Walt’s Maple

 I used to think of that tree as ours

One side turned to the road another towards

the screened in porch.

We’d marvel 

     Not knowing anything, except it’s curious 

Bloom, how the leaves took different shapes,

How half reached for the sky while the 

Other clung,

How outwards vibrant green turned to red

While the inward yellowed and browned, 

A divided tree, 

      We wondered aloud at its differences

   Wondered even if, it was a graft some part gifted to the whole, an addition, too special

But this year, I watched the tree alone, 

as the branches reaching toward our porch did not bud, 

Walt told me the roots -not pruned, had choked it dry, 

And I,

By myself, cleaned the porch in which you used to sit, 

   The living room in which we played,

The dining area in which we ate,

The bedroom where we once laid,

     And then set out, saying goodbye alone, to Walt’s maple, no longer yours and mine

 (well maybe still mine). 

New life

 G-d carved her knife along the lines of my feet, find myself walking down a new street, murals of divinity, geometric patterns, an icecream shop to be, and me with my dance moves, at the walk up coffee dispensary,  waiting impatiently for an Americano.

She with a blade so thin, I couldn’t feel it move within, and still sometimes wonder if my path was divided at all. Multiplied, and I am in a brand new St. Paul apartment staring at the lightning grasping across a breath of sky. Forking, a life untied, unmoored, set free, and somewhat ruefully seeking new security. 

And of the limitless paths unspooled, which will this thread bear? I ask for the highest and greatest- of that which is unfathomable, my pleasure a trifling annoyance as is the drip of chalk dust in my office -off hundred year old bricks which she is scraping, to me a nuisance, to them a returning, a riffing, a new way forward. 

Everything expanding, and all of us cloying to what we once knew, or believed we knew, or at least felt at one time determined to hold, and she with her sharp embrace, telling all of us no. Be!  she commands and scattering we flee, shards glorifying that infinite synonym of me. Each division compelling us forward, into what we can never be certain. 

Dinosaurs (may 2018?)

 Amongst the flighted, 

at the lake of isles,

I spot,

The long legged, narrow beak.

A hose necked, high rise

blue and white and black,

Surveying the glistening waters, and the prairie surrounding,

In all it's majestic prehistory, 

Still skittish to my presence. 

I spot also,

a tiny brown thing,

Fluttering, waving from stock  to stock of the weightless golden pond grass, 

A burst of a launch each time,

across the distance from flowing strand to flowing strand,

Always catching talons first, in show 

of minuscule carnality. 

Heart Song (Nov 2019?)

 Heart song

What does it mean to know someone’s heart song? To vibrate just so,

Perhaps how to manipulate the strings, to pluck, to push?

The sound of longing for

someone,

to hold your heart just so,

to make room to allow for bounds,

Reverberations, 

To hold that breath,

In rhythm, 

to hold that space, 

In concert,

To be sensitive enough to the tone,

That as it swells, they grow

And as it wanes they enfold. 

A mindful musician, allows the melody to evolve, 

to change, 

to repurpose old notes and bridge them to new movements, 

a medley is unfolding, 

a dissonance 

giving way 

to a joyfully familiar refrain.

Forgive me these tears

 

Why have I not written you a poem?

I asked myself that throughout our time, 

not wishing to malign, to concretize, or mislabel,

because the muse did not move me to feel so drawn - I worried that I didn’t feel compelled, and that that meant something. 

And it did mean something.

 

I sit with my heartbreak now, most days managing well, 

That’s what they say, anyway.

 

Sometimes, 

I miss the subtle ways, you infiltrated my day with comfort and ease. 

The created space, in which I could shift the weight and just be, 

The lack of task, of drive to compete, 

The loving gift -to feel rather than editorialize,

That was my why – each and every time. 

 

And sometimes even, I miss the twist, 

the way I could ignore my existence -and dwell on yours, 

that care taking role, the letting go 

myself on hold, to be yours… 

overthinking each little thing, 

despite it not being asked for, 

and not expected. 

 

I guess this is your rose, 

And maybe now with the floodgates open, 

I can close out our chapter, and move to the next 

I’ve never been great at letting go,

But forgive me, I’m also not so good at remembering. 

(An excerpt)

 ...but alas  I am for now,

      no  teetotaler, 

I’m a drunk for 

                soul and romance,

And the Chemist’s sun drop elixir,

                                 -even if it’s always cloudy,

          the fog lifts now and then 

to spill daylight upon 

     my dreams

             and make them real. 

This job

This job is…

Being pulled in thirty directions at once.
Responding in a way that validates, while also holding ground.
Grounding. Holding. Pushing it back on them.
There is a mindfulness that must be maintained,
an appreciation for the flow, and the gifts,
to get through each rift, breach and repair.


And yet, there is a steadiness that must exist,
a structure, a brace,
and also, a constant wobble -to embrace the ever-changing circumstances.


There is a preparedness,
a resolve,
that at times, will be faked.
And the shakiness beneath,
will be breathed into -though never quite concluded.


A deep sigh, a belly laugh, an un-consolable wail,
The sounds of release, in their myriad forms,
Tummy grumbles, guttural growls,

And the snarkiest, oh,
prepare to be bowled over by the charging sarcastic defense


The places the mind goes,
It will be interesting,
One must stay curious, and focus on sifting
-knowing full well anything important will return.


It takes belief,
A knowing that the cognitive dissonance is necessary,
that from the gray unknown, magic can appear,
a faith in the heart’s ability to break and expand,
to burst forth from the old shell,
and renew from a truer self.

***************************

I have been editing this for a few days, but lost steam... so this may or may not be the last incarnation. 

Vessels of Love

When we met, you were an intricately blown glass vase, bright orange, yellow, red, and rich blue pulled through the crystal. Handles, wound corners, fragile at a glance, but solid to touch. You poured out a half dozen directions, a roman fountain, sustained by unseen aqueducts, life giving, and pure.  

When we became friends, a punchbowl, delicately adorned with images: secretive, tantalizing, deceitful and delicious. You ladled out knowledge and treasures. At times marveling at your ability to gift, nourish and enchant, but grumbling all the while as others pulled into their own cups. 

When we coupled, a colander, deep welled to conceal the cavities. Unaware of what was being poured in, covertly and singly focused on watching it spill out everywhere. Neither the syrup of security, nor the bold zest of love, remained to entice or refresh. 

When we finished, a shallow plate, rimmed in gold, and ornamented with tiny gargoyles. Sleekly finished and slippery, so that every offering would not tarnish or remain. A porcelain wall, a museum piece, cold and non-functional, leaving the bitter ache of what could have been. 

Everything owned and nothing known

 I am not a farmer

I do not know this land

I cannot say whether the golden seeded strands beckoning the sky for a kiss, swaying, not dancing, as the growls of angry motorists pass by, caged into this sidewalk display, cemented in, just a flash of green along the busy byway, is prairie grass

Or 

The origins of all of this western culture.

This coffee grown elsewhere

This iPhone manufacture elsewhere

This Cotten shirt sewn elsewhere

This metal chair mined and smelted elsewhere

But like I said

I am not a farmer. 

Flowers

The Buddha raised the flower and…

As if it were that simple.

As if the mind did not stray, like pollen lifts

As if the longing did not pull, like petals to the earth

As if the stomach did not turn, dizzy stems yearning sunward

As if the back did not strain, vines grasping to the nearest firm  

As if the muscles could not be scratched, thousand pest bites taunting

And the heart bleed into itself for thirst, this perennial karmic binding.

The Green

My heart loved you, 

The way the sun lights the million green things, 

Delighting in the attunement to each angle, each pitch

Desirous of the epochs locked within each chlorophyll cell,

In awe, inhaling the multitude of contrasts, 

And sighing in wonder at the majesty of the all.

So now with a careful tweeze I pull thorns, 

Ravaging the flesh, that once filled with breath,

And wonder what poison should come from the next, 

What pitfall of darkness the forest dares me to embrace,

What malice is in store for the romantic in haste. 

(July 2018)

Darling,
     When every exhausted muscle is
     solidifying into its angry strain,
          what words can I offer, 
                    what amusements or reassurances, 
          to bow you over in laughter
                    or cathartic release, 
          to remind you that you've done
                    everything in your power thus far
          and perhaps offer a lens
                    to reconcile your needs, 
          with a world that seems
                    so ceaselessly demanding?

(Sept 2019)

It used to be we,

and the we was expansive,      growing

Me and you,

that's why my heart hurts

My ego desires an 'or'

My soul knows a self oriented comma

would do

My mind is still rattling with question marks

(Nov 2019)

I've got no job,
no kids,
no partner,
no pets,
paid the rent,
and no substantial debts,
in need of nourishment,
yet of these prospects,
I'm circumspect,
tell me which
is heaven sent
and I swear
I'll bend my will, this time
for the blessing.

Rot (Jan 2020)

Attached to the pain, the dirtiness, the regret and guilt.
I don't find myself dwelling on the positives, but the putrid.
This is the bond of trauma, the vortex, 
sharing this pain doesn't cause connection, 
only further cutting away, 
it doesn't expand, 
it doesn't shift the paradigm to that which was once unseen, 
it blocks and distorts, 
maligns the beautiful, 
sours the sweet,
In desire to pair the complex notes,
another spoiled batch, 
only one way to find a better match,
move forward. 

Dissipate (Feb 2020)

I dedicate this to you,

            but first, 

                        fire

            -scorch the earth collected 

            blow out the flame, 

                  watch,     inhale,   let go

the whispers reach heavenward,       

the scent broadens through the space,

-and with it,

the taste of

            the first painful bite

            an outline traced

            as plumes of smoke

            recreate your face

a memory, 

            twirls, salutes

                    twists into nothingness

                                                let go

snakes across my collar bone, 

            knotting into my chest, 

branching across the bridge of my nose

to aggravate my eyelashes

                                                let go

cascades, 

            diving, colliding this;

                        sorrow swirls,

            taut and flaring,

                        a maelstrom uprooting

                                                let go

                        watch them narrow, eddy

            watch them divide,

forked fingers,            fearful

            bent knuckles, twisting,

                        tapping the vaporous

            scratching 

                        until dissolution 

                  watch,     inhale,   let go.

Lost in you

Fell off the boat, 
the gentle water rocking, 
didn't even notice at first, 
how my clothes became soaked, as I 
fantasized 
I was the ocean.
Thought how pleasant
it could be, to just stay
diffused that way, 
each part of me lost in the 
larger unseen, my head rocked on top
-pretending to not
be caught up...
but then, the first nip,
called me to clarify, 
I burst up the ladder, 
thoughts a panic,
hands taking stock
shocked, by the promise held 
in that first nibble. 

...and yet,  still, 
I am called to the sea.

Written years ago...

What a strange new thing, this
now what to say…
keenly aware of a muscle twitch, two shades too far
to keep plain faced.
I say
Have you…
then trail off again
knowing each question brings up the
inevitable story neither of us
wants to hear –said aloud .

-Sometimes, words make things real
sometimes so do tears, so
she asks me to stay emotionless
scared that empathy would
trigger memories.
And I…
fear her mask falling
cuz I need to see her strong
or
maybe I’d succumb to the violent cycle
of my brother’s who done her wrong.

I Am That / Cristoforo Colombo (April 2018)

Those boys approach things as you do, and you like it. But it causes ya to grin to see yourself socialized as such, no? To recognize how boys gather a handful of knowledge preemptively, curiously turn it over, and then present it with a slight twist, “I own this now, but I will offer it to you,” or because we are ‘nice boys,’ “Hey, is it ok if I claim I found this? I’ll share (because I am sure you’ll give me credit.)” Oh boy, wow…, are you being too cynical or is this an attempt to recognize complexity again and apply an honest frame? Testing a statement to check it’s fit?  -I am that.

      And white girls, with that working-class bravado, that bluntness, who mumble things with their faces down; then get wide eyed and in frustration share: inspirational in their honesty and willingness to just claim the place where they are that day. I love that. People who can say what’s on their mind. Bringing up the elephant parts as if they were just discovered, we’re all so Columbian after all. That little wrinkle of our socialization, that little acknowledgment that our proclaimed values may be different than our actions, that implicit bias showing, even as we proclaim ourselves wide eyed and knowing. -I am that.

      And of the fair youths, sweet and lost. Wow, those are beautiful beads. Blinking too much, exposed anew. Look away. Don’t look away. Palms sweaty, stomach in knots. If I don’t do it they’ll think I am a coward. Looking bored, looking tired. I don’t want to feel this guilty. Head down, mumbled speech. Just don’t say anything stupid, be part of the group. Follow the orders, follow the leader (lol)  -I am that.

      And the anxious advocates amongst us, so used to being righteous that we end up stumbling, ever tongue tied, forced speech, from the heart, from the gut, from the ache in your back ribs, continue to speak past the point you were making, clutter it up, lose their interest, worry you’ve muddled it, close your chapped lips, replay the moment, play it again, play back the entirety of your life, oh! that shameful loop, heart knotted, analyze and blame yourself, question with your clenched throat, breathe and cough, and cough and choke, try again, that eternal loop, from the gut, mind still askew, but find it there again and cling, sooth yourself with that salve of truth, that’s how you’ll know you’re still alive, and I, -am that.

The Listening Heart (April 2018)

A downturned face can mean so many things you know, you know better than you let on, so why do you always assume the silence, the quiet voice, is an opportunity to step in. Sometimes the downturned face is a fight to hold it back, sometimes it’s the protection of the heart, sometimes the contemplation of a reason, and sometimes just a burdensome headache not so well hidden.

          She surprises me sometimes with a roar (*hint), that will always be my favorite thing; the quiet one who speaks truth so beautifully. When I was younger, I might have perceived her voice as raw, and I’d have stepped forward compelled to listen, and then spent all my hours replaying those thoughts alone, praising her for unleashing her righteous anger unhindered (for my benefit). But sometimes when I am in the right space, if I am mindful, I can see the difference between my prejudiced insistence that such anger is natural (read ‘exotic’), and not the product of a billion hours spent carefully crafting, adjusting, attuning and finally fulfilling a human need often mired by a craftwork of hindrances –most invisible to me, but upon which I insist (or often do, at least).

            So, I nod along, this is the conversation I was expecting, hold your prejudices back boy, and listen. Turn your face down if you must hide your shame, but don’t you dare stop listening. Peel back the layers, one gnarly scalpel cut at a time, cringe and grip at the cold air exposure, that’s what it means to be present, that ache, that sting, that’s the shared connection to humanity, now listen with your whole heart exposed.