.
*
Will this omniscient Creator gather up all the sorry star-souls remaining
on planet Earth
and
lovingly place them somewhere new in the vast universe?
Will the Great Mother of Creation give them a fresh, clean planet,
green and blue and flourishing, saying,
“See if you can do better this time”?
*
*
The Fall
If I send you the red leaves of autumn
press them flat inside an envelope,
will you remember the Japanese maple
you climbed in the summer’s green?
*
If I mail a postcard of a Studebaker
pickup truck carrying milk cans,
will you recall the Matchbox cars
you lined up on the play mat here?
*
If I ask your forgiveness for all
my misperceptions, my withdrawal,
a mud pit of wracked emotions,
will you let the light back in?
*
If I place my heart in the circular present
attach my faith to the hem of the garment
surrender what’s left to the stillness,
will the mirror show me my true face?
*
*
One day everything changed. At first, the morning unfolded as usual. She started the water to boil, and put fragrant coffee grounds in the French press. Took a waffle from the freezer, popped it in the toaster. It was while she was scooping cat food into Raymundo’s dish that they both stopped at the sound. Raymundo pointed his pointy ears toward the bathroom. She frowned, then tiptoed to the bathroom door. Splashing sounds. Thumps and bumps. A grunt.
Slowly, cautiously, she turned the knob. Opened the door a crack. Peeked in. Someone was in the tub. A large someone. A someone with wings.
She gasped. The someone looked up.
“So sorry,” he said. She could tell by the voice and the shape it was a “he.”
“So sorry. I must have taken a wrong turn up there.” He stood up. Then she saw all of him. His skin was a deep violet, shimmering with tiny scales. The wings were made of iridescent black feathers, like a raven’s.
“You see,” he continued, as he dried himself with one of her towels, “I was aiming for the mountain lake, just north of here, but my hydrodetector malfunctioned and I ended up here in your bath.”
She was speechless.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just be off. Might you let me out your back entrance? You do have one? Won’t do to walk out on your street this time of the morning.”
She opened the door and stepped aside to let him pass.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
*
*
The one I left behind
has blank eyes of amber brown
stares at a future of days unchanging
leans forward in the wheelchair
tries to stand on legs too weak and trembling
*
The one I left behind
eats from another hand
like a baby bird
lives among others who wait
for something new or different
or death
*
The one I left behind
left me behind
retreated into a place
mysterious, unreachable
Perhaps he’s on a divine mission
perhaps he’s dancing with angels
perhaps, in his eyes,
I’m the impaired one
lagging far behind.
Tangled Magic 