Joyously
A free space created by a kid too sick for karate
coupled with enough rain to be seductive.
Droplets trail off the Braves cap bought in a moment
of fantasy when the twins were two
and trickle between my shoulder blades while
wet-plastered thighs pull the up-hills.
Indenture to clocks and calendars washes
away in a flow of present moments;
a brisk wind replaces indoor breath with living air
and fills my heart with thoughts of freedom.
I am joyously wet and cold.
Sovereignty
Dawn whispers farewell as the blood red disk
takes command of a pearlescent sky.
Diligent gannets plummet,
and a tiny crab clears his doorway
as I make offerings to morning gods.
Two silhouette-girls paddle surfboards
through blue milk-glass waters,
amid blinding flashes off wave and horizon -
staking their claims
at the edge of Immensity.
Such a comfort, these girls;
baldly, gracefully, mastering the spiraling surf,
evidence that the crusty world has indeed split open.
A pungent vitality, so long held down,
bursts forth from every side.
May all the holy energies bless them,
these daughters of a new age;
with their midriff-bared fierceness
and entitled determination;
these, with the striking dignity of wholeness.
Let us celebrate scarlet strides
through the wizened husks of dying ways.
Let us consecrate the
boldness of Sovereignty.
October Beach
It was one of those rare times
when Earth’s abundance and delight,
small wonders, simple and sublime,
shimmered gold in slant autumn light.
The Earth’s abundance and delight
brought dolphins circling below the balcony,
shimmering gold in slant autumn light,
the little ones breaching joyfully.
The dolphins circled below the balcony
as if delight were God’s only purpose.
The little ones breached joyfully,
savoring life at depth and surface.
As if delight were God’s only purpose
bait fish splashed up the beach all morning,
savoring life at depth and surface.
A staggered line of pelicans was forming
as bait fish splashed up the beach all morning.
At the breakwater bridge, fisherman laughed,
the staggered line of pelicans informing
the flashes of silver line they cast.
At the breakwater bridge, fisherman laughed,
welcoming Earth’s abundance with delight.
On flashes of the silver line they cast,
the sun shimmered gold in slant autumn light.
It was one of those rare times.
In All the Talk
In the all the talk of transformation,
no one prepares you to be alone,
without scaffolding, out of step,
misunderstood, maybe reviled.
No one confirms how right
or smart or special you are.
They are puzzled, unsure
whether to talk with you
or turn their backs.
No one warns you,
when you discover the music
that has called you all your life,
not to grieve when others
do not hear it or feel it.
Nor panic when
you are lighter than air
as you shift from three dimensions
to four; when you find yourself
aloft, steering by heart alone.
You are not prepared to feel
vulnerable, almost without skin,
when you encounter your truth.
You feel small and lost,
or perhaps whole, or
even holy.
Either way, you must pay the price.
You must pass through terror
if you wish to come alive.
You must step into emptiness
to find the ground that holds you.
Upon Learning of His Death
For John O’Donohue
I hoped to meet him in March that year,
at the therapy conference in D.C.
I had no other reason to go there,
than to hear that resonant voice, as he
shared the knowledge in his great heart;
to be inspired, as I knew I would be,
to love the world even more and start
claiming my own truth - that it is all beautiful -
the living, the loving, the dying – God’s exquisite art.
Now he lies in County Clare, faithful
County Clare, resting with the still stone,
welcomed by the warm earth, peaceful,
having done his work, having shown
us how to see the grace of this world,
having shown us the way home.
