We Have Among Us But One Heart

A cento for my "April Poets" friends. All of the lines in this poem were penned by fellow poets in a NaPoWriMo group I started years ago, and were written during this past month. My work in creating this poem was simply to bring all of our voices together in a single, final poem.

 

 

It is perhaps useful to think about impermanence.

I watch the world go by,

look askance through needle’s eye

from the bottom of the sky

the universe at our feet.

 

Worry Remover, Dream Fulfiller, Soul Whisperer, Joy Creator.

Inside the self remembers and remembers

the defiant tenderness of surrender.

To love is to sometimes wonder –

What do you think, if you had to choose?

 

You’re the star in my apple;

may I lie down in its greenness.

We came to a kernel of an idea

when the world was full of possibilities.

I half expect it to rise and float skyward –

will you meet me there?

 

As we eradicate our past

and reform into a new creation

others, still, are looking. We come now,

an unhurried migration,

a choice to stand in light or darkness.

You hold a stillness inside you,

ready for always.

 

I know you know the darkness.

Let me hold you, let me rock you

until I am the last thing standing.

The hardest word to live by is enough,

whispered the mysteries of my origin.

 

Time passed like promises.

And wasn’t that a glorious show?

At April's End

(a Rondeau)

 

At April’s end, once more I lift my pen

and search my heart for words I want to send

to you, my fellow denizens of the page,

whose verse could pick the lock of any cage

and set all inhibitions free again.

 

To you, who stoke the daily fires, tend

the hearth of inspiration as we blend

our voices, as we rejoice or weep or rage –

at April’s end, to you I lift my pen.

 

There are no minutes in the time I spend

in being, for the poems seem to wend

through warp and weft of each new day

until there is no difference between youth and age –

until what’s left is nothing but Amen

at April’s end.

My Heart Still Sings for Autumn

a sestina

 

Every year I think that spring

will be the season to win my heart.

Winter here is long, after all,

and I do so rejoice to see the flowers

pushing the cold earth aside with

their tender determination to live.

 

I wish that we all might live

with the purpose of a trillium in spring,

our veins pulsing with

molten nectar, our hearts

opening like flowers –

at the risk of ruin, risking it all.

 

Why are we so scared of all

that it takes to truly live?

What is required of the flowers

to brave the dangers of spring?

Nothing but instinct, heart,

and a certain wildness within.

 

But perhaps we confuse instinct with

courage – buds and blossoms are all

born from necessity, but the heart

is where human courage lives.

The true growth of spring

may lie in facing the inevitable fall of the flowers.

 

What, then, when flowers

fade to summer, and we are left with

only memories of spring?

Our task is this: through all

the seasons, we must live

as though we have among us but one heart.

 

It is possible to give away your heart.

Follow the example of the flowers

that seem to die – yet live,

persisting against all odds – with

the closure of autumn an equal rival to all

the openings of spring.

 

I live with this reminder; even with

flowers at my feet I find that, after all,

my heart still sings for autumn in the spring.

Seeing the Invisible

the magic of housekeeping

lies in the art

of seeing the invisible

 

the ethereal cobwebs

nobody would blame you

for overlooking

 

the thin layer of grease

collecting its own dust

on the oven hood

 

the box of projects

sitting patiently on the floor

waiting to be remembered

 

the craft supplies

you’re really just about to use again

after two weeks idle

 

all those poems

half-written on scraps of memory,

waiting for –

How to Sell Life Insurance to a Poet

For the unbeatable price of

one poem per day

you can ensure your children

an incalculable inheritance:

Unbounded creativity

as long as they live.

Please sign here;

you begin today.

To Do List

Put your words onto paper, even if they’re messy

Stop pretending you can do it all by yourself

Put your body and your mind to good use

Say yes and no only when you mean it

Talk less, speak more, listen most

Smile with your whole body

Laugh when you’re alone

Create connection

Give it all away

Love better

Breathe

Feel

Be

From the First

(a sonnet for love)

 

The seventh thing I noticed about you

was how your morning hair stands up on end.

The sixth (I notice daily this is true)

is that you’re first and foremost my best friend.

The fifth trait I found worthy of remark

was that you value people over things.

The fourth was that your hand in mine makes sparks –

every time you touch me, my heart sings.

The third, that laughter punctuates your day

and when I laugh with you I feel complete.

The second thing I noticed right away:

My quickened heartbeat every time we meet.

But from the start I felt my heart might burst –

your smile was captivating from the first.

 

The Makings of a Man

Is it enough to raise a boy

who stops to smell every flower in his path,

who caresses the petals oh-so-gently,

marveling at their softness on his skin?

Is it enough that he notices

that some tulips are delicately feathered,

others simple, bold, and bright,

still others unfurling layer upon layer of petals,

slightly shimmering in the sunlight?

Is it enough that he knows

the bluebell from the grape hyacinth,

the narcissus from the zinnia,

the peony from the rose?

The anthers paint his nose a telltale yellow

as he searches for scent deep in the petals.

It may not be enough,

but it’s a start.

Once Upon a Planet

Once upon a planet

before time was invented,

it didn’t matter how long it took

for creatures to grow, to shift,

to become better partners

with their habitats.

They just did, because

they just were

and that was that – no need

to question motives

or fabricate right and wrong.

Everything was in motion,

an unhurried migration

with no more ambitious goal

than alignment,

survival.

We have since declared time

to be retroactive,

evolution to be purposeful,

extinction inevitable.

We number the aeons of a species

with the same breath as

the individuals remaining –

time a construct of our minds,

death a product of our deeds.

We don’t know the half

of what we’ve lost

in trying to find ourselves.

May you live in interesting times

a quatern

 

– for the wild joy of having lived

is a greater blessing than most

(if only we would believe it).

I want to think this could be true,

 

that divinity flows, purely

for the wild joy of having lived,

with no other purpose but to

share the grace of imperfection.

 

come the end of my days I know

I would give almost anything

for the wild joy of having lived –

in retrospect, that’s all there is.

 

and so, my friend, I ask you this –

even after eternity,

will you laugh with me, if only

for the wild joy of having lived?

 

 

Important Things

As children we stack blocks,

instinctively building castles

to house our treasures.

 

We learn to create containers

and put important things into them,

because Important Things must be contained.

 

put away your toys

your books

your dreams

 

When did dreams become

angular, solid – Things –

capable of being contained?

 

I don’t remember how old I was

when I started collecting boxes.

No one taught me, but I learned.

 

The boxes themselves became Important

Things requiring containment

inside other boxes.

 

            put away your fantasies

                        tuck them inside your visions

                                    stack them upon your dreams

 

Like nesting dolls, my boxes sat empty

but for each other and the illusion

of treasure contained.

 

I have always kept boxes – perhaps

to remind myself that Things

and Dreams are seldom the same.

Open the Door

a villanelle

 

Open the door!

I want to go outside.

Let’s go explore!

 

Don’t be a bore!

Get your shoes tied.

Open the door!

 

Look! A secret portal in the floor!

Open it wide –

Let’s go explore!

 

What are you waiting for?

There’s even a slide!

Open the door!

 

Adventures galore!

You seek, I’ll hide.

Let’s go explore!

 

But wait, there’s more –

I want to go inside.

Open the door!

Let’s go explore!

I Will Write a Villanelle

I will write a villanelle,

I am certain of it.

It will be a model verse

that other poets covet.

 

It shall be highly polished,

exemplary of rhyme

and delicate of meter

(I do this all the time).

 

Its subject will be novel,

its thesis unforeseen,

each line precise, with room to spare

for nothing in between.

 

Villanelles are simple –

to write one is a cinch.

My villanelle will be so bright

the sonnets might well flinch!

 

Ahem… excuse me… might you have

a muse that I could borrow?

‘Cause otherwise, I’ll say good night

and write this thing tomorrow.

promise

‘til death do you part

(a powerful vast perhaps)

hand over your heart

Number One

a Skeltonic, or tumbling verse poem

 

Today I will be shot

And I know just the spot.

It just might hurt a lot –

Or else, it just might not.

My arm will get the prick.

The needle shouldn’t stick.

I hope it will be quick.

I hope I won’t be sick.

I crave immunity.

One day I want to see

My lovely family

And have a hugging spree.

And when today is through

I know just what I’ll do:

I’ll thank the vaccine crew

And schedule number two!

My Grandfather's Cadillac

I remember my grandfather’s Cadillac

snaking up the wooded roads at night.

Curled up on the cool leather in the back seat,

I tried to sleep

but every blind curve evoked a honk from the horn

– car approaching, please share the road –

caution and courtesy as steadfast as his faith.

And so I remained awake,

and paid attention.

 

I remember my grandfather’s warnings:

never go barefoot downstairs,

turn your shoes upside-down at night.

I only recall one scorpion,

and how willingly I obeyed the stern instruction

to keep my distance from it.

He came with a heavy shoe,

followed my pointing finger,

and dispatched both danger and duty

in one confident blow.

I watched in awe,

and paid attention.

 

I remember the stories of how my grandfather built his house,

reviewing the building codes

and multiplying the safety factors by ten,

using what seemed like an entire tree

for the center roof beam.

And how, when “the big one” came

and a tree did fall on the house,

only a few shingles were lost.

I listened to the stories,

and paid attention.

 

I remember my grandfather opening doors

and my grandmother graciously accepting the courtesy,

waiting patiently for him to walk around the car,

open her door, and offer his arm –

not because she needed the support,

but because it was important to him to offer it.

He would reach every door first,

and always was the last one through,

the courtesy deep in his bones.

I noticed,

And paid attention.

 

For years, I found myself rushing

to be the first to reach a door, uncomfortable

with the prospect of having it held open for me.

I thought I was practicing my grandfather’s courtesy,

but after all those years of paying attention

I realized I had never seen him act in haste.

 

So now I remember my grandmother’s patience,

her graceful acceptance of courtesy offered,

allowing the gestures even when the words were halting.

All that either of them ever did for the other,

it was all for love.

Ah, yes, I paid attention to that, too.

 

In my mind, I sit again in the back seat of the Cadillac

watching my grandmother step out on her husband’s arm,

and wait, this time, for my door to be opened as well.

sustenance, a haiku

more why, less because –

questions feed our children’s souls

better than answers

Forty

the girl inside a woman’s skin

too young to have her praises sung

by any choir, too young to walk the wire

of motherhood alone, and yet

here she stands, amid the stones and sticks

of all the words thrown in her way

the things nobody knew to say

and so the silence sings

of all the things she never thought were real,

revealed

 

the microphone is held by a child afraid to sing

who knows the thing that makes her unique

is the thing she’s afraid to speak

 

how does time mark its stanzas on your body?

with the indelible ink of motherhood and memories

a heartbeat tattoo

 

abracadabra

that which we speak becomes life

 

what will I whisper into being

with the breath of my words

from the depth of my soul?

how to choose the words

to turn a living into a life?

how to sing the praise of the days yet to come

believing the fun is where the living lies

 

I want a life where I am not afraid

to feel the pleasure or the pain

to hear the rain and

feel the rays of the sun

because I know there can be no healing without pain

there can be no courage without fear

 

perfection is a crutch

that bears no weight,

the straight and narrow path

a myth in which we place our faith

to the peril of our hopes and dreams –

it seems more real than all our fears,

but if I have learned one thing in forty years

it is that the way is wide and winding,

and we are specially designed to wander.

 

I want that wonder

the constant pulse of presence

just beyond my conscious sense

untouchable, yet certain

if only I inhabit present tense

 

this is how I grow

by reaching into space, into the flow of grace

the joy of the unknowing

showing me the way

 

listen to the call of life within

this is where I begin.

Helena Honda

Helena Honda

and Tony Toyota,

together they went for a drive.

 

The sweet little Honda

blew past the Toyota,

rejoicing, “I feel so alive!”

 

Lean left, now lean right,

hug those curves, hold them tight –

poor Tony was left in the dust.

 

Four wheels to her two,

wasn't much he could do

but follow – and follow he must.

 

Oh, Helena Honda,

one day you will learn

that friendship is worth more than speed.

 

And no one’s as solid

as Tony Toyota –

he’ll be there whenever you need.

 

Poor Helena Honda

pushed too far too fast,

popped a tire and scratched up her chrome.

 

The up lumbered Tony,

Said “climb on my back –

I’m your truck, and I’ll carry you home.”

first, exhale

now

inhabit the in-between

 

that moment of pure existence

so all-consuming

you don’t know how long

you’ve been empty

 

the in-between

where time stretches to infinity

and inspiration is born

 

now inhale

 

cracked

I created a "prompt" for myself today: choose seven words at random from my magnetic poetry set, and write a poem using all seven. They were pretty random, and definitely produced a poem that I would not have written otherwise! (The words are included after the poem, if you're curious.)

 

young,

restless,

she squirms in her own skin,

an unintentional asshole,

unyielding as concrete

(which – as she will learn –

fractures when it falls)

 

isn’t he a pretty one?

she drops from a dizzying height

into the blood bath of emotion

that may or may not

be lust

 

 

(The seven random words were: young, concrete, pretty, bath, which, squirm and asshole.)

Free to a Good Home

For my wonderful Buy Nothing group

 

In certain circles, the phrase

“Random Weekend Purge”

is shameless clickbait.

 

Guilty as charged.

(I even added the word “Truly” for emphasis

and promised to “let it simmer.”)

 

Offered free to a good home –

In other words, pleasefortheloveofgod

take this crap out of my house!

 

Accordion file that won’t fit in my bookcase.

Book, inspirational, in giftable condition.

Curling iron, never used – don’t know what I was thinking.

 

Dijon mustard, coarse ground, unopened and unexpired.

Entire bag of well-worn kids’ shoes, please take all.

Foam weather stripping, two sizes, still sticky.

 

All this – and more! – is yours for the taking.

You know you want it (yes, and you want it all.)

(Have I convinced you yet?)

 

Oh, and a superhero mask!

You’ll be my hero forever

if you just take this stuff off my hands.

 

Any takers?

Happiness, Age 9

Happiness is receiving lots of presents,

and opening them as early in the morning as you like.

Happiness is rhubarb-walnut muffins

alongside the bacon and eggs,

plus an extra stick of raw rhubarb for lunch.

Happiness is the silliness of Zoom birthday songs

(in English and Irish).

Happiness is seeing ten family members

on the same screen at the same time

and showing off all your presents.

Happiness is a $50 check to spend

however you please , and the time spent

imagining the possibilities.

Happiness is takeaway Burgerville

fish & chips and a strawberry milkshake

eaten on a daisy-covered hillside

overlooking the skate park.

Happiness is serving yourself the biggest slice

of the best Victoria sponge cake

your mother has ever baked.

Happiness is knowing

you'll have another celebration on Saturday

so you don't need to be too sad that today is over.

Birthday Eve

 A shadorma

 

Six a.m.

April seventh – eight

today, nine

tomorrow –

three hundred sixty-six days

‘til double digits

enigma

love me until night falls

then turn away

 

silence consumes the spaces

between heartbeats

 

torn by twin desires

each pulse both pull and push

 

will daybreak find me

fettered or flown

 

you’ll never know

if you stay

Breathe

On what virtue do I hang my hat

when all I’ve done in a day

is breathe

 

I’ve heard it said

you must forgive

yourself first

 

breath leads the way

and will follow

wordless

as the heart’s own

prayer

 

gratitude is

enough

and plenty

 

breathe

Night Ritual

I squeeze an inch onto my fingertip

the fat albino grub

transforms

with a little patience

into a palmful of foam

under the faucet’s trickle

then fingertips to cheeks,

swirl and spread,

silky as avocado on the skin

a moment to breathe,

to cleanse myself of the day

a warm cloth

carries away

any particle of discontent

rendering face and soul

cleansed, calmed,

welcoming sleep

New

My skin cannot contain

identity

from one day to the next –

each sleep a shedding,

each waking a rebirth.

Will the troubles of today

slough off as one,

leaving an empty silhouette

of memories?

Or will they flake off,

one by one,

dust motes of unspoken cares

drifting and disappearing

on the breeze?

Who will I be

when today sheds its skin

and tomorrow touches

what lies beneath?

How will I choose

to create myself next?

In Which a 5 Year Old Attempts to Teach Me How to Play Chess

The board is all set up – just so,

the plastic figures in their proper squares

facing off. She has no idea

how much this terrifies me –

I have no idea

whether I’ll make it through a game

but I promise to try.

The barrage of instructions

almost overwhelms my brain

(as predicted)

so I blindly follow the recommended moves

trusting that my opponent has

my best interest at heart.

What could possibly go wrong?

She’s the one who wanted

to teach me, after all.

Despite my most valiant efforts

(probably not very valiant, in truth),

her brother’s earnest assistance

(and offers to assume control),

and all the patience I can muster,

the Queen of Chess Avoidance surrenders

and I forfeit the game

before it’s even over.

Today

sun and clouds

ferry boats and ripples on the sand

following the tide

then drawing it back in

trowel in hand, digging

patiently for hours

until the words in the sand

are swallowed once more

by the Sound