Happiness

I thought it would come with achievements on its arm, certificates, letters after its name,

But it came with nothing; with an emptying rather than a gathering. It came after a letting go.

I thought I’d find it on the battlefield, upon conquering my stalwart fears, but happiness did not follow aggression.

Instead it came in the wake of releasing expectations. It showed up when it recognized there was no one left to please.

There is simplicity to this feeling. It reveals its presence only when it is certain it’s the only emotion in the room.

Happiness does not stay long. If another emotion knocks on the door, happiness fades away.

It desires to be experienced alone, treasured simply for itself.

The Deep Deep

Tell me a story

about vehicles falling

into the deep deep ocean,

my son murmurs at bedtime,

and I wonder

who told him the ocean is deep;

deep

deep.

Cars drift into the sea

of his 3-year-old soul

awaiting extrication,

seeking salvage.

He wants 

their stories told,

and he wants the telling

to take a while.

He wraps his four fingers 

around my two,

leaving his thumb free

to wiggle.

It writhes 

with each rescue attempt—

a rod for his imagination

to ground down 

into the reality 

of another failed escape.

It’s a wonder 

these cars can stay afloat,

buoyed above the thrashing waves

of typhoon tears.

Unexplored emotion

makes the waters unnavigable.

He trusts I know the way 

to their salvation,

and waits for the ending

with a smile.

When tired tires crawl ashore

crunching sand clutched

in whining gears and gaskets,

he knows his soul has survived the deep, again,

he coos.

Tell me 

the story

again.

A walk without headphones

The mood is set

by red wine and fireflies.

And darkness

carrying a cool eastern breeze 

that travelled here on the edges of

this morning’s thunderstorm, 

with its raucous timpani.

I gawk at the silver-haired woman across the street,

who walks paced and steady.

She doesn’t notice me.

She listens to her digital book without headphones,

as she has every night this week,

inviting each resident on the block to hear her story.

“You do not have to listen but you will hear!”

 scream her sweaty arms as they swing.

O, how I wish my soul were as willing

to demand such attention.

For, seated on a tuft of gray pillow 

from my home’s front porch

I walk,

along the emotional causeway of my day.

listening alone

to my heart’s story.

Pockets

There is a hidden fabric to every day

that holds all preciousness close—

secretly resting untouched, until

you graze it—

swiftly, tenderly;

clutching it—

purposefully, desperately;

never taking

or replacing, it
is folded
into the contours
of this skin-and-bone-sewn soul

where I allow

only

your
hand
to reach in.

Grow

I was too small

to hold it all;
my soul needed an overhaul.

The dirt was dry,
the daisies died,
regardless of the tricks I tried.

It was a drought
that cleared it out
and set me on a turnabout.

New seed is sown,
fresh water flows—
it’s time to let my one life grow.

you fill everything

you fill
everything

slowly,
the way water fills the cracks
of sidewalk in my front yard
after an unexpected April snow

the way perfume fills the air
and wraps itself around pillowcases
in an empty bed

swiftly,
as beauty fills the spaces between us
and longing eyes fill with the glisten of delight
and fear and
love

you fill me
like a cat claws
with soft paws
and playful round eyes
as you bite your lip

and I flush
with the rush

of
the way
you fill
everything

Rounded Edges

The rounded edges 

of your hand,

soft and slick

across the palm,

gently press

into flesh.

Oh! To touch the heart

through touch of skin,

a tender lip to cheek, 

and warm arms of embrace.

Your eyes touch the air between us,

piercing through

the cloud of unknowing

to smile

at me,

at last.

The lurch of loneliness

loving you

held me

through the lurch 

of loneliness

—my stomach knew 

before my heart 

that it was already 

mid-fall

and as the rigor-mortis 

muscle of earth

caught me, death 

transmuted my soul.

I am new.

I will not let

affection, again,

awaken too soon.

You are a vision

You are vision
of something good coming my way;
I hear you
it is not you, and
I respect you.

Your journey leads, down
a path winding away
from the place we met

"The soul is seen best in candlelight,"
he said.
And I believe him now.

I saw your soul and mine, haunting
the dance of that night,
glimpsing the soft brush
of untouched skin
singed by shadow.

I meet you there, still
though you have never returned.
Your face is as dark
as my knowing of you

But I still see your form
half-stepping into the light.

Sober Saturday

Your face fades into the fog of dreamscape

as I reach across the bed to still the resonant sound

of morning come too quickly.

The day between us was a

middle-passage between death and life; 

Christ’s descent to the dead, and

freeing of every soul but mine.

By the time my feet touch the floor

I feel the familiar emptiness, in

my throat, in

my belly—

another sober Saturday—

schooling me the differing textures, of

pain-avoidance and pleasure, of

thirst and gluttony, of

love and lust,

want and need.

I want you close, both 

in the nearness, and in the 

spaces in-between.

But I need you as you are,

wherever you are,

whoever you are.

Sobriety is a prayer, divining

satisfaction with what is—

in the stillness and silence

of oneself where there is nothing

else to be with but me.

Crooked Angel

Crooked angel atop the tree,

Your slanted light shines onto me

Atop my head a halo hue;

A blessing, or a broken fuse?

Crooked angel, so still and white

You brightly shine at bleak twilight,

Between the night and ‘morrow’s day

Your wings have O, so much to say

Of flight into another year, 

Of memories in quiet tears, 

Of fears and hopes stacked on the shelves,

And spaces made for brand new selves,

Once old facade drifts, lost, behind

And spirit comes revealing mine

Eternal soul come out to play—

In crooked angel kinds of ways.

Winter’s Storming

I am in spring.

You are in winter.

I sow my seeds

As you sow splinters.

I stand below,

Awe in your grandeur; 

Your eyes downcast

Perceive a voyeur.

The heavy snow

Cakes on your shoulders,

A weighted life

Makes you look older.

This night is long

But shortening soon,

Inhale deeply

Into every bloom

Of the Spirit

In the wintry wind,

That wakes you

From hibernation;

Hear her whisper

In the quiet dark,

For with it comes

A quickening spark;

To remind you

Of your leaves ablaze,

Last season when

You finessed your rage.

There will, again

Be a gathering,

After summer’s 

Sanguine smiling.

Now take my hand,

And feel it warming

The tired bones

From winter’s storming.

O, my soul

I am the father, returning

from a long day, clutching 

his rumpled sports jacket, dragging 

tired feet behind bruised ankles, bearing

the growing weight 

of a briefcase brimming with words 

on paper jostling cough drops, now leaning lazily

into the chair-back next to the bed

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the mother, waiting

poised before the table lamp, silhouetted

within the kitchen window pane, peeking

through the one-way glass

of his adult world, pining

for a place to be someone seen

and known, skilled enough to shape another,

with strong hands, gone limp in the lap

where you are, O, my soul;

waiting for me.

I am the child, free

to curl into myself, free

to learn to laugh, free

to know to cry, free

to hold myself, tight-fisted

and free, to give what is not mine

back to a world that swallows 
innocence whole, dousing the hearthstone

where you are, O, my soul;

calling me home.

Re-membering

The word’s acidity

balances the body,

dissolving metal in flesh,

re-moving pins tenderly placed in tendons

where liget ligaments hung listless.

Bones never cracked open

with clear lines to re-fuse

but chipped and changed,

calcifying into sculptures my artist soul

shaped without consent.

Fragile and strong, 

these truths sewn together with skin

in the game no one signed up to play; 

so I forgot to play anyway,

to spit out grass and blood

and smile, because the dirt tastes good

after taking a kick in the teeth

and despite the pain,

it’s nice to feel 

happy.

changing shape

my middle toe is bent

crudely rubbing the top 

of my Birkenstock

flicking off the ground 

beneath my right foot

forgetting how it used to rest

on the cushion underneath

the soft skin of its waist stands awkwardly erect

posed forever downward dog

until it fuses again

with another bone

moved to relationship 

by proximity

and shared tension

by a receptive capacity for joining

and a body that fights itself

with each swell it changes shape

and i learn to recognize myself, anew

love is strong

the movement of fire, internal

bellied up and beating in the chest, rising

to guttural cry, deep and throaty.

a warrior’s love,

no fear of death, 

even life dissolves, within 

desire

: enamored,

each moment made

new by nearness.

amore è forte

mirrored by biceps and bulging breasts,

open hearts,

rendered,

empty, awaiting the piercing arrow,

dying. happy.

Something Jesus said

i am new wine

stomped on, 

the old way

and now this skin is 

too tight

like a finger pricked

i bleed through 

beading the sack

soon all of me will spill 

out

sloshing

and rimming

the hand

that drinks

seeking royal peerage

in lips stained purple
and clinging 

to a temporary
embrace

your holy kiss

And it was sunlight

Her lips parted 

like a cloudy day.

Brightness shone 

in the rose of her cheeks

as she smiled

blood blushed delight

at our parting.

Aloneness is not loneliness.

The soul desires 

itself, unmasked

unfinished and undulating 

in infinite becoming;

to see its own face

each moment

in that eternally lit room

at the center of spirit,

the intersection of all

belonging.

I took pictures

in my mind

and flipped through her pages

when I was alone.

She laughed, and it was sunlight.

She clapped her hands

She clapped her hands
to a beat no one could follow

How foolishly she looked
compressing so vigorously

a heart that stopped beating
three years ago

Heads bowed
hearts folded in prayer

She just kept clapping her hands

After the rain

Tree leaves shoot spitballs in my eye and laugh
jostling like middle-school boys
punching each other with scrawny arms

Each fist a valentine kiss
a baptismal sting

Do I see differently now?

that clouds have cleared
and raindrops pool at my feet
bleeding soil

reflecting the naked rainbow
that streaks through the yard
with a twinkle in his eye

What delight there is in the slow recovery.

of holy waterfalls from heaven
that cleanse
and merge
the imperceptible divide

What was only seen through
a squint’s slit
opens wide
in the gentle safety
of steam
rising from the sidewalk

rising from the heat of the soul
lit again
by an interior flick of
the ethereal switch

The heart’s imperceptible desire
flung wide
as an Ohio sky
after the rain

To Be Small

to be small.

a feeling in—
significance
In—

another’s eyes

relegated

negotiated

isolated

for the advantage.

to be small.

given a bar
higher than your reach

told it is 

low

expectation.

to be small.
coming

only from within 

to hide

to protect

from—
another’s eyes,
too narrow

to let your light in

too slim
to hold 

the weight of you.

Weary

She collapses on the kitchen table as you enter the room. 

Shoulders slumped like the rumpled corner of a bedsheet

one edge stretched too thin. 

This is the mold her body shapes to each day 

when the dishes are done 

and the children are in their beds, 

not asleep—not yet—still

pleading with the shadows 

for one more drink 

and one more book 

and one more minute with the light on. 

But she does not 

have one more of anything to give. 

Blurry-eyed and blinking at the clock,
she finds she’s worked too late and too long, 

again.

Leaving her office 

she turns the lock on the door 

like a DJ turns a table on a raucous Saturday night
the moment the beat drops

and an unnatural silence is held in the tension of fingers. 

Walking down the empty hallway 

echoes her own vacancy.

If books could be flowers

If books could be flowers
I’d arrange them by color
and breathe in their dusty jackets
like a lover’s gift

I’d water them with my tears
as each character was pruned
and blossomed

I’d read them in time-lapse
to shrink hours of exploration
into one minute of the day

I’d never pick the best ones
so that they might grow
to heights no one has yet dreamed

Erinyes

“Thank you,” he said.

—a self-cursed lie,
inflicted pity.

The gratitude was not in it.

dISoRDeReD 

INTENSE

I sip my coffee 

white-wristed blood-knuckled 

vengeful and wild, 

a blackened coal 

roasting to dust.

In him is rage

so small

and without destruction—

innocent exalted frenzy

collapsing into restful sleep.

But I am wanderlust

dis     placed.

passionate. fierce.

and tied haphazardly to the backyard fence.

brash and brackish

hidden

behind and between the small cracks

of a smile, “You’re welcome.”

A Wrestless Day

No one likes to be around a wrestless day.

Not the sycamore tree across the way

who thrashes the rain that won't allay,

flicking leaves into the grey ashtray

of sky seen through my home's archway;

nor the woman who deems her life blasé,

white-knuckling every word she prays

through teeth that mime a donkey's bray;

they both appear to bob and sway

on this blithering blustery wrestless day.

Up

I'm standing on my grandmother's stoop, 
just outside the front door.

My arms, the wings of an airplane, 
rigid and outstretched, 
end at clumsy fingers, clad with mitten,
pressing the glowing doorbell.

In one swooping motion as the door swings open,
the aging woman bends down,
for she hears my need for dry socks and steaming soup.

My red cheeks tell her,
and the snow whispers "The little girl is cold,"
as it rests on the hairs of my head,
as the feathers rest, fluffy and light,
on the chest of the finch, who watches me with one eye 
from the winter wild bird feeder hidden among the shrubs.

The woman draws near, 
her lips a thermometer on my forehead,
measuring how hot to make my soup.

"Oh my!" she yelps. "You poor thing."
"Come inside where it's warm." 

I am poor. 
My pockets hold no money to offer her,
in exchange for her attention.

But of course she seeks none; I am her child, 
born of the daughter from her own womb. 

She is a tower but her eyes remain at my level, 
assessing my need.

How did she make herself so small? 
And her gaze so loving?
It lifts up my heart, 
as her arms lift up my small frame at the waist
to take me inside.

She stooped, 
like the concrete stairs holding me up!
Who is like her, 
who stands so high 
but drops so low to raise me up?