Teach me, oh Loon
May this mind never leave
the lake of loons.
Part of me, always
that summer night
in the moonless.
Rolled my glowing white body
down to the bank
after breathing deep
like I’ve learned.
Murray Lake had more stars
than water. Ripe
for my own harvest
I swam strong
to the center. Not knowing
just swam. Eye to eye
with constellations. Strong arms
stretching for the veil
beyond the dark
of new moon.
Waning fresh loss
I drank those stars down.
Offered my everything
beyond and forward.
Forgiveness as concept
I gave my wish back.
Back to the wild water
that knows like I will never.
Back to the life force
that grieves our grief onward.
And back to the sleep that came next.
Woken in the predawn
with that howling wail
of loon-song.
Loon dawn with fire,
loon dawn with my song
which drew the loons in closer.
Close for my swim
across the morning lake too.
His bird eyes red
and green neck so near
I almost kissed him.
Black and white feathers
that shake off water
so easy.
Teach me, oh loon, to shake off pain like that.
This world and I need help.
How to Love You Now:
(a Song)
As the poem reads itself out loud
when the house is empty of dog and human.
Unhinges every stanza
pours a cup of red tea
and speaks clearly
each - wild - sound.
Step by step
just like that.
And not like a clenched fist
or taking your exhale as my in.
But rather as the ridge-line
views the sunrise
new each day:
From ancient recognition
of root to rock to earth to light.
No clinging constellations
or turning away from the tender morning.
But rather, I will be the river
gracing pine branches:
Just enough to be there completely
without taking the tree for her own.
To love you as the whale loves the sun
full breach, eyes wide open to the day.
And as sleep curls round the toes in bed
and the soup just made, warms the belly.
As the moon loves me.
And the stars give their light
even after their bodies fade,
only to surprise you again:
in the call of an owl
in the quiet of night
in the anchor
of a dream song.
Invitation:
Two rocks of one stone. Cracks breaking open.
Erode with me: in all ways life giving
as River shapes all stones home.
Love Letter
Deep water called me
begged me to life
and I took her hand.
By this invitation
I owe everything.
And now, as autumn closes
in the valley and snowmelt
graces the sound
Cold is my steady
teacher.
From across the pasture
now empty of horses
I’m pulled to the river
to burst stories
through my throat.
Silent or sounded
just as they wish.
Myths of movement
slice the air
as arrows into cloud.
Piercing melody
leaps from opposite bank
like two echoed hands
holding tight.
Here I belong:
any rocky shore.
River or lake
this one for now.
The shapes before the plunge
the shapes after
and the slow courage
of inhale submerged.
Deep and slow
to keep myself alive.
Current to rage me true.
Limbs not mine
the sea within reach.
I feel as though animal
yet become wild water.
Not metaphor, mythopoetry.
Nothing short of total eclipse:
Every.
Single.
Time.
River, hold me always.
I am your bride.
We All Need Reminding
“Imagine you are whispering to the seed of its treeness to come.”
-Zhenevere Sophia Dao
Stardust recognizes stardust.
The same memory -
of the very same atom
of the explosion that began us -
is alive and well.
The sound still haunts us.
We know the path
from which we’ve come
so far.
Trust in all that you reach for
be it shapes or words
or the foundation beneath
the inability to find
either.
Place your longing
at the frosty door
of the ancient cave -
with ears that curl round
its tiny peephole
to listen
for the old stories.
Each inhale is a world,
we all need reminding.
Each one, a taste
of the cosmos, a place
to hang our coats
at the end of a long day.
A funeral of stars.
A cabin for mystics.
Faith that knows
no name,
not yet.
And from the writhing
that awakens us
from pain
unallowing of sleep,
a trembling hand extends
in the dark matter
of space.
Fingertips cold with river
yet palm warm with song.
A vessel of support
in apocalyptic dreams.
A seeker of owls
in the seasons of loss.
And the soft words
of wind to guide us on
through morning.
With singularity
that bows
to nothing but
the multitude
of the opposite
of duality.
With a tall candle
sounding prayer
out loud,
for the terrified child
in us all:
“Rise, oh tree of thee.”
(above collage by Bells From Linden)
The Horse
I saw you sleeping,
stone still, standing
in a field of snow.
The moon was new
yet the white
from the ground
shone a light
in the sky,
to silhouette your stance,
frost collecting
on the firm, warm back.
A cow cried in the echo
of freezing dark.
Somewhere close,
I heard the crunching
of lost footsteps.
My eyes strained
to hear if they were yours,
but all I could see
was the shadow
of your ghostly stance,
neck low, depleted,
in the breath of winter.
In the way I could feel you
reach for me in the depth
of your dream, in the fog
of your troubled,
slumbered exhale,
in the hunger
of your wish
for my shelter.
And I chose to turn
and slowly shut my door
and fall asleep easy,
in the warming nest
of my everything
without you.
In the knowing
I would not dream
of the way
you held my face
in your hands
and did
what you did
so well.
In the way
I would wake
to a new song,
halfway learned,
on my cracked
and ready lips.
(photo by Rae Kaigler)
Chapter 1: “Like a big tunnel of feelings from another person to another person…”
You speak as Elder at times like this. Of the tunnel, you defined empathy in between spoon fulls of chicken noodle and creamy broth. We had been speaking of the visit with your ‘blood dad,’ as you’ve called him recently. We reflected on those almost four hours and the moment he hugged you goodbye, a few days prior in the park. Through sobbing tears he trembled words of how he would love you even after he died. And he went on like that, a long while. I sat close on the rock watching his embrace of your folded up body in his thick brown coat. I’ve never seen you so surrendered. At that moment I thought my own tears might never stop. It was from the tunnel of which you speak. A tunnel from his heart to mine right then. Two people who love you, as the two who can’t raise you, as we wish we could.
Point is, I always knew he loved you like that, but you had never seen it til right then. I can imagine those words may have started to water the garden I’ve worked so hard to plant in your chest these nine years. I can imagine only his tears on your hair could possibly begin to nurture the life of seeds we all have tended in your soil. He was the hero that day and you the angel for receiving. Empathy, the lens of hindsight, back at home. Days later, sipping chicken soup at the table, you named it all so clear. As the poet you embody when you feel entirely safe. When the images unfold from your mouth into my hands, that’s when I know you are finding your way from flames to water. That’s when I see you soften enough to drink from the same vessel I do. Nothing comforts me like those moments. Nothing.
Chapter 2: “I think I don’t know my own strength.”
‘You and everyone else, my dear’ - I replied through my toothbrushing. Your sentence had come from hours of nonstop handstands. They had begun towards the end of my qigong class, inspired by the teacher of mythos. A queen of humble transformation, who’s essence rings easily through the limits of my computer screen. Early that morning, I had told you of her journey. I spoke to you a celebration story of emerging into one’s authentic nature. From boy, to man, to woman. During class you knitted, watching her deeply through the screen in between your neon stitches. Silent questions of gender shifting through your corrugated yarn, colors brilliant and for the first time in years, so much pink. As the teaching unfolded through the mythic poetry of empowerment and healing, you opened. I could feel it. Into every knitted row, the wisdom of practice poured into your hands. Gathered from all the collective efforts of this global class, you were inspired - though you’d never admit it. I made shapes like heart protection and smiled at you sitting close.
And in one explosion of your wings, you threw the knitting down and burst off the bench, like you just couldn’t take the beauty any longer. That’s when you started your love story with handstands. Over and over and again and again. Your strong body rose, bare feet to the clouds, and you didn’t stop when my class ended. Didn’t stop for hours. Didn’t stop when you said that sentence of not knowing your own strength. In fact, I hear at school on the playground, you can’t stop. I hear everywhere, you’re upside down these days. Makes it easier to be apart, knowing things like that. Knowing those handstands started here in that way. The small thud of your barefoot landing filling this cabin like the prelude of my soul’s sung purpose. ‘This kind of knowing paves the way for a someday death of peace’ - I say to a corner of my mind, days later, walking my dog in the stars and waxing moon. The memory of your freshly fallen giggles as soundtrack to my steps through the snow.
Chapter 3: “I'm laughing out all the pain.”
Last week, the world was born for me when I heard you speak those six words. For you are beginning to see that it is absolutely possible for ALL that pain to leave you. And for resilience to fill its place. Or joy or horse stories or whatever you choose to fill in the holes.
I can someday die well rested knowing you now tend the fire of healing transformation. The aim of feeling you are worthy of it. I agree with your blood dad. My tunnel to you will never cease to flow.
My love for you defined as my life’s greatest song. Let’s laugh again, my darling. Upside down in determination of knowing our own strength.
Bioluminescence
To live in light does not mean to live without darkness. For when the waves crash upon the lifeboat, lost at sea, your eyes must rise to look through the storm, to be with the night of moonless thirst. To live in light is about feeling all of it, without distraction and navigate the tides inside and out, just as they are. To practice the art of living as you look, without expectation, for land as the sun rises over the endless ocean of dawn. To keep the heart open to the grief in the lungs, even if there is no water to drink and faith is but a frail memory of land. To live in light is to dive beneath the only raft of survival, into the bioluminescence of turquoise plankton, where all is still and whales sing their love songs in polyphony. To hear them and remember, until your last breath, that sound. To live, not without fear of drowning, but to be scared and dive deeper. To then see, clearly, the sky as you burst through the moment of gasping for air, salt in the eyes, smile on the lips, lungs full of life.
To live in light is to say YES to the truest space. To give everything away, in time and form that fits your humble authenticity. To listen for the call of intuition and to follow, even if it strikes lightning through the nerves, shaking the foundation of identity. Even if you don't know why, yet.
To live in light is to swim with the northern lights while the ocean is calm, to float at night and sing praises for every atom of your strong body and all that holds it together. And then return to the raft, shaken and wild eyed, passion for the unknown spreading awe across the dreams of warm sleep. To cry in the morning and let the drops of salt feed the life beneath the boat, and to definitely not hold anything back. To aim for radical honesty, to discern when needed, to welcome what is wanted with an open palm. To practice observation, a million different ways, as often as humanly possible.
To live in light is to grow grace in the uncertain days, the steady patience for a voice growing closer. To glow brightly, uncensored, through the eyes and pen to paper, as the sandy beach of this new time slowly comes into view. To live in light is to crawl to shore, then collapse the limbs on land at last, free and filled with relief, as fresh water flows from the mountains behind and that someone is there with fresh food and silence to share. To live in light is to pause right then, sun on the face, lips cracked and laughing, long hair matted with sand. To close the eyes for a deep breath and return again to the only thing there is...the loving certainty of change.
Bright Yellow:
I crave you.
To taste you or hold you or bathe you.
What are you?
Glass of lemonade. Sunlight or a dream.
Pad of paper yet to reread.
Here or far away. A blanket, a field.
Reflection of a ring. Smoky hot sunset.
Absence of his smile. Wildfire.
Bright Yellow, I crave you.
Can’t see you, can’t smell you.
What are you?
Maple leaf in autumn.
Sunflower on the casket.
His hair as he fell.
The day he thought he could fly.
Paint ‘round the window.
Dusty teddy bear.
Moldy pear in the fridge.
Blade of grass beneath the feet.
As I buried you alone.
Screaming out lullabies.
Fists up.
No choice, Yellow, no color.
No comfort, no signs, no tiny hands.
Yet I can almost see...
A cookie we made.
The blanket my mother gave.
A man. A boy.
The first fire I will create.
After the first snow?
The Silver Leaf
(A Song: for Frank and Mary)
If only I could die
with a sliver of the grace
that shoots out your fingertips.
If I could weave my days
with a fraction of the glow
that shines in your eyes.
God knows, I'm trying
as the garden fades.
And your poem-clothed lady
feels autumn's golden hand.
She bathes you in bed,
rosy cheeked and sweating,
with a grin.
Grateful for this mad life dance,
she has always loved the song
in you.
In the clear, bright starry night,
seraphim invite the leaves
to release peacefully
and rest.
Rest their weary wings.
In awe of this one splendid life.
Tender Tuning of Wings and Water
From all the sensation and silence, my hearing was keen enough to hear them from at least a quarter mile up the creek. I sensed a massive gathering of their kind and smiled, wondering where they were, curious if we would find them, happy to be talking with you more. We followed the rushing water, humid in July, and you walked as carefully as I, up a small hill through the tall grass until there they were, millions of ladies of the honey, pollen dripping from their long legs, so many white hives in the sunshine. We got as close as we could, I dropped to my knees from all of it, you stood there still and time did her thing. It was stunning, how our silence met that rumble of thunderous applause of all those wings of glory. With you there and the bees, the pause of breath, there was a something. I saw the work of the past ten days growing new worlds inside myself, the thick shedding of grief layers like honey comb and the ability to grow fresh moments like this and love of new colors. I felt all this but said about the bees, “They all agree on their ultimate truth.” Species jealousy.
Walking back, we found TJ’s memorial trees, young man of 22, the ribbons of old t-shirts and the photo of his loving-life smile. We stared at this stranger’s face on the rain soaked paper and our friend pondered his passing. I guessed he probably loved this spot right here.
And then it happened. There was a tiny branch, right below his photo, with that one drop of water barely hanging on. We saw it at the same time. And you did what I’ve only known myself to do, you slowly moved your finger to the base of the rain drop, so as not to scare it. And with microsopic tenderness, like it was the most important job in the world, you lifted the bead of water onto your skin. I confirmed right then, something. I said to myself a sentence.
You see, it had only been just me. Always so slow, like my life depended on it, like maybe it could save my own. Never from a branch though, mostly a single petal of a flower of a tree. I hadn’t ever cared to share, not even for a word or afterthought. But for me to see it in another, to view it up close, how it looked on your fingerprint. The humble ground of years in meditation, placed all in the light of a drop of rain on a finger. Just that afternoon, when the bees kept rumbling and the chapter of a life began anew. All with the help of another and TJ’s trees. All in the way one reaches from without to with. In the welcoming of gravity gifts.
Narrow
Snuggle cat bridge
between two sets
of shoulders
in a record store
in the rain.
The river – between us,
muscle and bone – grows narrow
from the purring
of feline affection.
Patience sits
uneasy in the chest
like the gentle claws
of a cat bridge
in a record store
in the rain.
The day I whispered.
The day we never began.
When Loops Began
Falling to sleep
my arms
are hay fields
hundreds
of acres
trying
to conduct
an orchestra.
I hear
the future
with you
as dreams
are laden with
loops of song.
Days
of morning
need no name.
Light
lives absent
of winter memory.
Only.
Just.
Scent
of magnolia.
the shape of my secret with the stars
After I told you our seven years were done, you and I picked ourselves up and delivered our feet out of the cabin to where the stars shone as daylight. We, the audience, watched in awe. Trees sang like statue silhouettes towering above. We stretched our heads up and back, while the snow blazed like fire. No moon, only white sky. Not dark, though night and cold. The only sound, our crunching feet and heavy breath. Walking backwards, I felt joy then. Not before, but with the stars and you, it shot straight up. Wordless exhalations, my child eyes bright and your hands in your pockets, quiet. Two souls. Breaking apart.
The way we stopped on the bridge above the output of the lake and watched the ice and water underneath. In hiding. Strangely shy, right then I knew. It was then or never. So I taught you, step by step, the shape I make to drink in the stars.
“Feet far apart, legs bent just enough. Back arching as far as allowed. Shoulders down and back. Arms limp with gravity. Tummy strong. Heart melting open. Jaw relaxed so the stars can flow down the throat. Stay there, deepen. Maybe shaking, maybe tears.
Then inhale. Take it all inside you. Arms up and into the heart. Fold your body like a fern. Fall forward, in and down. A bow to the night inside you. Your one truth. Connecting to release. Hold and breathe.
Then exhale. Expand out again and arch back. A blossomed flower. Backbone expansive. Shoulders down and arms limp. Surrender to the light finding light inside of you. And hold. Jaw like water. Open those eyes and drink it in. Remember: let the sky drink you in too.”
You did so well, like you had known all along. We held our shapes and I’m sure the trees took a pause from the star show to look down upon our tired bodies, bending like snowy branches from so many years of that kind of weight. That kind of trying. Limbs of you, limbs of me, drinking loss we were overdue to quench.
I don’t remember if we could hear the water or the ice below the bridge. But I recall the way the river blessed us that night on the bridge, in the shape of my secret with the stars. The way the silence bowed too, in honor of the music we never made. With the snow and the first buds of spring, the ice melted and we held each other’s lives and let go - one last time. All of it.
You told me something of Venus as I listened to the sound inside your voice. Right then, my chest erupted, flying towards you. But this time up, up towards the next chapter of the rest of my life. Without you. To the stars.
About the shape, I barely whispered, “You’re the only one who knows.” But I meant to say, ‘Remember: I could have told anyone, or no one. But I chose you, only you. And someday, I will choose another. This is real, drink your fill, dear man I have loved. Surrender to the sky and feel the light flow down your throat. Into the healing, into the darkness. Give space to the fear and watch what happens. The stars will brighten inside your heart and spring will surely return, in you and in me.’
Until we meet again….