There is a place that I have walked
where my shoes got soaked with rain
from the ground and from the sky.

Place of faraway bravery and rugged need;
'alone' a necessary and a blessed space.
I found my body breathing
and crushing
and stamping
in quiet courage, silent
at a river, fingers open
to the frost,
clutching stone.

Place on the threshold of beauty and ancient revolutions;
'magic' an alive and a flowing force.
I found my soul floating
and gripping
and ripening
in the birth of self, angry
and certain, voice tethered to
hollow sounds,
whistling.

Parallel lines are a false comfort:
Our lines grow tangents,
undulating with faithfulness
to the mathematics of intersection
and round circles
like a wave.

muscles in my neck are not strong enough
to hold up my head; I am sad.  I am
glad; emotions wrangle like a thousand
fish in a net, vying for freedom, ripping
their case apart.  Sad, a crayon-scribbled shark
tears morosely at the ropes.  Big it feels,
and angry, a child whose best friend is
fast like a shark, and swimming away.
And speaking of sharks, they feel the same way;
why does the sun change in the ocean, and
how come the ocean is so far apart?
His eyes are puffy from the salt, always
open.  In the ocean, no one can see
him cry.

photo via

Sometimes the sky opens up;

heavy and lidded, wind pops through,

lifts it off.

Your eyes open wider or

the sky peels back;

looking inward, you've found you have done fear in the face,

and found the hazy sunshine peering through the hole.

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Can this be a waterfall that only I have seen?  

Can my eyes have one thing that is only theirs?

But the ants have seen it.  Beetles and deers have.

Humans, too, are not rare creatures.  So the sense of exploration

is blown along, dusty with kicked feet, rutted trails.  

But has anyone seen that water drop, that splatter?

I am truly the only one to see this moment, this path of falls;

the water will never be twice the same;

  (my possession grasps at straws).

Turning away.

My eyes, seeing it again; but I flow on.

Not twice.  Already I have found ten new things

that maybe I have only beheld with my 

fierce eyes.

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There are days when light is not out of the corner of your eye, blazing, but straight down your middle,  a burning solid. You have felt this before:

When you walk into a room, and you have always been there without being there.
When you meet a stranger's eyes, and you have found who you are without finding it.
When you say, "I don't know," and you know that you don't, gladly.
When you are afraid, and you stumble out of your cave, squinting.
When you towered up a vertical mountain, and you couldn't have if you tried.
When you are quiet, and you could have said a million words.

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we don't see how to see

Out of the angles of our eyes, the light tunnels in and mirrors out:

people who don't walk with feet on the ground but 

feet in the sky and sky on the ground;

and clouds that billow and rise, sink and swarm.  

Our tunnels of sight are enclosed by the walls of 

experience, narrow and tight,

and light like a worm sniffs its way into caverns of

stormy seas with a boat tossed and no rocky shore.

So when the breathing starts and the heartbeat too,

the clouds crescendo in cosmic chaos,

we see the ground coming at us, knocking our lungs out;

lying on our stomachs, we find a ladybug in the grass.

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connections synapses unwound undone

push pull 

How do we relate to each other?

white coats, bronze stitching, 

blue lines from pulses to throbbing muscles

And you and I find ways to relate to each other.

Because of:

     your shaded eyes looking at mine

     reasons

     a river that is shining and we are beside it

     a moon that is beaming and we are under it

     flying

we don't put our hands together and find that we are cut the same;

our arrows point to each other

our lines intersect.

mindmap via beam!

You chop us down and stack us up

but we trail our roots behind, strong tethers;

unsevered; vibrant.

You mean to harm us, hurt us,

take us into your dark places

where only you belong:

You may not.  

We are not willing;

We are not dying;

We are wholesome despite your destruction.

Cart your own pain away;

Plant your own damn shame.

We are a forest, and

We have nothing to do with you.

photo via

I see your head, bobbing

in the waves, a length 

away from mine; You

stare silently, breathing

water, but bubbles, in your

mouth.

We are in deep water,

where the ocean is a heavy

allure beneath us, our 

limbs suspended, unsure;

You plaster your bangs

back.

I suddenly feel a smile

light up my eyes at you;

how close we are, and 

you are still quietly

bobbing.

In our moment, the vision

pulls back, and there are

1 million people hanging

in the waves around us,

looking at each other,

silently.

photo via

Trees silhouetted black against a white sky;

Her tower was sometimes light, sometimes dark, 

always either, never both.

For 700 years, she found no difference in the day,

apart from the trees noir, the grass blanc--swaying--

and black badgers sniffing along the ground.

On a golden afternoon that she did not see but did feel--

on her skin, the warmth of spring, the sweet breath 

of the blank west wind, swishing her black locks--

she lay on the pinnacle of her tower, thinking of 

truth: "Like the sky, bright and without blemish;"

evil: "The trees, the badger... my hair," 

she caught a wisp in her hands.

"Black, and very fearful."

At that moment, an itinerant fiddle player stumbled into her woods.  He fell flat on his knees on the harsh whiteness of the ground.  "What terrible magic is this, that steals all color from the world?" he gasped.  For in his last step, the hundred greens of the fields had vanished.  The greys, blues, and yellows of the sky were wiped clean.  Next to him, his friendly violin lay like a scorch mark on snow.

Bewildered, the young man rose and bravely tiptoed forth.  Shortly he came upon the lady's tower.  Looking up, he saw the her hair flying, looking much like a black flag in the wind.  He longed to know some sorcery, some incantation that would rip the contrast from the world, bringing texture and depth to this surely beautiful, strange place.  

A sad, angry song welled up in the fiddler's eyes, and his fingers, out of habit, began to pluck the worn violin. Suddenly, the ebony of the tower walls faded into a rough grey.  He lifted the bow and let forth a few solemn notes; the grass around his feet whispered itself greenish.  The man continued his song, and slowly around him the forest grew into life.  Gracefully, he lilted color over his path, passing out and over the boundary of the forest.

The sky parted into white and blue 

before the maiden's lifted eyes.  

She gasped, and her hair swept yellow over her pale face.

She leapt to her feet.

A black and white badger sniffed among the green grass far below.

She stared and a sunset drained her soul of words.

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You breathe the heavy mist of the day,

and yes, you must live, 

though at times the weight of the clouds 

presses your eyes hard into your skull;

You trudge over the crumbling roads,

and yes, you must move,

though your boots are scuffed and

the wind punches your breath right out;

You blink in dry dust,

and yes, you must see,

though the clay of the earth 

has caked over your clean vision;

Because

just then,

the sky breathes pink, trudging, misty dust,

and your clay has eyes to see this.

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Is this what this means?

The sun stretches long under the hill,

coolness creeps after, stealing the warmth of the sun disappearing,

and we are still from the same golden root, but 

our hands are not touching,

our knees are not crisscrossed with grass indentations.

Deep in the earth, in the warmth of the soil,

the sun reaches down in a thousand small places,

draws out the light, the glory of our faces.

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sustenence

full, which was long ago bread, which was long ago

flour, which was long ago fussed up wheat heads, which 

was long ago bobbing back and forth, rolling in those

amber waves of--

I have these thoughts, perched up on my outpost, glancing at the great full world with an obliging nod,

and a knowing smile.

photo via.

roots

Does anyone understand how they 

slither, worming through the soil in your 

chest, miles underground, under blood, found?

photo via

all yous

Ambling down whispy walkways

with you

with so many yous

with the very special yous

who make you feel the very most you

and grateful for you being you and 

colorful for laughing and sharing

simple souls,

birch avenues and bright spirits!

photo via

The spoken moments hold hands

  with the unspoken moments.

Frigid cheeks on an unswerving bridge,

   miles old;

Hardened rock standing firm,

   reaching far down into the swirls;

Babble passes behind and below--

   bicycles and arguments;

A seal glosses the water,

   A car trips along from the grocery store.

My legs fuse with the stones,

   and I, too, am ancient;

Forever here, 

   my history in battles and silences.

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I have curled around your middle, and you may not realize, but I am holding you up.  

Your hardness surrounds you, but the veins show the scars of sobs through your skin;

I cradle those in the softness of my greenery.  

Cry, weep--your water feeds my leaves.  

The sunlight pours into our clearing every morning, 

and we, together, will be fed;

I will hold your head up, and you and I 

will close our eyes and bask in the golden afternoon.

When the cool night comes, we will stretch, together, 

and breathe the stars in and out, puffs of cloud.

And one morning, your fullness will astound the sun;

you are straight, solid all the way through.

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He watched as the land was left behind.  

as the sea was left behind, in small mountains, cresting out

space widened, gaped in his chest 

the nearest star now a trillion light years away

he floated there, in the vacuum of a home left behind,

gasping.

photo by Steve Broadbank.

It comes from your hands when you brush your hair back,

and you felt it for a moment, the power in your hands

rushing into you from outside the mountains,

from the path that you are taking down into the valley, 

deep, where the wind does not blow easy but fierce and calm--

and in your feet, 

pounding the pebbles into dust, 

billowing behind you as you rush on, fast with inertia and frenetic movement

as the deer bounds with you down,

both inhaling the white air and the timber green feeling

of being yours,

and belonging to your earth.

photo via.

I am a lonely ship.

You see other ships, but I would tell you I am alone.

They don't talk to me, and I don't talk to them.

I am a lonely ship.

Things bump against my metal sides, and I hear them,

But the things don't hear me.

They swim away, silver and sweet, and shining.

Also, things do cling to my sides, so sometimes there is company;

but we don't speak, just glide-plunge ahead,

silently together.

So I'd say I'm not that alone,

but still.  Kind of alone.

Somewhat alone.

But with friends.

photo by Elias and Theresa Carlson.