Friday, at a California Church

She speaks, but all I hear is Boston,

edgy accents jut through her story,

of how she used to beautify

The dead, and how she loved

doing makeovers. Death never looked

so put together, or how the body waits

for nothing, and still manages to sigh.

They told her this would happen,

this release of the body, the settling in:

Her, new at the job, and them, the dead,

both forfeit to the finality. Her fingers offer

fruits of color: outline, blend, highlight.

~

At the church, I empty the wastebaskets,

in counseling rooms, carry bags of tissue

clouds, and toss a white sky into the dumpster

of what’s left behind: tears, loss, regret.

And, I think of you, and leave my body to travel

the spine of California—the greatest distance

is between our two points. Forfeits kill the forthcoming;

the season of waiting finally sighs out, and desire

reminiscences for the passing of thinly-weaved love.

I Have Found a Dream...

"I have found a dream of beauty at which one might look all one's life and sigh." -- Isabella Bird (1831-1904). Victorian era travel writer.

Variations of Hope

"And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:13

You're Not Really Here

Sometimes, it’s about the first person

You’ll see when you land,

Not off a plane, but this place

You’ve called home. It’s the moment you know

All you’ve worked for

Somehow doesn’t make sense, like leaving you

To start over, and move at an irregular pace.

It’s this shaking, not the kind you remember,

But from lack of food, too many hours spent

Going everywhere, but perpendicular:

Return to Sender. Person unknown.

So you go back, back to wishing,

Wishing you had the time, maybe to take up carving,

And call something your own...our own.

But there’s no you, so I dig away at the landscape,

Finding buckets of memories, baked fossils;

My spade turns circles in the air, and I become lost

In my own motions, another reason to start again,

Drift. Tread. Drift. Tread.

Until I untangle myself from this sea of hair.

Home

I hear the songs of the Native Americans ghosts call from Sugar Loaf. Chants echo, their cries fade in and out. The tips of their feathers are as bright as the turquoise sky. Words climb to the heavens after falling from their mouths; deep, brief pauses follow when their lips part to take a breath. This is how I imagine them—heavy in ritual, every twig precious, even the rocks having purpose. I close my eyes and imagine the smoke from their fire becoming lost in my hair. I watch gray ribbons rise from the heart of their camps. They wave at me and invite me to step inside their circle. They change my name and paint my face. My hands, stained with berries, feel the single braid of hair. I am like the river that divides the two lands by the body of the Mississippi: yesterday and today. I am caught in a dream, and dream their dream. I am free from where memory ends or where it begins. And when I wake, I am alone. I spend my childhood years combing the mountain wishing at least one of the tribe members would appear. I stand in silence. I am alone. Everyone is gone.

Departures

There are so many details I want to remember, moments like this that will be pressed into the memory of my heart. And I’ll think…you have to remember this...this moment with you.

~ ~ ~

It was a time of exiting—the kind when you know you’re fully living, aware, and the person in front of you, understands what you’re saying. Sometimes there's no sound. Other times, it's the sound of his voice that embraces, encourages, and flattens out the creases in my soul.

~ ~ ~

If you depart from a place of dream, you'd be a stranger if you chose to go back...

You Know Who You Are...

Happy Valentines Day ~

Of Kind...

Distance presses its teeth deep

Into my skin. I still look for you...

Still see your face, while you try to fold

Back the layers--getting lost

To the years of infinite grays--

And, yet, in the unspoken, we share

The same wondrous, hope-laced skies.

And Then, There Was You...

I swallow what feels like

A sweetened memory of the sun.

At sunrise, I rise

With hope; beauty breathes

Into the dark spots,

The space between the trees

Where the bark has given up:

Fallen; pieces of desire; all this...

Having lost it’s way.

And then, there was you.