Meditation Labyrinth

Two feet, hands, wind, bush,

step after step unwavering,

frozen mud like thoughts in time.

I am new in the sun, melting

circles wrap blankets over

heated back and cooling mind.

Saturday

I allow myself

to walk in cold breezes,

finding friends

in long night shadows.

I become

a silent film—

a girl forced

to slow herself so

perfection does not

break her.

On the Radio

It could be paradise
BOSE speakers sound LIVE
broccoli, bananas, avocados - fresh!
Wrangler: real, honest jeans.
It could be paradise.

The Door Beckons

Look through my veined glass to
your path, its light-flecked promise. Ignore
the bed where he sleeps, the worn
pillow you’ve shared. Though time dries up
to this moment, you’ll lose no refuge
in a single, severing step
through me.

the absence of fear

in her mind’s eye
silent wolf stalks, stares, only                                              
heat declares its steady presence                          


she imagines
commander watches, waits, holds
precious seconds
in rifled hand


and with them she lifts
a small sure head
to her future hour

Daughter, she says,

We talk
past each other
the low
kitchen wall
splits me farther
from you
on the porch

Your pierced ears
hear my words
in black and white
and reddened lips
snub my
protective tarp

They bite off
anger
when my own
are raw with wishes
that you
heal wholly
yourself
If you let me
hold you

On the Yoga Mat

I breathe pain past my lungs

it settles on my thighs.
Dew springs to my eyes.
I neither stop nor go
but slow the urge to
thunder forward without
pause.

Juvenile Onset

Still I think of his eyes
crossing over, too soon.

Mine rolled back, a smile,
Bawdy remark on his lips.

Before we left our homes
he stayed.

A prayer on our tongues,
Did we know him?

We grow away,
he is still.

When It Was Over

She cannot shake
herself in the mirror
at her side she cannot see
someone
once
remember a breeze
at the back of her neck
he kisses the sunshine is
gone
to drift
backwards
she cannot

Dutch Plate

From the stained table I look

at a blue plate hanging.

Dutch, perhaps.

How do patterns fall on ceramic;

appear from nowhere?

Outside, rain etches itself into patches of grass.

Over White Dishes

The music worries with its tearful

notes above the noise

when it breaks

over the white dishes,

and wants, unknowing,

to finish their cold words.

(Syntax imitation

Original poem: Not Writing by Jane Kenyon)

Overhead, They Circle

Dot in the sky comes

Close, unexpected

It is big.

Not a dot, but

glorious. An eagle.

No, two.  Too fast.

Drumming loudly in my ears,

The mud is stuck

In my toes,

They run but cannot.

I look, they were there.

Gone, now, into nothing,

the dot, no, two.

The eagle.

Was it?