for all of us

you are beautiful

all of your flawed furious unstoppable selves

all of your self doubt and self loathing and fears are groundless

you are floating in a medium of unspeakable beauty

unmeasurable

unfathomable consciousness

our connections to each other 

are no less than the gossamer threads of angels light

allowing us to be

and be loved 

as we are

we are loved and love

who we are now

all of our pain and sorrow

all of our alone ness and fear of failure

and all of our fury 

relieved

shed like a sad skin

peeled like an orange

to reveal our inner beauty

and all the while 

as you are revealing your inner layer 

you are leaving behind the scent of your beauty your 

fragrant inner life force

instantly recognizable

and you are home 

right where you are 

you belong

wherever you are

this is what makes us beautiful

this is it

not the outer shell that fools worship and discard

but the soft and shaky real you

you are all beautiful

jan 30 2016

now that we have conquered nature

as it were

and stand uneasily amongst ourselves 

limply holding the reins

eyes seeking to meet each other and then quickly looking away

what now?

do we derive to sustain us in this hall of mirrors

and only in our dreams do we meet each other

as we once were

only in the night of the unconscious 

do we ascertain the the danger 

and the approach of passion -

like lying on a landing strip as the beast 

roars above you 

landing or leaving it did not matter

only the huge shuddering of a body that revealed you

thrilling and

shattering your claim to self sufficiency

and in the aftermath

the only thing you can remember is the smell of the fumes burning your nose and the thrumming of your ears as you struggle to recover from the noise of it.

in the realm of present currency  

we would do well to dwell in this dream, 

where souls are all of one and each other 

and not derived from this 

morass of self identification 

impugned on shards of silvered glass. 

How we cope

how we cope

we make shit

we look at what is in our hands

and how we can form it into a useful or a beautiful or 

a meaningful thing

a song or poem or a prayer

a loaf of bread

a shrine, or new curtains -

what ever it is - to shore up the bulkhead against destruction. 

sometimes we fail and

our efforts fall short 

and the sandbags we have placed in a wall to hold back the tide 

are overtaken  

and then we calculate our losses 

or maybe we have even lost our abacus 

or our compass 

and we pile the detritus up in pyres on the curb or 

or bury it

trying not to let the sorrow swallow us whole 

or hoping it will

and it becomes a part of our new creation. 

this is the thread that we are all seeking to bind us in hope

it is the thread of transformation

it is our only hope

poem

things we measure
pages, words,
slope the descent of a line the
number of heartbeats
kisses & tides & bodily fluids
all attempts to control categorize order arrange
bound & connected
by the things we cannot measure
aura, intention, arrival
reflection

dresses

dresses in the closet

I don’t know why I counted them 

seven survivors 

worthy  desirable

at least 

in so much

as can be revealed in public places

in a 

not denied entry 

kind of way.

: that would pass 

though.

given enough time,

even the carefully edited collection loses its relevance

you are the compendium of all of our hopes and dreams

and also the what we have to put before we go outside. along with our faces and expectations

I taste the cloth between my fingers 

and categorize each by its texture

a memory imprinted on my fingertips

signaling for recall 

to unfurl and fill in the rest. 

like a fern frond

slowly

That one was bought in a shop on a corner of a street in Barcelona. 

And that one I wore to lunch of tapas in Oxford.

Never mind that I have never been to either place. I could have,

in that dress.

It was a good time.  

without this -last day of winter poem

the winter trees are brown with promise

tired snow lays listlessly on the ground

yielding patches of its former glorious

sun soaked chlorophyll drunk riotous color.

this is what we draw:

leaves, fences, faces, time travel, 

stacks of books,

clutches of pens,

promise of blank paper,

whisper of time.

this is what we fill with each stroke, each intention, 

each bow drawn across the strings,

straining to hear ancestral composer’s articulations

building bridges through generations, 

to the seeds of yestertime

without this we are still some form of us

we are still we and

without this we are hollow

maleable

soundless paper marionettes dancing 

dangling in the foul wind 

of fruitless winter

Valentines Day Détente

it is my heart talking

those words you cannot quite hear

the ones you strain to listen to 

lean in to catch

but the torrent continues

you think you get the gist of it

then it rains on

and you realize 

you did not hear what 

you thought you were listening to

when you heard what you 

thought my heart was saying

its all right

its just another kind of energy that connects us

we read between the lines-

as if that were possible -

to ever even understand what

someone else is feeling 

much less to be able to convey this

with an alphabet of mirrors and lost art

its all right. 

we assume so much 

in direct opposition to our own finity.

legacy! all hail!

the stones thud against us 

and fall,

mad meteors

and

we lean in

as we strain to hear the angel’s song

DNA~ january 5, 2014

Her DNA thrums 

like water under ground,

going places.

waiting for her to listen, 

to see, 

to be able 

to claim her place; 

evolve, 

make a left turn, resolve

to become the navigator of her own chemistry:

a treasure hunter – 

pirate of her own ocean -

drifting on the periphery of her 

softly folded in 

dreams.

for what of this plunder? pillage? loot?

What lust 

is thus 

aroused? 

for it is not the treasure 

that seduces us

like sirens,

surges in us 

like sudden, 

unfathomable desire.  

It is not the plunder, 

but the hunt. 

Always the hunt

Some Things Remain the Same. published in the Long Island Quarterly in the early nineties

Some things remain the same 

I am carried in a rickshaw

Only conscious for the epiphany from one tableau to the next, bundled like a cocoon, 

strangers speaking in muted voices so as not to wake the sleeping child the patient the victim

The smells are different in each recollection

The wallpaper a cipher the clocks tick rocks bound

Each to its own rhythm a separate rendition, 

This torturer in banana curls this one on a bicycle - these a pair under the bathroom window squealing and squirming in gleeful whispers trying to espy the child naked and unsuspecting. 

Sometimes the language is not my own

The food smells overwhelmingly good

It makes me want to live again to inhale to taste 

To be a member of this table or that one 

To be a known member of this tribe

No secret customs or furtive glances no secret codes of conduct
out of my reach beyond my ken.

What remains the same is the need to stay
as still as death as silent
as twilight falling snow
til they have forgotten you are there and
you can join them with your shadow self
annihilating your own bulky needy presence 
to become a member at this table
no terrifying unknowns no treacherous unraveling edges
no children unprotected no un tendered questions. 

I awake in each new tableau as from
an interminable unconscious state.
I do not remember who I have been,
if I have made ketchup and eggs for my daughter this morning
or watched as they took my mothers furniture down the narrow staircase and loaded it onto a truck
destination undetermined.
Some things remain the same - there are the smells of the food cooking- there is the silent interrogation of a strangers eyes, the hollow reproach of ill spent youth
and always the accursed bounty of other peoples tables.    

revision

sometimes poems get revised and become new poems or better ones. I do not know if I have put this here before but here is it revised. It is called

Undisclosure

I.

I raise my body from the couch and scrape the leftover oatmeal in my bowl

into the noisy aluminum waste bin

and notice the crumbs left on the shiny winter table

II.

In a dream I was invisible and therefore had the power to glide unseen through infinite aisles of a heavenly supermarket

to take what nourishment or luxury I wanted, unheeded.

Unheeded, not like in the way when you complain about being starved by your mother and they respond,

‘Oh honey, some day she will be your best friend’

unheeded, as in you can have as much as you want and no one will stop you, 

nor shame you for your profane need

III.

(when I married the first time it was because of 

the act of food as love,

it was as though I was full for the first time)

IV.

I did not have the vocabulary to tell

our story, then, 

or what portion of it was left for me to discern

to trace like finger prints upon a frosty window

or the breath caught in that place in your sternum,

just south of a full breath.

V.

be perfect in this one moment

allow the present to swell in your breast 

the moment being perfect itself

That is the lesson I have learned, that  

there is no wrong or right way to breathe,

no moral to the story, just the listening, and discerning,

and we are all already connected more than can ever be told with fragile homilies,

or removed with insane malice.

poem of the day- 100 words

snowflakes

december 8

hardly noticeable and yet they are there

frenzied frozen 

tiny whirling 

dervishes

alighting on your face

just a speck of wet

a droplet of water on your eyelash

a blurred lens

the smell of snow in the air

the wind is picking up

a nor’easter the weather beings toll

like the bells in buoys 

they way they used to toll

softly caroling in the night

but that would come later when we were separated

beyond the arc of time and place

I do not know if you ever sensed the impending storm 

or heard the buoys chime

poem for the not silent night

Standing at the edge

of the field of queen anne's lace

I know I belong there

sycophants notwithstanding 

I see over you 

“I  am looking through you”  he said airily

I turned and walked away 

back to my own field 

where he does not exist

did you think I would be silent as I was marginalized?

I have given birth to 

worlds of seeds 

tumbling like time

crashing through the river beds

into oceans I have wept

the places that change you-

memory is a canticle

informing the present with its solemn grace and cadence 

Like Lot’s 

anonymous wife, 

whose passion lay behind her,

we look back through the caul of the ever-

present consequential 

thrum of traffic and dialog.   

needs and must be. 

appointments with no consequence. 

No resonance. 

we drink from this the chalice of rotting leaves. 

makes good compost you say

always thinking of the garden

a thinning stand of trees 

a fire in the distance 

you can smell the smoke from the fire place 

where someone has bought expensive wood from the stop and shop.

I want to go there again. 

Like Lots nameless wife I am powerless 

I look back 

and am 

frozen in place.  

There is no forward. 

Cursed by a tide of unreasonable expectation and given no carriage out

I want to go there again 

To drink longingly from the river of Pieria. 

The lady's perfume

The lady's perfume
accompanies her like an aura
on the train which speeds along the tracks, faster than I could run, but not really fast,
and causes my bronchial tubes to contract,
and wheezing ensues.

She is one of the
"they who carry the many bags" tribe.
The second bag is a Disney tote bag confection,
in the style of what someone thought was an old movie marquis.
Complete with glitter. And typography.
Diagonal typography.
We exchange a glance and
a polite smile.
My wheezing is congenial.

Outside as the scenery slides by
I imagine breathing in the cool fall air.
I breathe from the bottom of my abdomen, as I have been taught. I consider whether the inhaler I think I have in my single bag actually contains any magical mist to calm my bronchial passages.
Not likely.

We pass a stream with an arched Monet like bridge next to parking lot and I wonder if Monet has a parking lot next to his garden at Giverney.
I muse that I would like I go there someday and think that I would make a mental note the placement of the parking lot.
Perhaps we can take a train from Paris,
if we ever make it to Paris.

The buildings are closer together as the lumbering train which carries me
and the perfumed one
and the other worker bees into the city.
She types on her iPhone with the typing sound turned on and it annoys me inordinately - the typing sound
the glittery oversized second tote bag
 - and her aura of pernicious perfume which
is choking me.

How to read a long poem

how to read a long poem:

whisper the lines aloud

softly

stop and perhaps reflect 

‘oh my God that is perfect’

read the line again for confirmation

I learned this from hearing the poet 

David Whyte read:

he stopped and reread the lines for emphasis

but softly 

so as not to bang you over the head with it

but to allow you the gift of the moment 

to embrace it

to breathe in its essence

to slow down 

and 

dwell 

there with the writer and 

comprehend, to hear them speak 

to hear them speak

to hear

them 

speak

Sacrifice

Reading "Feeding the Hungry Ghost" while riding the train.
Asking my brother, 
"Are you a hungry ghost? "

The train lumbers through the outposts of Queens: 
Rosedale. Laurelton. Locust Manor. 

I have this scene in my mind of me pushing all my worldly goods to my dead brother, apologizing for my survival. 
He gives it all back. 

He does not require my suffering. 
His memory does not require my sacrifice. 
I read:
"Anise. 
Chia.
Flax."
"Soy milk and raisins." 

Ingredients in a recipe for vegan seed cake

august poem

A friend can be a crack in the ceiling where you trace the features of a character you once met in a book that you forgot to to return to the library in the town where you once lived where you no longer have an address.

Or a someone on a bus who comes out of their lonely silence to offer you a gift of companionship and you ride together for a while knowing you will likely never see that person again and you will never be in their debt and yet you are grateful 

or the silence itself 

reflexive 

and as deep and 
bottomless 
as a cold quarry pond. 
Deeper than any still water 
and deeper than that. 

You can hear the whistle of your nervous system as it races to complete each thought and you know you are not hearing it all 

nor catching every nuance. 

And then you breathe in and realize you have been waiting for a rush of sound to release you from this crush of waiting. 

A friend could sit there beside you on the boardwalk bench, 

unexpectedly still wet from the condensation of the cool night before 

and wait for you to acknowledge their presence 

Understanding that if you do not know them it is because you are deep in the machinations of your own tangle of thoughts 

Lost perhaps 

And you need 

to find your way home 

before 

you can open your mouth 

to speak 

I notice there are dried peas on the chair where he sits in a booster seat with straps. A contraption that allows us to sit and eat with his constant toddler motion contained for a bit.  

In the couch cushion are the remnants of the saltine cracker that he crunched up and quietly observed as the bits crumbled and dropped. 

A purple crayon is beneath the ottoman that we have moved in order to vacuum under it 

hoping that the upright will inhale the tumbleweed cat hairs that bounce along the floor 

before he can. 

Several different sized disposable diapers are piled up in the loo. 

And I notice a tiny tube of toothpaste was left behind. The kind that tastes like a Popsicle. He made a disgusted face when we brushed his teeth with adult flavored toothpaste. 

And interspersed with our history tomes and knitting books are books with dinosaurs sporting underwear and mice that want milk with their cookies.

When he goes home with his parents we can hear the clock tick 

He hears a bird and puts his hand to his face in the universal sign language gesture and says 

'hear it? hear the birdies? hear the sound?’)

When he goes home 

we sit in our respective places and search the internet for the meaning of life 

or at least a good deal on shoes.

It is quiet. 

We have cleaned up in his wake 

restoring what passes for order in our home 

and we miss him.

in other news I finished a small painted monogram for Jen  based upon the necklace Jay gave to her for her birthday. The bottom one was the final iteration. For now. 

I am embracing

failure,

having no prospects.

no burning desires, 

no urgent calling

no purpose.

I do not look my best 

I do not dress to impress

I have no need to win friends and influence people

and I have no plans to change this.

I am stopping to smell the roses

I am being here now

listening to the sound of one hand clapping

Ruminations on who you are

I learned that beauty is not about physical alignment of features.
More so it is about if you can feel the emanations from someone else's heart and that you can get your eyebrows singed by being to near the flame be it a flame which comes from a physically beautiful person or from a body whose physical attributes flaunt convention. It is not the maleness or the femaleness but if you can trust that person to look beyond look through your brand of beauty and be kind to whatever they find there ~ then you travel in life with them for as much time as you are allotted.
Some will travel alone for a very long time and others will have many partners.
The most startling bit is that they are a mirror. And what strikes at you about who they are is nothing greater or lesser that who you are.
When you can be gracious even when someone is practicing evil arts on your reflection then you are earning your own evolution.