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


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

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.