our mother would hate this poem

I dreamed I was listening to my
parents' fight from decades ago 
when they were fighting always
and always passive-aggressively

my father sounding patient
my mother sounding smart

neither of them listening to each other...
from our room: my sister and I listened,
grading them--not on how right or wrong 
they were, but how not mean they were.

our mother lost our ratings
for our father lost the fights

afterwards, he wouldn't talk to her for days...
every time she happened to be in the room,
he'd be whistling or humming something 
to show how he didn't care and didn't hurt--

like at all--not even a little bit

even we kids didn't buy it

edit

I will not fail fall falter--
what is history but 

a storm that left 

us all bowed

although not forever long
I watch waves touch

shores and ships

--be calmed 

(I remember how old colonizers 

told us of monsters on maps

even--while wielding:

their sword-gun-pen)

_______

Pic: Flying home--skies never fail to fascinate me.

an ordinary happy

why not stay awake           

watch                                

today's felt blog post         

become                              

just yesterday's ghost        

to a moment, wonderful

right now

becoming extraordinary 

as memory

as witness, totem, story

-----------------------

Pic: Nu and At playing Super Smash Brothers, a game they acquired the weekend Big A and I were away in Seattle. They had so much fun pretending they were going to invite someone called "Smash" over to the house while I was gone, and I had so much fun pretending to be horrified by the idea. It was only later that I discovered that they didn't know I was pretending. "How did you even know it was a game?"--they asked. I don't know.

holiness

can we begin with how 

reduced to sweetness

lists run through

an abecedary 

of wonder

a longing 

to recite how

we return tender

to summer's thirsts

hearts giant with shining

like an old-fashioned riddle

I tally ego on the rosary of my body
count the worry beads of desire
sum my abacus of need

my small silence inside your eternity

my sky inside your horizon

is watching us recede

as I exchange thoughts for doubts

I wonder if you can hear them;

I think you'd concede 

that you pull me along, in undertow--

not caring for my suffering--

until you have me freed

unpronounceable

I have taken these photos

no one will be looking at  
I have repeated my sights
until emptied of meaning

each one special as a child:
emotions--a trembling skin 
old memories--pause at will, 

a flip-book I cannot control

I have buried the bad sounds,

you can't say them anymore

soon I will be lost, exploring,

then unravel love for myself

I can announce to strangers

that I survived, can say I am

renewed, though I still carry  

this ventriloquist's act of you

"that's how the light gets in"

we're looking for someone

we haven't seen in... years

memories--folded, refolded,
stored safely like souvenirs

 

so when you reach across 

the table to take my hand 

I already know how you'll 

want to summon a heaven

so full of holes, we lost 

places, people, all we still

seek--yet our hands open 

to applaud how light leaks in 

Title: 

Leonard Cohen--"There's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in."

Rumi-- "Stay with it. The wound is the place where the Light enters you."

Pic: Official Michigan Covid vaccination sweepstakes website.

in conclusion

beauty is an accident in the day
borrowed with permission

a cataclysm

we are ones feasting on leftovers

mouths wide with awe

and appetence

as skin tightens on our tired flesh

we find brilliant secret plots

of resurrection

turn, turn, turn

I carry my words across continents

with their accidents, impermanence

bees feverish in the heat of their sting

do things so sweetly distant from pain 

a bird cleans its beak on moss again

and I try not to scare them into flight

we're "ok;" alighting on what it takes 

to make the planet spin another day

[Pic: MSU Horticultural Garden; I love this bed, which seems so effortless.]

child

"Guess what I am," says the child

snuggling next to me

fists under their chin

trying to--"look cute."

And so I guess: A baby bunny rabbit?

A kitten? A puppy?

Nope. Nope. Nope.

I'm so wrong.

They are, "A Baby Praying Mantis."

I guess I've always 

known they'd keep  

making me smile.

Words: Nu; July 31, 2012. 

Pic: The trans-flag kandi Nu made today.

cloudburst

There's not much to do 
in the rain, today seems 

so small, so tight, blue...

these trees, drip, shake

drops of rain off--as if 

they're puppies. I ache... 

from rain. I know I want

sunshine in clusters, stars 

writing days in happy font...

instead here's a slight salute 

--to bent sky, clasped desires,

clouds heave, heavy in pursuit 

[Pic: Made it to Ted Black Woods with L this morning--before the downpour.)

Bhiksha

"If you wanted, you could be there," 

I keep staring 

at the self I see
in these words

Knowing day will be done soon, gone

but not the work 

it came bearing 
in cupped hands: 

not an offering but an outstretched bowl

seeking alms

restoring me

ta-da / to-do

[Pic: Baby deer I spied out back this morning.]

feeling--recursive

I take the photos in this family
--every time I send one 
to you, sister

you demand to know where I am.
I'm behind the camera,
I travel back

with the sticky facts of tenderness.
What could ever replace  
you reminding me 

to burn like fire, like diamonds
the beloved coal of my body 
hybrid, haptic, whole

[Pic: An indoors kind of day; the kids have to delink settler colonialism and Catan for me every time.]

old school laughter

to sit down with strangers talking talking
talking, the sun stunning in its brilliance 

like our laughter, sounding like we never 

heard of hurt, happy as an escaped key

I start, you finish, then we restart again  

the sisters say: "quiet now, settle down"

they turn their backs, snort their grace

and then we're off on one more round... 

odd how though it's made only of sound

laughter never loses its meaning--or place

[Pic: Waterlilies at MSU Radiology Gardens]

I said

a letter seems only an island of sound 

till it has found bridges and isthmuses 

of words and meaning

we're at this crossing to talk some more--

soaring through side streets and alleys 

where we are all children

come back, connect, read me generously

correct, on this towpath of peace, release

my complaint--always me

[Pic: cobwebs-bridge-Red Cedar River]

complications

Yes... no... I don't know... yet
how to take things for granted
let's say we're sort of Egyptian 

in all the ways we are learning 

to prepare--not for life--but death 

I hold for friends who have left 

homelands... once upon a time
with untold pasts, fear for those   

whose names change every day,

who clasp peace so hard--it splits

[Pic: Ely Woods with L this morning]

cenotaph

For you're breathy as a kettle, 
in all of this ennui, this outrage
yet we sit blandly where people 
were dead--had been for ages.

We are the ones who are alleged 

to dust off the drifting ash before 
standoff, feel around for the edge 

of backlash, its puny incoherence.

But we listen; learning now how
all news is unbearable, how it all

allows us to be portals standing

impatient, indifferent, in disgrace.

gaze

I begin to unpin guilt like it's hair
hold my own hand as it trembles
a stare still lies a bit out of reach
grows into a new part of my body

my body goes old young indifferent
time folding across like a clock-face 
and hands clap for what comes next 
texting alien syllables from my name

analog clock, digital face, so partial

to opening my heart all the way like

I once said I would in a secret place

we know where it stays dark all night

ablaze

This person I am--capricious, 

madness layering my mouth
breaks strangle words
swallow all loneliness

For nothing here is really mine

foreign country... alien tongue,

the lift in my heart merely

a mad end to a depression

Swimming lightly into this mirror
I become my eternal reflection

--cinders fly like insects

--their love a cartoon net

[Pic: Pegasus at Pegasus Critical Care Center]

newcomer

 

our day is burning,
silence like smoke

light seems machine
in interim and enters

anyway, opens the door
to our histories of hope

in arrival--we are blessed
death is certain someday 

we get to live out survival
tithing... tiny happinesses