The privet, tipped
with lacy sprays
of tiny white blossoms,
drops petals like confetti
on the round table below.
I should sweep, but
halfway to fall,
I don’t want to let
the party end,
not yet,
not at all.
A Sweetness Has Entered
Category: poem
A Clanging Cymbal
The rumble and buzz of cars
that blots out birdsong
is but one bleating sound
in a constellation of noise,
a devil (if I believed in the devil)-
designed distraction from
the voice in the cave
of my heart
that I do believe in.
So, I will arise and go now,
and go to New Camaldoli
and there a cell of silence seek,
a shady seat beneath
the fruiting fig tree, and
Mother Pacific,
O Father Sky,
a view of blue further than I can see.
Drench me in Your breezy quietude
and remind me in the cooing of the dove
that I am nothing if I have not love.
With appreciation to St. Paul (1 Corinthians 13:1-3) and W.B. Yeats (The Lake Isle of Innisfree)
What Will Save Us
We’re all in this together,
looking for the songs to sing
that will hold the world together.
We might look to the soldier or scientist
to save us,
but the hero sits in silence before dawn,
looks out the window at the moon
slender and radiant in her old age,
and listens,
listens below ticking clock
and hooting owl,
listens beyond the whisper of candle flame
and the tinkle from the bells
the ants wear round their feet.
Deep in the earth,
deep in the cave of her heart,
angels sing,
and the poet transcribes.
Originally published in Second Wind: Words & Art of Hope & Resilience.
The Nobility of Quiet
Turn off the TV
and silence your phone.
Outside your window
soft rain shimmers
like a silver veil.
Listen to its serenade,
drops hitting leaves,
splashing into the birdbath.
Then attune your ears
to the silence under
this murmur and patter.
What do you hear?
The Lord of the Dance
calling to you,
ephphatha!
Be opened!
After reading Mark 7:32-34. Title from “The Winter Apple” by David Whyte. Just published in my parish newsletter, Holy Cross Community Voices.
The River That Mines the Silence of Stone
After the light
beams into the inner chamber
on the shortest day,
after the souls of the dead have departed,
silence fills the hollow space
like the beat of the drum just did.
The underland will feed it
like a candle perpetually snuffed,
scent of melted wax and burnt wick
in the dark.
Above, nights pass
and days come
in the temple of time
that makes equals of us all.
The earth blooms into spring,
flowers and fruits through summer,
and releases once more into fall.
On that first winter day,
when the priestess returns
before dawn,
lint and tinder in her pouch,
but guided by memory and touch,
this is what she hears:
the silence of stone.
No words, no message,
just the time-nourished silence.
Rebirth is the gift of the deep,
to return as servant once more –
lover and light-bearer,
priestess and poet reborn.
Second Wind
What gets you through adversity? Last spring my friends Kate Aver Avraham and Melody Culver decided to answer that question by gathering diverse voices to share prose, poetry and art that speaks of how we get through 2020, make the most of our changed lives, and move toward a meaningful future. The resulting book, Second Wind, has just been published, and I’m honored that it includes a few of my poems, including this one I began my blog with five years ago. As we face a pandemic and a divided nation, I look forward to finding hope and resilience in this lovely book.
Copies of Second Wind are available at Bookshop Santa Cruz and on Amazon, and all sale profits will go to the Santa Cruz County Community Foundation Covid-19 Relief Fund.
A Map to the Kingdom
Let me draw myself a map
out of the world of scarcity
into the kingdom
where everyone has enough.
The map I’m talking about
requires a subtle yet revolutionary algorithm
to rewrite the neuronal pathways of my brain.
Let my ears hear the soft call to prayer
from the cave of my heart
instead of the 21st-century symphonic blast
begging me to worship at the altar of the mall
and buy more apps for my iPhone.
The promise of productivity
and the buzz of news and games
want to trick me into believing
they can fill me up and give me purpose.
But no.
Rewire the neurons.
Let me rejoice in the gift of each moment
instead of fretting about what I don’t have time for.
Then I can find the cartographers
who will collaborate with me
in mapping our way to the kingdom of enough.
In that place time is the currency,
and communion is all we want to buy.
What does the kingdom look like? This week I had a chance to share my reflections on the parable of the ten virgins with Deacon Joe DePage of Holy Cross Church.
I Drip Out Slowly
What essence remains in the dry grass
when it gives itself to the fire?
A single blade
before the flame
has no say.
I see You, Beloved,
in the green
at the tip of the redwood bough,
in the yellow roses
climbing up the garden arch,
but could it also be You
carving the fine lines into my face
that will deepen into wrinkles,
drawing the color from my hair?
My own aging is the flame
and You the all-consuming fire.
Title from a poem by Lal Ded, a 14th century woman mystic from Kashmir
I Am
On the Friday before fall classes start at Foothill College faculty and staff come together for “Opening Day” to prepare for the new academic year. This year a panel of student leaders became our teachers and offered us a two-hour training on equity, focusing on implicit bias, privilege, and racism in higher education, including at Foothill. For our last activity at the end of the session we were invited to write a poem in which each line begins with the words “I am” to help us see our diversity and our unity.
I was almost too heartbroken by the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg to share this poem, but the students who asked us to “Listen, Learn, and Level Up” inspire me to live up to RBG’s legacy and work for a just and democratic society. Please take ten minutes to write your own I Am poem and share it in the comments.
I Am
I am a woman with no children
learning to mother others.
I am a librarian
learning to read
myself and the world
in a new way.
I am a seeker
learning how to listen.
I am a human
learning how to be a better creature
on this planet.
I am grateful to be
on this clear and sunny morning
part of the Foothill family.
Pack Nothing
Not even my laptop or photo albums?
What about insurance policies,
the earrings my sweetheart gave me?
One pair in your ears.
If I go with just the clothes on my back,
which outfit should I choose?
Shoes you can run in.
My books?
Start memorizing poems now.
Learn how to tell a story.
If you trust the prayer
in breath and heartbeat,
you can travel light.
All Things Sing You
Human ears hear
the chittering of squirrels
and the here I am coos
of the mated mourning doves,
the breeze playing
in redwood boughs,
bamboo fronds,
and ponderous birds of paradise,
each tree as distinct
in the fingers of the wind
as instruments in an orchestra.
But could I ever learn to hear
the spit spat spurt
of asparagus cells eating sunlight
or slow my vision to catch
those green spears soaring to the sky?
Ordain my senses
that I may eavesdrop
on the love song
of the vine to the rosebuds
and the petals’ pleasure-soaked sighs
as they unfurl their delicate curves.
May I too sing You
ten thousand ways
in the ebb and flow
of silence.
Title from Rilke’s Book of Hours, 1,45
The Kingdom of Enough 