Old Hen

i’m scratching again my chicks all gone i’m searching  for feed

for fodder for some way to rate to grant my community

something of value to live by pecking away with no order

 

my livin’ ain’t easy never has been really no pappy standin

by but i’m diggin’ deep this time no time now for pretendin

that this old world is not a greedy bastard well not the planet

she the most generous forgiving loving mother giver ever

heard of but it appears she might be gettin’ tired of this

human experiment gone mad even your own kin exhaust you

sometimes offspring can act like aliens et’s behave better than

native sons with guns in crippled hands we women ain’t

much better I guess but who knows  all the triggers are

being pulled by men in black big wads of money enhancing

their weapons i’m not sure about Gaia, but i’m damn tired

and sick to death of war, ain’t gonna study no more

fact is

 

i’m scratching again my chicks all gone i’m searching  for feed

for fodder for some way to rate to grant my community

something of value to live by pecking away with no order

sister can you hear me?

 

 

 

Please Don’t Leaf Me

you must have fallen

felt yourself separated

from the limb that had

always been your mother

floating on the wind that

tore you from her…set adrift

you were caught by the

thread of an almost invisible

web were you twirled a dance

connected to the lamp post

outside my window not any

human-made art could equal

the beauty of your unfolding

i saw your birther looking down adoring

you and in her eucalyptus wisdom

rejoicing that you had been set free

Minuet

this thing in me that breaks open every few

minutes this minuet of despair… there is laughing

somewhere in here but it is derisive caring nothing

for my pain i say to the cynic, Can’t you see i’m

bleeding here i live in a world gone to hell

sirens and helicopter blades make the music

of this place i sleep for a few hours then wake

to plead with god, she seems to hear me but

it is not her but me who needs to be changed

by these prayer prattles rattling my cage

i want to be home, but i left it so long ago

i can’t remember how to get there

i am forever a stranger in my own mists

how much wealth or poverty does not determine

my class… did not graduate we lowered into

some infinite longing place…never made it

to heaven but today the asphalt of suburbia

scorches my brain making this burning

in me for some endless stretch of trees

to sing my soul back around this body

will jesus forever walk away on water

leaving no path to follow or will i take

flight in this night of endless sorrow

how the world has me keening

trembling like a sparrow caught in some

human hand that may kill or maim

my spirit the black horror of it has

stolen my memory of how to sing

i cling with my last feather to this

small piece of poetry fighting to set me free

i love you i love you i love you i love you jude

amen. awomen. alleluia. aaaaaah

365–To Hear the Angels Sing

here it is the last song of this

particular choir i pass the places

that were strange when i started

to run before my shoes wore out

and the dust settled i am here now

not there, this place belongs to

all of us and none i guess possession

has to do with demons not poetry

or places to you i give my last letter

and my first they were never mine

this line is filled with drying clothes

my mind empty of thoughts i listen

as quiet as a christmas mouse to

hear the angels sing

364–Lips

sacred promise almost fulfilled

i come to the end of this book

hold my companion in deep

respect wonder at the ride

of roller coaster words that

life is complete a journey

of poetry quest and trust

that there is singing waiting

to be heard the heavens are

made of this symphony of sound

instruments our voices adoration

the composer lips are only

passages for pilgrims coming home

363–god word

and now for the last three poems

i trust you words because you

sound so much like who we are

so much goddess flows out

the windows of these words

become worlds adding one

small l  the word became

flesh and dwelt among us

jesus walking on the water

of words fleeing on words

down a flood of glory into

manifestation not destiny

could we be but one letter

of this word we would wisper

the secrets of the universe

into your sacred ear oh god-word

of wonder, sweet power and light

And the wind! But it’s clearing
the sky, and the air is snow pure,
and the sound of nothing enters me.

Whoever I am, it is changing.
The meadow rings with evergreen.

Rumi Appears at the Elementary Choir Concert

with a line from Daniel Ladinsky’s translation of “With Passion”

First it’s the kindergarteners on the risers:
three layers of giggle and squirm stuffed
into rufflesome dresses and button up shirts.

From the back row, Camille can’t see her mom.
The lights are too bright. She starts to cry
and wipes her nose on her purple sleeve.

And on the side, Suki nervously
lifts up and down her skirt folds of taffeta, red.
She is a poppy in a winter field bobbing in the wind.

At last, the director hushes the crowd,
turns to the children, reminds them to smile,
and raises her hands to begin

when Rumi runs across the stage with a tambourine.
“Come stand in front,” she asks him, politely,
but he begins, instead, to dance. “Why look like a dead fish

in this ocean of God?” he shouts and he spins
and spins and spins. And all the parents watch aghast,
wondering whose child he is. And hoping

their own child will stand still. Smile.
Sing in tune. Bow. And in a single file,
walk off stage at the end. Meanwhile, Rumi tosses

his tambourine into the crowd,
claps his hands when someone catches it,
and then picks up a violin.

Allowing

It is hard
and I like
that it’s hard,
this skating
on skis
as fast
as I
can ski,
which means
as deep
as I
can breathe—
my lungs
they heave,
they heave
and burn
and the chest
inflates
and its thigh push
and arm pole,
hips rise
and fall,
and mygod
I am flying,
I’m flying,
I’m one with
the fall line,
I’m governed
by gravity,
in awe
how it works
so faithfully,
I am falling,
I’m falling,
I’m being skied,
there is more
than breath
rushing
through me.