Monthly Archives: February 2012

Especially Today

Especially Today
I celebrate
residing in my heart.


My heart,
whose door
has swung open
so many times,
whose foyer
collects coats and hats
all colors and sizes,
whose hallway
wears footprints
of every precious guest,
whose living room walls
are papered
with whispers and laughter,
whose garden
blooms abundant
from seeds scattered by smiles.


You are all here
at home in my heart.
Our love
in its many shapes
has endured
will endure
space, time
life, death
pain, joy.


Three heart-shaped stones
then a heart-shaped boulder
reminders to use mine more
Pocked and deformed rocks
not smooth round ones
called my name tonight
When was the last time
you caressed your own cheek
with a cold flat stone?
Overwhelmed by ocean of rocks
my eyes could not see
beyond the now
With pockets full of rocks
I had to re-learn
dancing, leaping, flying
Their colors grabbed me
from every direction
begging to be adored
I tried to take stones home
but their wailing families
made me put them back
Heart-shaped boulder
cradled in my arms—
who knew hearts could be so heavy?
“More rock than cloud”
my prayer all week
and here they are, grounding me.

Home Invasion

Home Invasion
On top of the bookcase—
home to favorite books,
found objects, memories—
a giant black rectangle
hulking and glaring
at our plants and pictures.


A buffet of strangers
marching into the living room
spewing opinions
laughing at stupid jokes
alarming us with bad news
selling empty fulfillment.


Perhaps police will investigate
this domestic disturbance
perhaps Pest Control
has a television division
perhaps I should stop resisting—
offer this stranger a cup of tea.

Feral Poem

Feral Poem
A poem cowers inside,
maybe unwilling to leave,
scared to expose herself
to judgment,


I call her: Come here, onto this page,
or at least I try,
but I don’t even know her name.


I stare around the room,
pleading with objects for inspiration,
probing my mind for ideas.


Then I remember
she can’t be coerced.


I retreat into stillness,
empty my thoughts,
pick up the pen,


And you know what?
That poem opened the door,
all by herself,
strutted down the winding hall of intuition,
and sashayed her way onto this page,
not worried one bit
about judgment,



This morning my blue fleece mitten

tumbled into the river’s laughter,

and got carried away with delight.

I watched the mitten glide over rocks,

bob through pools, ride cold currents.

Imagination convinced me

that someday, downstream,

someone with a cold right hand

will find a sun-baked mitten

waving from a pile of driftwood.


what if we all started out
as pieces of instruments
scattered in salvage yards
until we joined other pieces
to create whole instruments
capable of music?


what if certain instruments
then found each other
on pawn shop shelves
and assembled orchestras
capable of symphonies?


and if, as time passed,
pieces and instruments
were reassembled
to create new sounds, new songs,
wouldn’t we still feel the echoes
of each note ever played?