bird brain

the little grey bird
twittering on a branch
outside my window
as i sit to meditate
has ants in its pants

it can’t seem to stop
shaking its tail feathers

is it thinking about sex?
or does it literally have
bugs on its bottom?

maybe it’s boogie fever
i can’t say

eventually
it flutters to a higher place
and settles down

eventually
however briefly
i do the same

The Stuff I’m Made Of

65% oxygen, so I may inspire
18% carbon, to help me form diamonds
10% hydrogen, to ignite my combustion
3% nitrogen, so I’m a high-protein snack
1.4% calcium, to fortify my chompers
1.1% phosphorus, making me luminous
73% muscle, ’cause I eats me spinach
22% fat, ’cause I scarfs me donuts
3% bone – thank you, calcium!
58% water swelling my ugly bag of skin
patches of hair keeping bits of me warm
a score of shiny nails to dig in the mud
a couple of grimy spirit-windows
two feet that stumble on smooth floors
ten fingers that flounder over keys
a derriere well-adapted to sitting still
a heart like a neodymium magnet
a durable web that binds me to you
a little dog, desperate for approval
a pirate who gives away his booty
a child at storytime, lost in wonder
an octillion of this universe’s molecules
and approximately one of creation’s souls

Lord of Miracles

A ruined cathedral, partially buried by lava rock, against a background of blue sky, clouds, and tree-covered hills.

Paricutin Cathedral – Photo credit: Daniel Tapia. Some rights reserved.

In 1943, two Mexican towns were consumed by a sudden yet gradual volcanic eruption. All of the townspeople’s lives were spared, together with most of the nearby cathedral.

Lord of Miracles

Nevertheless,
the north tower thrusts toward heaven
a gnarled and knobby index finger
jabbing, accusing,
hissing, “You did not lay me low.

Oh, you tried,
on the day you wrapped your
gentle, burning arms
around my brother and me.
You reached up, and you held me,
and you pulled my stone
toward yours,
yet still I stand.”

Its sibling to the south says nothing,
its throat and mouth having plunged
to mingle with the jagged tumble
of dark lava-rock
surrounding and permeating
the cathedral that was,
the sacred place that is,
sixty-five years after
God’s hot embrace.

Behind those brothers –
one tall, one reduced
to stubby fingers reaching up,
an open hand to receive the gifts
of the sky – is the chapel
with three walls and no top.
It too is ready
to accept heaven’s favors
even if they descend from above
as a slow avalanche of fire.

Pilgrims fill the chapel –
seekers dressed in yellow and red,
in green as vibrant as the brush
that ekes out life upon this
snaggy, igneous landscape.
They come for the icon enshrined within –
el Señor de los Milagros.

And were there ever miracles here?
Was it love that was raining down
when the people of two towns
lost their homes,
yet thanks to the slow tenderness
of God’s scorching grasp,
not a single soul lost her life?

El Señor hangs upon his tree –
the ruin at which he eventually arrived –
as the women who loved him weep.
He seems to gaze upward
at the similar cross
that sits proudly atop the northern spire.
In the late afternoon sun
the tower’s stone and brick skin is black
and brown, tan and red like flame,
like human flesh.

And in the sunlight,
it stands.

ode to the table – day one

uneven and paint-splotched
    knobbly     wobbly
you’d teeter like the tippling pals
you held upright the night before
except for the wadded-up napkins
someone jammed beneath your toes

this is no place for flawlessness
yet your mighty central pillar
elevates your broad circular surface
    welcoming     balancing
high enough above the filthy floor
to ground my nervous drumming fingers

it’s dark in this stranger-full room
and i’m sharing you with two women
    not-yet-kate    not-yet-erin
who aren’t talking to me
because although this is a sort of church
it won’t be my church for another year

so i stare down at you instead
studying your lavish ornamentation
of gum-wads and peeling/curling stickers
until the indescribable commences
    uncontainable    untameable
and i am beguiled for good

Entering the Stream

(three versions)

 

entering the stream

perhaps
i’ll wade in
despite
my flaws

perhaps
i’ll swim

 

Entering the Stream

I’m not ready.
I’m not worthy.
I’m a fraud.

Surely the rush of
clear, cool water
will reject me –
vomit me out.

Or maybe I do not need
to be enlightened first
before I dip in a toe.

Maybe I can wade in,
imperfect as I am –
just up to my ankles.

And then, perhaps I can
continue walking,
until the stream comes up
to my thighs,
to my belly,
to my chest…
over my head.

Until I must learn
to breathe
underwater.

Or maybe
simply
learn to swim.

 

Entering the Stream

I’m not prepared to wade in here.
My worth is much in doubt.
My fraudulence is all too clear.
This stream will spew me out.

Unless – perhaps I need not know
enlightenment at first.
What if I may dip in a toe?
(I’ll try…I haven’t burst!)

Now ankle-deep I venture in,
now thigh, now gut, now breast.
And now, two feet above my chin…
and terror grips my chest!

I need to learn to breathe the stream
and bear this state most grim.
Or else…perhaps a simpler scheme:
I’ll merely learn to swim.

fourfold

called to embrace life
though permeated by suffering
it’s dappled with beauty
this is all real

empowered to release reactions
watching clouds take shape
letting them drift away
they don’t snag me

delighted to glimpse clarity
seeing beyond habitual responses
compassionate freedom opens wide
ah, clear blue sky!

prepared to journey onward
twisting path conceals much
that is tomorrow’s business
here is step one

listening

it doesn’t matter if i listen
i said to her

if i listen
or if i do not listen
when my body has something to say to me
it will certainly make itself heard

if my body wants to convey ANXIETY
then my chest will clench
as if the teenage iguana
that lives inside it
woke up and uncurled
stretched out its spikey legs
and bit down on my esophagus
hard

if my body wishes to say DESIRE
then it will vanish all my ambivalence
about my maleness
in a coup of utter control
directing my eyes
and other parts
toward the object of its infatuation

if my body would communicate DESPAIR
it will do so
and my face and shoulders and heart
will all follow its lead
drooping and sliding
into the deep

so you see
it doesn’t matter if i listen
or not

Underneath

I know it’s not real.
I know.
My father told me so,
and I believe him.

He always tells the truth.

So I know
that when my father
turns off the light,
and it’s quiet
(at first)
and then I hear the scritch,
       scritch,
               scritching,
I know
that it’s all in my head.

And I know
that when I call out,
“Stop!
Stop scritch,
        scritch,
                scritching
underneath my bed!”

and I hear in reply,
       no, little poppet
       you do not want me
           to stop
       because if I stop
           scritching
       then I will begin
           chewing
I know
that too
is all in my head.

My head
is clearly not right,
but I do not want it
to be chewed
off my neck.

So I don’t try to stop
the scritching
anymore.

It has been
one hundred and eight days
since I last slept.

And now,
because my nails
have grown
so fine and sharp,
and my teeth
       all in my head
       all in my head
have become
so long and cruel,

I know that
it is time for me to leave.
It is time for me to go
and find another child’s bed
to scritch
        scritch
                scritch
underneath.

concrete and iron

my feet are encased in concrete
massive blocks of my own casting
the left is named “befuddlement”
the right is called “craven fear”
they’re easy to pour but hard to lift

that’s why i don’t move forward
or do anything worth mentioning
to remedy this present situation
to disrupt our shared delusion
of deeply cutting separation

i cherish my cement shoes
they make me rooted and safe
but my harridan heart keeps nagging
to lift them high and bring them down
smashing them to bits as i run

before another perfect shining child
emerges from the womb’s embrace
and holds out her trembling wrists
to receive those rusty iron shackles
forged from scarcity and shame

Prayer of the Trinity

Source of all creation!
Within your love,
within your being,
you bear everything there is to bear.

Every one of us.
Each of our hurts,
each of our joys,
each of our awakenings to you,
each of our violations of one another.

You enfold the whole universe,
and in you the universe is made one.

And could it have been
that your creation took the form
of an undifferentiated reality,
uniform and pristine,
perfect and unmarred by ruin?

Perhaps.
But it is not that.
It is not that kind of creation.

So you became incarnate!
You took individual shape,
formed of solid bone and muscle,
and you became the beloved child.

And your beloved child…
missed you.

But your beloved remembered
where to find you:

at the time of baptism,
and at the table,
and day after day,
in stillness,
and in prayer,

your child encounters your spirit!
And your child discovers wholeness –
finds integration with you.

Source, and child, and spirit:
three in one,
and one in love.