PLEASE HELP

We’ve all felt it,
a stirring in the heart,
a hardening that happens
with just one quick jerk of the head,
just one look away, as we drive on by
or quickly walk past;
holding on to our purse,
clutching our wallet,
watching out of the sides of our eyes,
the scraggly man with the sign that reads,
HOMELESS AND HUNGRY
PLEASE HELP.


We’ve all felt it,
like a rusty old door with a loose spring,
BAM! The heart slams shut
at the sight of human need
written in black marker
on a dirty piece of cardboard
for all the world to see.


It’s not that we don’t care
about the man with the sign.
Some part of us cares.
It’s the same part of us that cares
that there is a war in the Sudan,
or a shooting on the other side of town,
or that our child’s classmate’s gym shoes
have holes in them. We feel guilty
that we don’t know how to do more.
And so we distance ourselves,
we care from a few steps away.


There may have been a time
when we thought we could be
a small part of changing the world
 for the better. When we felt emotions
like hope, and a stirring toward justice.
But it was a lifetime ago, when our hearts
had fewer callouses;
back when we still thought
we could make a difference,
back when we thought
we knew what love is.


But if I refuse to help that man, is there love in me?


What if  we were to believe the impossible
and do the unthinkable? What if
we believed that God is greater
than our hearts? That reteaching us
what love is, is not a problem for God.
God knows the human heart
because God made the heart
and God became human
to experience the giving and sharing
of hearts with us. What if we were
to leave “tough love” behind
after all these years
and have a love-affair
with the God who knows what love is?
We just might like it enough
that we’ll want to stay with that kind of love
forever.


Can you feel it-
that stirring in the heart,
the strange warming
that seeps in from all sides
at the recognition of love;
at the possibility
that love could be for you after all?
It is the compassionate realization
that when it all comes down to it,
we are all that man
on the side of the road,
with dirty cardboard signs
hanging from our hearts, that read
HOMELESS AND HUNGRY
PLEASE HELP.

Adapted from the sermon, "Tough Love."

invisible friend

She can't see his eyes,
round and muddy blue bubbles
of lake water mounted above a bloated grin.
 

The sky is a shark,
gray and toothy at midday.
 

Laughter splashes throughout the house:
Children imagine their futures;
adults bathe in sunny memories.
 

He bites her when no one is watching. 

The tender pale of childhood reddens under his summer heat.
She covers her heart,
shading it from his burning gaze,

presses her cheek into the earth,
imagining each blade as a whisker
on the soft and innocent face of a kitten.

She is a cat,
playfully jumping through hoops,
unaware that his actions tame her.

"I want to go inside," he says.
She always does what he wants,
so she smiles, saying nothing;
it's silly to speak to an invisible friend.

an american pastime

the batter strikes 

the side of the muffin tin

a grand slam out of

the long stretch of summer

slides onto home plate.

the crisp crowd cheers wildly

perched on wooden bleachers

outside the kitchen window

and a hodgepodge team of colored flags

clatter together in celebration 

of winter's coming chill. 

we pass by;

mouthfuls of blueberry crumble

smiling under hooded sweatshirts

from the living room chair

the scent of charred 

espresso beans

ring through 

the echo of the frozen fire alarm's

still night

by candlelight

breathing in shadows of silence

from the slowly rising chest on the sleeping dog

and the crackling glow

of a smile bent on sleep

in the cool of a long autumn evening

found from the living room chair

this life

there was a life in the

words that fell, swiftly

as a child falls

when mother's eyes blink, deftly

as the hammer falls

when father focuses his brow, solidly

as the flower falls into rhythm with the casket,

but,

this life is not in the words that swam from edge to edge of every page, pooling emotions into the description of a tear

this life is in the tear itself, and

in the drowning within it

this life is in the braille walls of concrete and skin scraping, skin deep 

into the waters alongside a pleated lounge-chair

this life is under the pale nails seen tapping this screen,

but no longer within the screen itself

snow day

your screams muffle in beige Burberry scarf,
and the chill rides down the steep incline of my neck;
this warm body is a roller-coaster of delightful terror,
smiling as the cold stings each tooth

a dog barks,
and you scream again
as his head surfaces from the fluffy white under your feet

and we laugh
the kind of laughter that echoes
like a wind-chime on a blustery winter day,
like adolescent girls blinded by sleet,
playing Marco Polo,
swimming in snow.

it is a rare diamond of a day;
the rough cut of every flake falls slanted and shimmering
through the clear glass steaming at the corners,
warming each pane in the air rising from kindled wood
inside our home, where we now sit,
swaddled in each others' arms,
leaning in to the storm.

prisoner of war

i woke
and thoughts of you exploded
with the scent of hair pressed
to nose nestling near lips 
speaking gentle words muffled 
under blushing cheeks;
the intrigue of your inviting eyes 
sparked ignition.

now pieces fall 
like you-shaped snowflakes
onto the white bed 
of an Ohio Christmas;
shrapnel cutting deep into me, 
nesting under skin, 
making a home.

the cannon fires again
from the beaches 
of your sunlit heart, 
melting fear,
and
d
 r
  i
   p
     p
       i
        n
        g
down
sweet lips,
as a dog's tongue drips 
when she's smiling 
from too much play-
from too much happiness 
in one day.

one day.
closer.
that is the gift 
of this sleepy-eyed morning
on a blurry trail
miles from my destination;
feet guided only by the stolen pin clipped
from your chest's grenade; 
the compass leading me through the tale
of my kamikaze capture by you;
of a patient imprisonment
inside the safe-house of your soul,
awaiting the day of freedom

let it be

i woke up this morning singing the Beatles' Let it Be. i also imagined getting the words inked onto my hand; surely somewhere between the tattoos of truth and love i can make room for the patience that such a phrase inspires.

i can think of few attitudes more unseemly than impatience: the woman tapping her foot in the grocery store checkout lane; the man whose hand falls heavy on the horn the instant the stoplight turns green.

"Let it be," Mother Mary whispers to Paul. "Let it be," he sings to us. "Let it be," i say to myself. "Adrienne, let it be."

My favorite author wrote these words to me today, as well. He asked me in the gentlest of ways if i can sit in the silence, in deep communion with myself and with another, and simply let it be, whatever "it" may be.

For me, to let something "be" is to resist the impulse to wrap my arms around the object of my attention - to resist the urge to apply force and move it, in the best sense of the word "move" - to rouse emotion, to affect passion, to move it in the kinds of ways that i like to be moved. And yet, what the phrase "let it be" reminds me is that whatever this thing or desire or person in front of me is, it is not me. it is something altogether different from me, and who am i to move it from its place.

The words "let it be" move me to the concept of "abiding." Abide is a rich word with layers of meaning. On the surface, it means simply "to accept," but as the impatience of the woman in the checkout lane and the urgency of the man honking his horn indicate: acceptance is no simple action; in fact, sometimes it requires no action at all - and that is the tricky part.

But abide also means "to bear," in the sense of supporting heavy weight and enduring. This kind of abiding is the kind that continues on without fading, without being lost.

Perhaps then, to abide is to let it be - that person, that situation, that desire, that hope, that dream, that obstacle before you, before me; to let it be and to be with it while still holding on to the lines that define the self; without losing who you are, without letting who i am fade into it, into him, into her.

These last few days i've been moving a bit slower, pausing a bit more, abiding with some truths about myself, as well as with some fears, some uncertainties; some frightening and some calming. in the end i suppose i'm also learning to let myself be, just as i am, and to believe that even if someone never comes along to move me in all the ways that i like to be moved, that there are those abiding with me too; like my friend, sitting on my couch across from me as i write this, drinking wine next to my fireplace, tapping the letters on her keyboard just as i am. Today she told me why she decided to marry her husband:

"Because being with him felt like being alone."

And with those few words, she gave me permission to feel alone and confused in those moments when i want something so badly and the universe seems to be telling me to wait, so long as i also remember that even on the loneliest of days i am, in fact, not alone, not at all.

Let it be, oh fearful one inside of me. Patience; let it be. There will be an answer. For now, just let it be.

the gardener

delicate hands set with loam, as a table is set;
drizzled with the dew of morning
as sweet as syrup touching tongue.

you've dug deep into the cavernous breast of this earth,
pressed fingers to the walls of rich soil;
prepared a place for each guest.

when i am with you i am planted.
green vines spring from toes;
leaves comb into hair, feather to the ground, falling

as longing falls into the pit of stomach,
disorienting the body's movement in a day, until
you invite me to sit at the seat carved into the dirt of your spirit,

and i am freed,
to be grounded, freed
to breath in sky, soak in rain wet with the residue of life

still clinging to my skin, as a lover clings
to love between two souls; the space held not yet
with hands, but with receptivity.

knowing, placed

 

there is a crackling in my heart, the sound
of space carved into damp wood
like a breakfast nook;

a percolation 
of morning coffee, made
with the heat of shared laughter;

a voice on fire reaching me, tender
newborn softness, surprising
warmth, in so small a frame

i picture you drinking, me
watching, you
smiling as it all steeps in

the world, a porous filter
soaked in this kind of knowing, placed
gingerly on a turning page.

to read your words is to see, my heart
reflected in the mirrors, your eyes
looking into me

receive

a cup of expectancy 
a wrinkled shirt
creases folded into creases

these are my hands

empty wanting
worn and waiting

will you fill this cup
with what i need

will its taste suit my palate
satisfy my thirst
or does that even matter

a cup of expectancy
palm upon palm
skin folded into skin

these are my hands

soft and gentle
warm and tender
open to receive
you

little star

inside your eyes, wide
a wanting, captured
in light.

did you glimpse it?
the flash.
before it disappeared

it comes as a star
shooting past the corners
of the iris,
of the swirling blue depths;

a peripheral sighting
of emotion exploding
in a mind paused,
inarticulate reflection.

it comes as a gasp
a lunging of the lungs
longing for this air

it is the gap.
the moment before knowing, unsure
of the movements of your own heart

twinkle, twinkle

can you hear it it?
the song
written on the pages
of your youth

little star.
gone so quickly, lost
in the pupil's black hole,
an abyss of uncertainty.

can you remember
what you wanted
when you trusted
what love is?

oh little star,
have i forgotten
what you are?

the waiting room

if the TV channel can satisfy

and 90s music gratifies 

ears listening for sonic boom

you know you're in the waiting room

if magazines capture your mind
giving the gift of loss-of-time
to starve the heart from all that looms
you know you're in the waiting room

if candy snacks can satiate 

your hunger for a richer fate

and the fleeting seems to end too soon

you know you're in the waiting room

if reaching for the stars you gasp

at desire just beyond your grasp

under overhead light of fluorescent moon

you know you're in the waiting room

there's a fire in the rain

slow, soft, and steady

falls the rain;

a rhythm that lends itself 

to stillness.

there was a time

for each drop

to spear my flesh;

as lightning spears an open sky.

my body.

open to receive your rain 

-- forcefully, naturally, 

you entered, and 

we twisted into one.

now the rain falls soft.

your violence is far from me.

slick skin wrapped tightly; protection 

from the elements

from your nature

to mine --

a pool of memories.

but the rain still falls.

slow, soft, and steady

falls the rain.

tired

eyes carry bags

that do not fit in 

the overhead compartment

hands slip through 

the cuff of each sleeve,

stiff as metal

nostrils pick up the scent of stale;

breadcrumbs on a wooded trail;

for someone to find;

to follow

ears pop;

a champagne toast,

to black leather studded sky,

to biker bars,

to topless cars

and women

enough to sleep under sheets

of paper moon fantasy,

of midlife freedom

in red and blue flashing crisis

down the road already traveled

on the other side of the median

in a town so small i can 

barely

see 

it

does god daydream?

does god daydream?

a foaming mug of beer in hand;

glossy moonlit stare out the pub window

in the heat of summer;

tongue lolling to the side for want of drink

does god nightdream?

a starry winter eve neath

piles of patchwork quilts;

byproducts of his mother's sister's

half-hazard pastime

longing in the night
for a lover's hand to hold
beneath the pillow, white

tight

for wanting

untold

unknown to the seraph 

burning in his own passion.

does god daydream?

her lips pursed toward sky

blue with the dejection of a missed

kiss

an unrehearsed dialectic

a prophylactic:

dejection 

an unexpected rejection

did you capture her attention?

the curve of your

lips

hips

signaling a "not yet"

a softly spoken regret

an untold story

unmooring 

self from sellf's stability?

does god dream 

of your wanting

of your nearness 

of your fearless

approach

without reproach

a silhouette

a cabriolet 

awaiting

anticipating 

a waste of your time 

a haste of mind

a crocus 

blooming unfocused

in a place 

of haste

spoiled 

foiled by frustration

isolation

alone

a daydream 

a day

a night

a dream
a god 

prayers of a young poet

"The poets scattered You about;

a storm passed through their stammering-

but I want to gather You once more

in the vessel that pleases You."

--  Rilke

Rainer Maria Rilke knows something of the weight of words. They have the power both to make and unmake; to create and to crumble: "they are so far removed from us," he writes, "trapped in their eternal imprecision, indifferent with regard to our most urgent needs; they recoil at the moment when we seize them; they have their life and we have ours" (The Wisdom of Rilke).

And yet, Rilke wrote. Through the sieve of words he let the emotion and experiences of his life sift into poetry; merge with the words that so easily dissolve at the most delicate touch. What he describes in the stanza above as little more than a "stammer" is to us a glimpse at the heart of a poet's prayer. 

In Paraclete Press' new book, Prayers of a Young Poet, Mark S. Burros translates sixty-seven of Rilke's poems from German, along with annotations Rilke penned when the words were originally written. Anyone who has read the biblical Psalms, or perhaps SAID's new book of contemporary psalms (99 psalms), knows that poetry has built a bridge between humankind and God for centuries. What is unique about Rilke's collection is the ingenuity of the author's perspective. 

In Prayers of a Young Poet, Rilke imagines himself as a monk. He writes stories in poetry and prose through the voice of a cloistered man who experiences, in his daily living, the solitude that Rilke came to know so well- alone inside the writer's cell of his own mind and body. The narrative enfolds Rilke into the lines of his own poem; capturing his longing to be "the vessel that pleases [God]" (Prayers, 56).

In his Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke encourages the poet to "descend into yourself and your aloneness." These words resonate through Prayers of a Young Poet like a man who hears the solitary song of death at his door:

"I pass away, I pass away,

like sand running through the fingers of the hand.

And suddenly I have so many senses, 

all in their different ways thirsting.

I feel myself swelling and aching

in a hundred places,

above all in the depths of my heart."

(Prayers, 24)

For those of you who are regular readers of this poetry blog, Under Sheets of Paper, you may have already sensed my own connection to Rilke (and to this book in particular) - if not simply in my author bio: "i imagine myself a monk in my cell. i light candles. i pray. i write poetry. i make love in my dreams," then perhaps in the spirit behind my posts, which is heavy with the anguish of dying and the hope of new life and resurrected love. 

Rilke is to me a reminder that my poetry should leave more cracks in the words for light to seep through. If you have been searching for a companion on your own dark journey toward the light, I commend to you: Rilke's poems in Prayers of a Young Poet.

Thanks to Paraclete Press for inviting me to blog on this wonderful new book and be refreshed by the words of a fellow "poet-monk."

time will tell

she's a gossip, you know.

Time.

always twittering about
quick to let slip from her lips
the smallest grain of truth.
nudging her beak to sneak a peak
at yesterday.
rolling the seed between greedy fingers;
planting only those that will give life
to nostalgia.

she sets her watch by the sound of
resounding reminders;
alarms to warn her that she has
something to share:
a birthday of family deceased,
an anniversary of a massacre of the heart,
a strand of sorrow plucked from the head
of your history.

"Time will tell" they say.

Time will always tell
what you want to forget,
what you wish you had forgotten
to remember.

all i could ask for

it was all i could ask for,
you sitting there on that bar stool
talking to me about how people change.

under soft eyelashes
your rounded muscles flexed;
widening the space between
what you see in me and
what i see in your eyes:

brown hidden places
with specks of green distrust
a warm and playful golden glint;
bright as sun,
black as night,
blue as sky.

and a knowing,
a so much kindness,
a too much caring;
painfully indulgent,
beautifully painful.

you sitting there on that bar stool,
fingers tapping the half-pint of forgotten nectar,
smiling at me under a tuft of fringe;
it was all i could ask for.

in the inbetween

i soared above the sun and saw you sparkling
through the frosted window
hovering amidst the tulip bouquet
of cupid's clouds

i saw you in the inbetween --
where sleep was too quick for us
a flower for the casket
plucked by an ethereal finger

pointing to a petal plunging
with the weight of love lost
falling so far
i cannot see

where
she will
if she
will she
find
a home

or will she stay
here
with me
somewhere
in the inbetween

black

black and beautiful, beneath
the brazen gaze of her, zealous eyes
move the full, lips of a woman
full of laughter, full
of life, full
of the language of listening
with her ears tucked, behind
cheeks flushed to brown, blushing
before me, before
the one she hears with her listening, eyes
that speak to the richness, of her
chocolate heart, softened
by the warmth, of her heat
of her hand, holding
hand, waiting
for the words, to hear
the words, to speak
the words to touch, the tongue
to savor the sound of her,  hope-
fullness of hopeful-
necess-itating

and she rings, out and
she is the voice, heard and
she is, seen and
she is

belated

forgetful 

is a mind content

with a world that is other-bent

no time to think of what you meant

you could have said

"i want you too"

but you had other things to do

so i stood by 

while you hid lies

and beauty in you slowly died

you could have said

"i'm sorry for..."

but you did not open that door

so i leaned my head

against the post

and longed for all that i missed most

your "thank you" 

had its edges frayed

like "happy belated birthday"

inside my ears 

i feel the sting

a clipping of desire's wings

"i'm grateful 

that you let me go-

just thought that you might want to know"

reality

to the office

to the store 

a note to fix the creaking door 

out to coffee

nothing more

i swear i've done all this before

off to yoga

off to church

hoping for something to work

wondering if there's a book

scroll my newsfeed

have a look

pass the salad

hold the salt

aiming for a healthy heart

no fantasies 

there's no restart

once you think you've missed the mark

turn up the sheets

turn down the bed

don't forget to take your meds

my life is ticking in my head

a few more goes 

and then you're dead

trust

i trust you
like a lover's chord rapt in song;
like a lover's cord wrapped in song
around my throat.

come find me

when the pain of your hope has peaked
in you, strength and gentleness meet
and love no longer feels weak
come find me

when the light in her eyes grows dim
and you've courage enough to lead him
and the future no longer seems grim
come find me

there is shame in the walk of deceit
i hear the cadence of it in my feet
remember life lived in secrecy
recall how it has shaped me

when all that you knew has dissolved
in you, guilt and offenses absolve
and your weariness turns to resolve
come find me

when the kiss of your lips is true
and the eyes that see me have seen you
let your heart guide what you pursue
and come find me

blurred

i gave you words
twas all i had
letters typed on a keypad

i had no hands
to pull you near
and redraw words that disappeared

i gave you words
sometimes too much
because i had no skin to touch

there were no lips
pressed to your head
to fill the space of words unsaid

i gave you words
do they still speak
though now the sound is faint and weak

i had no face
surreal and blurred
without one love is just a word

the elements

a strong storm 

churns
stillest seas

a mighty wind 

frees
goods grounded

a commanding quake 

unearths
stuffs secure

a zealous flame 

filters
unto purest form

and still...
a woman's wanting wields things weightier than these.

dependence

 

there is a knowledge, rare
beware
those who seek
speak
only after thought
sought
inside one's own home
thrown
into disarray
belay

and listen,
volition
the voice unheard
ungird
desires fed by
seeds
stomped under foot
put
into flight,
sight
only of the mind

kind
is the soul
told
to steal itself
health
found in the gaunting
wanting
heart that did not feed
need
for transcendence
dependence

only a fool

I cannot know

what love is

until I have known 

love, first

for myself.

I cannot share 

knowledge of love

until I have received 

love, first

for myself.

Only a fool 

gives away love

not yet attained
for oneself.

breaking into blossom

Somedays,

when sun and cloud reach an agreement

and let you feel the coolness of a breeze touch your skin, move your hair

Something, 

in that movement of air reminds you 

that you are here, that you take up space on this earth; you are solid; you are 

still alive

Somewhere,

along the way, you had forgotten 

to pay attention to yourself, to feel 

your feet on the ground, 

to see that you have already begun to live again, to love again; to flex 

another muscle, to take another step

Somehow,

what you have been searching for all 

your life-- this moment of strength

has found you; redefining itself 

in the gentle whisper of the wind 

upon your face, breathed through the nose; the scent of what is to come 

Sometimes,

you find yourself transformed,

on a street corner, in the town 

where you live, on a windy day 

of no consequence; other than that

it is the day 

your heart is breaking

into blossom.

what i leave behind

if you were gone who would i be

i made your shit a part of me

your hands no longer touch my face

but when i sleep i feel their weight

the bruises of body and soul

know violence has made me whole

in briefest pauses of the day

assuring me i have to stay

and when i rise i soon forget

the aching cut of my regret

illusions that the pain won't last

in busyness of each day passed

if you were gone who would i be

how could i join humanity 

when who i am is now defined

by all that i must leave behind

paper hearts

My writing you always encouraged
because of you i know it flourished
your struggle taught me i am flawed
thank you for wrestling with God

Talking always was your thing
you liked to know all my feelings
it was hard to listen to the chatter
but i'm glad you taught me feelings matter

Everything was near perfect
but my heart couldn't connect
thank you for letting love remain
when i couldn't do the same

Because of you i felt free
to be who i was made to be
you pointed me to lots of books
taught me to take a closer look

Each day with you took some convincing
i learned that words were not for mincing
you showed me that i could be strong
when i knew something was wrong

Even though our time was short
you were a comforting support
thank you for being kind to me
but thank you most for lavishing

Countless days i felt you near
even though you were not here
i learned to laugh and take lightly
those things i had once held tightly

how closely i read every page
and edited at every stage
now all my books are on the shelf 
nothing to read except myself