Simple things

There has been so much shouting
I lost my words for simple things.

Like how the clouds
with their steady refusal to stay
or to be any one thing
can give a sense of the world, moving
and for a moment it feels okay.

Or how a seagull
flying alone, against all odds
in a wind storm
is not a human thing
not struggling or lonely or sad
but free.

Or how you can love someone
for so long, one way
until you imagine them, erased
and your love has no choice
but to change.

There are a thousand tiny things
to notice every day.

Feed them
to your scattered soul
to your blazing heart
to your fear.

Allow yourself
the easy comfort
of stone and leaves.

Be nourished, and full
for the long march
for the work
for the life
you have signed up
to lead.



There are too many metaphors
made up of water
and leaves.

What if we were all just
what we are?

What if your joy was just
an exuberance of flesh
and eyes bedazzled
with yes.

What if love was you,
revealed, a simple warmth
within your heart.

What if when sadness comes
you didn’t wash it
like a wave
or make it
be a blossom
what if you curled up
and held it close
waiting for morning
and let the sun rise
all on its own.


Are you living only
at the edges
of your heart?

Are you avoiding
the quiet
for its questions,
like Is this it?

Is this all
that is here for me
this time?

Take this as a sign
of a life, divided.

Of a heart, half broken,
with neglect.

We are meant to be
only one self, not just
one thing, but whole.

To be driven by the call
in our blood.

Look around
at all the dead men
dead women, walking.

Is this it?

Is this all
that is here for me
this time?

The world
will not survive
without your arrival.

What the soul needs

Sometimes a stand
of naked, black trees
etched against
a flat slate sky
is what the soul needs.

Asking, can you let
this thing die?

Can you let your own heart
be enough
to make it through


Mother Mary works overtime
tonight, gathering sick, scared,
crying children, in her arms
like love, for life.

I wish I was like that.

I wish I could mother
the millions.

I wish the father
spreading his arms
across his babies
as they sleep
amidst the bombs
of Aleppo
had more angels
on his side.

But it’s Halloween
and then Thanksgiving
and then Christmas
and there is oh so much
shopping! and eating!
to do.

We shouldn’t think
about that.

I wish I could shake
this earth
like a plastic, globe-shaped
toy, and watch reason
and meaning settle
like sparkly snowflakes
across every inch of sky.

Inside the rain

Stop fighting
against what falls
at your feet
and live, inside the rain
for a while.

It’s good to get soaked
in a new idea.

To let the mud
of your own desire
pull your dutiful steps
off course.

No really, what do you want?

It’s pouring now
and the forecast,
more of the same.


I think rainbows appear
not out of some perfect
projection of physics
and sky, but at just
the moment you need them.

An arc so impossibly

A technicolor slide
fit for angels.

That gleaming pot of gold.

You cannot deny
your own wonder.

I think other things come
like this, too.

It is just
a matter of seeing.