A Single Person Dwelling

I am many roomed
and every year there are fewer corners,
less closets, softer lighting, and ceilings that vault and vault.
Songs whisper through my walls:
cotton lullabies that rock me to sleep,
velvet green ballads, safe in their loneliness, and sometimes
the floors quake with a Barbra Streisand sing-along.

Laughter surrounds my walls
like tree frogs in the garden. Someday, soon, I will open
the back door and those leggy frogs will spring into the kitchen,
fill the sink and we will all croak and chuckle contagiously.
But for now I am content in knowing they are just outside the window.

A formal entrance, the front door, opens to an orderly white.
Exacting angle of an ottoman and precise tilt
of the picture frames may cause you to pause and ask,
“Unapproachable? Cool? Elegant, but stiff?”
Do not hesitate.
Do not pause. Please, come in.
Turn my rooms upside down.
Leave your garden footprints on the China Silk carpet.

Yes, the toothpaste is neatly rolled from the bottom up.
Yes, spices and books are alphabetized, magazines fanned
on the coffee table, and socks color-coded in their drawer.
But, poems fly across rooms in random chaotic scribbles,
furniture shoved aside when the need to dance arrives.
Passions stack up for the weekend
when a mere word like “mellifluous” can extend the day
into a ‘never get out of my bathrobe’ flurry,
a Tigerlily tangle, an elegant mess.

Orchids bloom in steamy bathrooms, but die on precious shelves.
Can you smell the wet carnations, vanilla, violets, and bread?
Do you notice the ladybug on the light switch -- in my many rooms?

In my many rooms there is moonlight that slides in
through partially opened blinds; moonlight like memory
that lays in blue-white streams over elbows, wrists, and fingertips—
moonlight like memory that cannot be held.

Oldy, but appropriate for today

As I walk this trail again

grant me the draft
of a thousand butterflies under my skin.
Let my mouth water
at succulent clusters of purple lupine,
clover and blackberry blossoms.
Let each bite of picnic bread
tingle my lips,
kisses from the divine.
Let me hear the mourning dove
above bulldozers
rumbling in a straight line.

construction deconstruction reconstruction
grant me release

Let me float on this trail
above the iron cold weight of uncertainty.
Raze my life
and grant me peace.
Raze me down
so that I might rise.
Raze me down and recover my soul
then let me fly
through a towering cedar mystery.

Finding Form

Put your hands in the clay
Put my hands in the clay
Let the heat of our hands
the heat of our histories
sculpt the cool amorphous mass
Let the heat of our hands
our fingers
curl, stretch, dig,
unfurl our lives
sculpt our love
Let the heat rise above the coolness
of fear and unknowing
Rise and shape the new
now

Saturday Morning

It's noisy here today:

1)The slap, slap, slap of a basketball in the neighbor boy's driveway...an occasional thwang on the rim;

2)the morning crow, there's just one, the same one, every morning at 6:00 a.m., caw, caw, caw...thrice warning,,,I have a poem somewhere on this blog about the ominous crow and a pall over my life...I think I was reading Shakespeare at the time;

3)lawn mowers, chain saws, edgers...the busy sound of sweat and Saturday chores;

4)the yellow lab next door barks at the morning jogger, the mailperson, the bumblebee, and the crow.

I can't sleep in and have a lawn to mow before kayaking. I'm looking forward to the droll flap, flap, flap of the Heron's wings over the Tualatin.

Dog Sees God

I'm going to the play tonight, "Dog Sees God." I find the title a bit ironic because I've been playing with palindromes all week with my writing students and just this morning I was reflecting on how and where I "see" God. I know the play has, on the surface, nothing to do with God. It is about the Peanuts/Charlie Brown comic strip characters growing up. By the time I finish this post, I will have seen the play and may have more insight into how it is about God.

Why was I teaching palindromes in writing? Well, we were working on character sketch, vernacular, speech patterns, and I told students that Barbara Kingsolver's book, The Poisonwood Bible has a character who only speaks in palindromes. So I brought in some examples and challenged the students to come up with their own literary palindromes. One student brought in, "Madam, I'm Adam." I remembered Weird Al Yankovic's song Bob, dedicated to Bob Dylan, that is entirely made up of palindromes, "I, man, am regal a German am I.......Go hang a salami, I'm a lasagna hog." You can see the entire poem at (http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Bob-lyrics-Weird-Al-Yankovic/64A208DBB08E381D48256D2E000AABEA). So we challenged ourselves all week to create those literary palindromes.

We also challenge ourselves in writing to 'show don't tell', which is a classic literary technique involving the use of concrete images to show what abstract sentences tell. Ex: Telling sentences: Al Yankovic is weird. Showing sentences: "Al's hair sticks out like he stuck his finger in a socket. He speaks in a crazed, caffeinated voice, and wears stripped bell bottom hip huggers even in 2009."

My friend and the president of our church wrote about the challenge of showing her 5 year old where God is. Where God isn't is a heaven where the boy can visit his sisters and get home in time for dinner. I began to think...how do we show don't tell a five year old where we find God?

This is what I came up with:
God is in the friendly wave from a neighbor who would help me jump start my car even though he doesn't know my name.

God is in the crow who wakes me every morning: caw, caw, caw. We need you.
out in the world
awake, awake, awake.
There is life
for you to live.
There is work
for you to do.
There is joy
for you to feel.
There is love.

God is in your hugs and in my good night kiss.

God is in your friend's hand, offered you when you fall down.

God is in the tears of the mother who misses her lost babies.

God is in the moon, the same single moon that can be gazed at by every single person in the entire world.

God is in the minuscule spider scampering up a thin strand of web...why?...for the same reason she repels back down five minutes later.

God is in the earthquakes, the tsunamis, the fire at the Dougy Center and in the troubled heart of the arsonist who set that fire.

God...where is God? How do we find God?

God is in the courage it takes each of us, every day, to rebuild our lives.


So the play was interesting. CB deals with the death of his dog and the death of his lover "Beethoven." He asks his friends about life after death. There is a bit of Buddha, a bit of what the Bible says, a bit of outrage, and a bit of love. Where do we find God in life and in death? In the pain and the sorrow, in the love and loss, in the life sometimes not worth living, in the death that came too soon. Life can really suck canal water, but good grief, wasn't that part of God's plan?

I LOVE to teach

Okay, so this isn't really poetic, but the last post came from a daydream about the life we'd be living if we weren't living the life we're living. I put that question on my blog and one friend said, "Same song, second side." I have to say that that is where I am today.

It is only Tuesday and my week is full. I'm teaching two writing classes this week and I ended up texting my friend to say, "Teaching makes me feel centered and whole." I've had almost two years with limited teaching. My friends keep asking why I'm not teaching because I sound happiest when I am. I am not only happy, but also motivated, centered, challenged, engaged, and most of all, feeling like I am fulfilling a purpose in life, which is not what I feel when I am typing data entry all day in a computer under florescent lights, in an ergonomically unsophisticated chair.

So I thanked my boss for giving me more teaching assignments out of the office. I emailed some friends the following:

Amy, your imagery is palpable, your longing even more so. Claim your life, girl. Interestingly enough, I've been teaching again this week, using your poem you contributed to Caryn's blog, and I am beginning to re-claim my life as a teacher. Happiness is a heavy oak desk, with a stack of dreams written on torn notebook paper, and 13 students eager to please. Happiness, for me, is the 7th grade boy, who barely makes eye contact through his extra-long bangs and is embarrassed by his father's presence on the first day, slumps in his chair, but finally speaks out. He cracks a literary joke that all the other awkwards get, smiles a sideways smile, still no eye contact, but now, he knows he is a writer. Happiness is the ESL (English Second Language) student who returns the second day even though he had no idea what I was talking about the first day. Oh, and happiness is the other ESL child who produces an introduction to his story about his future that is so provocative I get goose bumps, and he grins when I tell the class that his first three sentences could be read in a published novel. "Three out of five children in Taiwan don't know what a blue sky looks like. I gaze at the half-dead sky through my little window and wonder."

Those amazing two sentences happened simply because I asked the students to start their story in three different ways: dialogue, fact, or description.

So I know I'm a teacher when I can get students to produce words like that. Yet, i am humble in this knowledge. It's a channeling sort of activity, it's, dare I say, God's work through me.

When we engage in our calling, we are whole. We are satisfied. We are content to put aside the excessive television watching, the addictive habits of the evening, and we continue on in our giving of gifts.

I asked to live the life I dreamed; same song, second side. I received.

The Life I Still Dream of Living

The Home I Long to Return to

was re-discovered
today in the pages torn
from Architectural Digest – glossy
photographs of room, after room, after room

and a Mediterranean
light through blue-white
curtains that swayed in the morning
breeze like Edelweiss or chiffon kites

blown onto the veranda
(also white and aged with salt water).
Bedroom, livingroom, kitchen, garden, bath,
photographs, patched together into a home, torn

from a magazine
during stolen moments
when we dreamed of the life we
wanted to live if we were not living

this life, with
only a trail of sweetpeas
and philodendron to remind us
of sea-green fantasies in the south

of France,
where lemons roll
in cobblestone streets
below lavender scented Alps,

while you
stack Caprese, fresh
basil always lazily in reach
from our rustic kitchen window.

Two glasses
of Bordeaux on granite
countertop, your bright camellia
lips, outside the photographer’s frame,

in the white space
for me to imagine: this house,
this life, this scrapbook of our future,
now sepia-toned with age and neglect,

these pages
of the house that never
lived, except for in our dreams,
these pages fold in on themselves today.

Rhythm & rhyme of healing

Recently I attended a song writing workshop (http://www.bravevoice.com/), not really sure that my poetry would translate into song because I rarely use rhymes. I did manage to get a spoken word piece put together with an amazing R&B artist, Kelley Hunt (http://www.kelleyhunt.com/). She was graciously open and generously found a hook line and a gospel rhythm for me to sing my poetry to. Kelley and Kansas poet laureate Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg (http://www.carynmirriamgoldberg.com/) have co-created some brilliant work on the CD Mercy. And some of the lyrics don't rhyme.

This weekend, as I dug away at the neglected dirt in my garden and reflected on the Law of Attraction, I listened to Jewel. Many of her songs stand alone, without the music, as poignant poems. There's a place for me, I thought. My poems do have a musicality to them that I'm certain reflects my former career as a modern dancer. One of the reasons I took this workshop was to be able to move and sing with my poems. Rhythm and rhyme help to make words stick with us (as in mnemonic devices, nursery rhymes, and hymns).

In my morning meditation, I challenged myself to write at least three rhyming poems that I could remember and repeat throughout the day like an affirmation. I've been working hard to shift my thought patterns from depressed and negative to positive, hopeful, affirming, with a desire to attract more positive into my life. Most of my spiritual lessons I learn from nature, so I decided to write short "songs" about the seeds I had planted the previous weekend. I'll refrain from over editing and intellectualizing. Below are three simple poems:

Portulaca Portulaca
What a funny, sunny name.
Portulaca Portulaca
will you join me in a game?

I planted you three days ago ~
how about we make a bet?
By the time I see your tender stems,
a gentle lover I will get.


Once upon a time
I planted Columbine ~
tiny seeds hidden in my hand.
Life line creases
palmed possibility,
sifted through fingertips to the land.



I asked the impatiens seeds, "What will it take
to release me fully from this sorrow-filled wake?"

Sunshine and soil, sweat of the brow
Tend to your needs, water us now.

Time is all, let the wait be your bliss.
Be patient my friend and you'll be kissed

by joy as verdant as my sprouting leaf.
It took so little, less than a week

for me to reveal what's been seeding underground ~
new life, new life, this morning you found.

To Mina Loy~

just for fun, across time and space, through my acclivity

...for a declivity
into depravity
there is no first or last,
only equality,
which is, perhaps,
why it appeals to me ~
we are all the same
at the bottom
of the slippery slope,
no One better
only worse
for space and time.
We can merely hope
that our propensity
for Liquor, Love and Lust
is just a side Bar
with little immensity
in the thrust toward Absolute.

Tell Me

How is it that the first sighting of delicate, new blades of grass can bring me such pleasure. I actually gasped with excitement when I saw that the seeds planted 10 days ago actually sprouted in nubile wonder...and on May Day. Happy verdant Beltane to all.

Leisure

by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

Cape Disappointment

You broke my horizon,
claiming a noble neglect,
"I don't want to hurt you
like others have hurt you."





Yet, we became a tragedy anyway,
one of recognizable proportion.

Now, knowing the sorrow
of waves on ragged rock,
wounded shorelines,
and a seagull's scream,
the ocean is no longer a lullaby
unless this song was our last.

I have loved, oh God, the beauty...Psalm 26

Why is that not enough ~
loving the beauty, oh
when everything else is gone
does the etching of love remain ~
yellow lips deep within
open petals of violet iris,
echos of a poet's heartbeat,
cello vibrations, strummed,
rippling out, faint but still
audible, attainable
when all else is said and done?

The sword fern awaits
my planting.

My Nephew Grows Up

From dressed to charm at 4 months to dressed to...protect.

I yam what I yam

THAT SORT OF WOMAN
by Jan L. Richardson

She is that sort of woman
so annoying
not content
to let the truth stay hidden.
Discovering
is her forte,
revealing the masks
that others choose,
reminding those
who dwell near the holy
fire will find them
shadows will take form.

Restless Spring

The first hummingbird buzzed by
yesterday late ~
fluttered in place
against an airy wake
and sucked the sweetness
I’d put out for her.
Essence

yesterday late
afternoon ~ a brief visit
from an old friend ~
And the ebony crow, too
cawed his thrice warning
about the ache of love,
as he bent a lofty bough
with a scold, then flew away
as shadows fell.
How straight the crow flies.


This morning, a riotous flock
of starlings commune
in the camellia bush.
It’s warm enough
to sit on the porch
in shirt sleeves with a second
cup of coffee and Mary Oliver ~
Our Story, her 40-year conversation
with a lover, her partner, her mate.

My craving for companionship ~
to be with one who understands
me without explanation ~
that craving is at odds
with a seasonal, burgeoning
desire to experience life,
once again, autonomously.

This is my half-story,
always a partial contentment.
I really am trying
to let loneliness and fear
rest from their vigil
over my life.

Today, I accept the silence
from a friend, trust
what is stirring and growing
healing and becoming
in the spring soil.
She has imposed
a silence on me as well,
“Do not write me anymore.”
Heard too much from me
I imagine, my muffled
half of the story.
Why is it we only wish
to hear and tell our stories
from the safe side
our side?

Just now, a pit bull
and its owner walk by.
I hear the innocent
click click of the bull’s nails
on pavement and see only
an easy saunter
in the black man’s gait.

For our Journey

This being human is a guest house

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.
-Rumi

Lenten Renewal

I haven't written for a very long time (as some of you faithful ones have noted). There is a reason...I haven't been myself. This January I crashed into that realization and started looking for solutions to find myself again. One solution was to rent my own space again. It has been wonderful sharing a space with my friend...she has been generous and we have been relatively compatible, but I really am a soloist when it comes to living space. I missed my art work on the walls, my own garden space, talking to myself without getting caught. :-).

So I came upon a little yellow house to rent, only a mile away from the "fun house" with the poetry pole. With great intention, I found a place for every knick-knack and wall hanging. If the piece didn't fit, I stored it, threw it away, or gave it away. Slowly, I am finding a rhythm to my day in this house. I am reading, writing and meditating again in the mornings...renewing my spiritual self...reading at night again. Most importantly, I am addressing old habits (addictions if you will) that have kept me from me. This is the hardest part, being still and silent, grieving if that's what comes up, until I can feel me in my body again. I wake in the mornings in my lavender and white room feeling my spirit hesitating to re-enter this body. "How are you going to treat me today?" it seems to ask.

My little yellow house has some small neglected gardens in front and back. There is a hunk-o-bamboo that appears randomly placed in the middle of the lawn. I was going to try to remove it, but it is too big and too deep. As I looked closer, I realized someone had a plan with this bamboo. Someone left before the plan was complete. It is my job to wait until I can see where that garden wants to go next.

To the right of the front door is a garden bed with lavender and tulips popping up. I planted some baby rust hens and chicks barely visible in the red rock right now, but I know they will spread and acclimate quickly. Purple heather and euphorbia will also fill out nicely in a zero-scape kind of way. Calluna vulgaris, with its downy gray leaves and pink tips, is so rooted in her pot that it takes quite a bit of coaxing to get her out and planted in the new space. I decide to transplant the tulips and other spring bulbs into the center bed where I have planted the proverbial purple lupine, already catching tear drops of rain in its open palm of green.

One tulip, a single leaf, that I think will be shallow and young, easy to move, refuses to reveal its bulb. I dig my trowel past the red rock, inching into clay soil, blindly easing around what I assume is the bulb. Then I press down on the handle, lifting a hunk of soil, no bulb; only the broken stem.

This week I broke a friend's trust. I hurt someone I love. I dug too deep (or not deep enough), pushed too soon and now I believe she will no longer bloom in my presence. Who am I to be someone a friend can't trust? Who am I to be so cruel? I can't just say, "Oh well, maybe next year. At least I didn't slice the bulb. I only broke off a stem. That's life. I'm not perfect." I can't say any of that right now. I have to say to myself that I didn't take care enough, I didn't let well enough alone. Why? Because I have not been myself? Why, because I have numbed myself with all sorts of distractions and addictions and it is time to fully admit that I am lost and must do all I can to find myself again.

I am paying the price of losing myself (in some ways literally- as in a car payment and higher insurance). My Epiphany word this year (we get one every year at church) is ALERT. I get it now. I thank the garden, I thank my friend, I thank my little yellow house, and I thank God that I didn't do more damage than I did, that I am awake now and ready to take that first humble step of renewal.

Advent reading

I've been reading Jan Richardson's Night Visions, which, by the way, is out of print and you can only get copies for $75-$100. Anyway, week two is about desire with a reflection on landscape and place. I wrote about the landscape most spiritual to me:

I long for high desert
dryness, heat-hot sweating
raw heat, draining me
of all my impurities:
1) This virus that clings
to my lungs ~
sweat it out;
2)This addiction to whisky:
watch me, three days in the desert
I could sweat it out;
3) This longing
for earthly love ~
I have only to look up
at vast blue beyond blue
to know my desires
are small in contrast
to possibilities.

Sweat them all out.
In the desert
I have no need
for anything ~
not even food
as my stomach shrinks
into lightness.
Not even water
as I push myself
through hallucinations
of dehydration
and am pleased
with what I see ~

Simplicity.
Light, warmth,
melt down
to the skeleton of me.
Bones whitened
in a blazing sun ~
the color of purity,
the absence of all color
is me in this high
desert light.

for Leslie

Hey Leslie, thanks for your faithful reading, finally something new for you:

Hibernate -
sleep is for the unconscious.
Germinate
deep in dark, moist soil.
Activate
only the necessary.
Rumi-nate
on the compost within.
Then, when the spring shovel
taps the cold ground,
Emerge
lime green and ready
for a new dance.


by Wendy Thompson
published in Museletter, Volume XXVIX, Number 3, November 2008

Almost two years in this home now

Light

Breadth of autumnal sunshine
and the five-year-old
neighbor boy's call
to come out
and play ball.

Towering oak
above impatience ~
I miss you, where are you?
There is no ceiling
to love.

That moon, orange
as a thunderous symphony,
announced a triumphant end
to loneliness
and summer.

Even in the darkest depths
a porch light shines
somewhere,
here or there,
guiding me home.