Staring Absently Into Mirror

When I was about fourteen, I remember at times

Standing before bathroom mirror, staring

Intently, deep into my hazel eyes

Wondering what it would be like to be dead.

I thought perhaps if I looked far enough

I’d have some sense of future, tense

Enough my eyes would twitch, blink

Away all sense of self, learning absence

Of myself within this world, I’d know

Who I’d be or wouldn’t be without a body,

This form of flesh astonished by the irony

That death was nothing much to fear.

Little did I know the time would come

When working with the dying,

I’d fight off sleep and stay awake

To hold the hands as slowly they grew 

Cold as winter’s breath, only knowing

When dying they should not be alone.

At least a dozen times or more I’ve held

Those who slowly moved away,

Through that window toward Beyond.

And about twelve times I myself

Have nearly died, yet stayed within the lane.

One day I won’t look into mirror anymore,

Window open to the Blue Beyond,

Walk into Light that now seems veiled.

That day I pray I’ll make it Home, past

All kinds of permanence that now

I only imagine, absent mind’s imagination.

Fine Silver Dust Remaining From Winter

What remains of winter is not merely the meager

Snow and hard stubborn ice that lingers,

But also the fine silver dust of crushed Spruce needles,

Whose odor reminds me of love, my love.

God knows we know we’ve got close

Too many times to know we can’t pull back,

Such damage to the heart of spring

Would freeze whatever thrill

Warming of spring love brings.

I would never have it,

Nor even the halving of it, the loss

In the heart, the mind, body and soul

Would be as watching dead black leaves

Floating down river, rotting so slowly

As daylight drains all life from blind eyes.

As I look out the window, my gaze

Becomes more and more upon gazing

At such thought of sad singularity, 

With no need of you….  loveless

Heartbreaking would be the absence

Following winter with no spring,

No pussy willows, no yellow daffodils,

No red roses even in summer— how could I live?

Let Me Be Present to Emptiness

 

Today, in this hour, this moment,

I need to rest in emptiness,

No cares, no worries, no fear,

Without the world intruding.

 

Beldon Lane suggests “an opening

Framed by closure is the first requisite

To a sense of the sacred.”

O Lord, call me into nothingness.

 

Part the Red Sea and hold the water back

That I may walk into empty spaces.

Let me meditate in empty wombs and tombs,

Pray alone in stillness, silence, sacred space.

 

There is so much to sort out

And time for that will come, but not now,

Not yet, not until I find my grounding

In Sabbath rest, unoccupied, empty.

 

The Void within seems always there,

But rarely do I allow it to be, to open,

Enflame my consciousness as a burning bush

Whose fire does not consume, but speaks.

 

I long to be present to the absence of

Memory of past, anticipation of future;

Move into exile and wander in wilderness,

Enter that Holy of Holies which is empty.

Jesus Wept

In the hour before morning dawn,

Wakened by the sound of weeping,

Deeper than my quiet breathing,

He moves among the night’s dreams.

 

Jesus, weeping, to wake Lazarus,

Calling him forth from his tomb in which he slept.

Now from the other edge of darkness,

He calls for me to wake.

 

I, who am as useless as a shadow,

Frail, thin blood flowing down to

Lungs, to bones, to soul

Reach out into silence, calling him closer.

 

Save me, I pray.  And silence is my prayer.

Wrapped in sheets against the cold,

Tears flowing from eyes onto the bed,

Drifting back to sleep among the dead.

My Soul Now Feels Thinner

In Memory of Ruth Bader Ginsburg


My soul now feels thinner,
As though I’ve lost someone dear,
While the trees are losing their leaves,
Ripped away by a chill wind.
 
Nearby, the stream is wailing, too.
I stumble onward, as I must,
Without shadow of your notorious safety,
Walking into a dark unknown.
 
I hold you, wrapped in silk
In an inside pocket,
Bound by ribbons of justice,
Close to the necessary pain I carry.
 
Tonight I will hear the lament sung by women,
Feel the anguish, morn your passing.
I will blow the shofar into the emptiness,
Feel the shifting sand under my feet.

Years Are Short and Dreams Run Deep

Bolt of lightning struck the pole,
Power went out before the thunder came.
Wind blowing sheets of rain across the lake,
Skin and hair electrified in wet, hot heat.

These warm days of late August
Cool down at night. Soon, too soon,
Schools will start, bringing old memories—
Seeing you in hallways or at top of stairs.

The years are short and dreams run deep.
Where have you gone since that summer
When days were long and the world was home?
Sleep brings memories of days that flee when I wake.

If you be young, beware—
The years are short. Heat of day cools down at night.
Memory of when we kissed at the top of the stairs—
Where have you gone, who loved me so long ago?

No Matter the Season

As evening sun slowly drops behind the hills,

I watch gray heron, sailing

Out from pink and purple clouds

Down to the lake to fish.

 

It isn’t my preference to work,

Rising on draft of wind,

Standing alone on long, bony legs,

Watching quietly so to catch a late supper.

 

Darkness will soon be upon him.

Even his yellow eyes will no longer shine,

But for now, there he is, precisely

The poem I am called to write.

 

I cannot fully describe how lovely

Late August can be,

When the heat of the day is gone

And cool nights already have come.

 

Soon the trees on the hills

Will no longer reflect deepest green,

Preparing themselves to let go,

Touch the solidity of Earth again.

 

Moonlight now offers heaven’s soft light,

Cool breeze washing away the heat.

Approaching change of season

Teaches as good as any book.

 

In this wild, caustic, tender world,

I am silent, hush all questions and easy answers,

Listen simply for the song that echoes,

Whispers over the hills, no matter the season.

 

Death on the Banks of the Yellowstone

At the age of 23, I sat on the banks of the Yellowstone,
Watched as a Grizzly swam out to a rock
Where the salmon rise to the surface and jump.
I observed that a bear when fishing
Always ambidextrous, ready with left paw,
Right paw equally thick and padded—
Could take out a horse if one suddenly appeared.

Whipsawing through swift water, the salmon
Swam swift in the strong current, light glistening
Rainbow colors from wet scales, urgently driven,
Ten thousand miles it swam upstream to spawn
With uncanny precision at the bed of gravel
Where it emerged from an egg and first knew life.

The bear was driven by simple hunger to fish,
Empty belly a force more decisive than play—
His paws thick, claws sharp as a hook to catch,
Mouth open as wide as a net. I heard the rush of water,
Saw streak of red blood flow, snap of bone,
And soon live fish was swallowed whole.

I was not myself as I watched.
I was the bear. I was the fish.
I was the rock. I was the water. I was the Sun above.
I was hunger. I was death. I was witness.
There were no words, no language to speak—
How quick the sacrifice, the meal, no plate to wash,
Move on to catch the next fish and then the next.
This is the world. And this is the work of the world.

Heart was entangled for hours, for days—
Memories of watching a bull fight in Spain,
Killing a wild rabbit just for fun when I was twelve,
Sunlit grass washed in blood that I had spilled,
Splashing onto my feet, now wet and doomed.
I cannot say where it all began, out in the mist,
Jaws of guilt, desire to eat flesh, memories surface
As driftwood floating in from the shipwreck.

And I am the bear. And I am the fish.
And I am caught in the Jaws of Time,
Born with mortal soul; burning alive as an ember.
Never known; always alone. The world as my witness—
Salt of the sea runs in my veins, washing finally ashore,
Praying for Grace not to be dead but Awake.

Enchanted As I Wake From Sleep

Dedicated to Frances Howitt Turpin, my mother, on the day of her birth.

With early morning light,

Silence of the water’s garden

Seemed transfixed and still—

Ripples came when fish stirred

To eat some unseen meal.

 

Only light moved,

Rising stronger until its

Buttery shoulders rose round

Above the mountain’s peak,

Now casting reflection of trees

Into pools of green and cloudy cream.

 

The world is full of tumult,

But not here.  Not now.

I am alone to breathe

This quiet peace— magical,

Enchanting as I wake from sleep.

Each Day I Am Changed

Each day, I am changed by the path I take—

Step by step, as I walk this Earth with reverence,

Calling for such grace to see the beauty—

Sometimes concealed, sometimes awakening

An encounter with deeper spirit.

 

Let my vision reach out to touch the sunny hills,

Forming further today a way I have already begun

Years and years ago, unknown to me, yet tenderly

Grasping me by something I cannot grasp.

Forgive me for my blindness.

 

Let me in this very moment feel the breeze

Upon my face, smell the scent it brings,

Know its coolness even in heat of day,

Dark of night no less is present.

Quiet my anxious spirit that I may pray.

 

Though distant clouds hide the light,

Let me be patient until the veil is thin,

Perhaps to sense such light within, beyond

That gives water to dry bones.

Rain down, that I may stay green and grow.