deathbed

poetry and
pictures
the work of your hands
displayed
in memoriam

sassy
you were
in pictures
mini-skirts
and big hair

you read poetry
Omar Khayyam
ancient Persians
you sifted through
dirt and rubble
of archaeology
and ancient writings

searching

questing
fighting
shaking fists in the air

you dared God
to explain
the absurdities
the contradictions
of humankind's bad
representation
of all that is holy

God was silent
and it ticked you off

As you lay dying
I couldn't help you
I couldn't even be
near
as if I reminded you
of all the unanswered
questions

you went down
spitting
declaring your opposition

I would have torn
the mantle around my neck
if I could
if it would have made you see

I understand
I'm ticked too

or that God and I
meet daily
for fierce wrestling
out of which
I emerge a little lame

yet blessed

I wanted
to take your fists
gently pry away the rage
the injustice
the fears
that you were
too smart
for God

I wanted
to tell you
that God is ticked too
at the ones
who use him
use his authority
to maim, curse,
to kill souls

instead
I stood helpless
as you pushed me
and all I represented
to you
away

you ran out of life
before you ran out of questions

but I wanted you
to know

I am not Them
They are not me
and God is not Them

but God
was waiting
to answer
all the questions

that scared
everyone else
and kept your
fists closed

against Love.

blessing

it's hard
being a poet

seeing

so much

that other people
don't notice

beauty and pain
dark and light

i hear the ripple
of the water
as it washes over
the rocks

i see the light
in the shine
of the blackbird's
feathers

i smell the coolness
of a new morning
i see the pain
in that stranger's eyes
as she greets her customers
but tries to hide it

i feel the hurt
the tearing of skin
when lovers part

the rain descending
from God's heart
when a child bullied
takes his life

my body receives
the blows
when people are cruel
violent in word
poisoning the air
with their self-contempt

but i also notice
the radiant blue
of her eyes
as she leads the meeting
(does no one else
see the brilliance
of her light?)

or when his face
relaxes
i hear the crumbling
of the wall
that held in
his heart
see the reflection
on his skin
from grace-glow
and my eyes
tingle
with tears

or the smell
of water
on sun-baked grass
the sudden sweetness
of honeysuckle
traveling on the breeze

i see
i feel
i ache
i rejoice

it is both
blessing
and curse.

Harvest

small cyclone
of corn husks
in my car's path
blown off the
shaven field

remnants
of the gathered crop
husks of treasures
the meat already gathered

wind whips them
twirling
as if a spirit
passes by

mountains of corn
trucks keep coming
a banner year
transparent skins of kernels
dusting my windshield

I remember
still bear the scars
of barren years
days of wanting

hungry of soul
heart frozen
longing

and here I am
watching the corn mountains
rise

my spirit is light
as the husks
swirling in dance
across my path

I am full
I am enough

the harvest
is plenty.

Essential

I remember sitting by Karen's bed 3 years ago, looking out at the lake just outside her window. The ducks were gliding across the surface, the wind was blowing leaves out into the atmosphere, where they touched down so lightly on the water, it hardly made a dent. They spun, circling each other, bumping into each other. The changing of seasons, preparation of winter.

Karen was just weeks away from death, and as she slept, I thought about all that she was leaving behind. Not just family and friends, the obvious things. She wouldn't see that lake every morning, the ducks on the water. She wouldn't smell the unique autumn smell of leaves on the wind, wood smoke, or the stunningly fresh scent of Nebraska air. I felt sad for her. I couldn't imagine losing these things. Leaving this world and all that's in it, leaving it all behind. I'd never thought about those things before.

"I'm really going to miss you," she said one day. I choked up and returned the feeling. She was going to miss ME? I never thought of the one leaving as being the one who was losing. But it makes sense. We don't know what's next. We have ideas, we have images and hopes, but we don't know anything for sure.

So it got me thinking about my life and what is important to me. In the last few years, it became increasingly urgent to me to live my life the way I truly believe it ought to be lived. I've had enough losses, said enough goodbyes, that I cherish the goodness and refuse to take things for granted.

What is essential to me is to live honestly. I want truth. I want to be in relationships where people are honest with me. When I love someone, I tell them. Why not? If I love them, I consider them lovable, and so they would most likely want to know. Who doesen't want to know that they are lovable??

Another thing that is essential is deep, spiritual, intimate connections with other human beings. I can't live without that. I can't live too long on the surface of things, I get weary of pretentiousness or false talk. Tell me who you are, what you love, what breaks your heart, what stirs your passion and gives you hope. Tell me what gives you joy so deep that your eyes leak. I want to know. I want to see God in your eyes.

Music is essential. Music embraces my every day. I need it. I listen to feed my soul, to give me hope, to remind me of why I get up in the morning. I love honesty in music. The "broken hallelujahs" as well as the praise for the morning. Intertwined with that is poetry and literature. Words that get into the soul and illuminates it. Connects us to God. Reminds us that we are spiritual beings having a human experience.

And of course, my family. My husband, my best friend, my soul-mate in the true sense of the world. My play-mate. The one who makes me laugh, who holds me when I cry, who understands what moves me in a concert without me having to tell him. The one who saved my life with his love, and saves it every day.

My daughter. The child who I helped get to create. The one I fed with my own body. Who gave me hope in hard times just by moving her foot across the inside of my womb occasionally, and then was that still small being that I could care for when the world around me was going crazy. The one who has grown into a passionate, enthusiastic, compassionate, giving, loving, beautiful human being. Who gives me joy.

Creation. I need food for my soul, and I need to live in a place where there is a constant feast for my eyes. I love Nebraska. I love the fact that there's so much space that I can "stretch my eyes," that I can smell, see, and touch such vast beauty, sheltered by the dome of the endless blue sky. That the horizon keeps going. It's like God brought me here to show me that there is no limit to my growth, the possibilities of life and love, and when I arrived, and ever since, God keeps saying, "Welcome home, darlin'! Welcome home."

It is essential that I be myself, that I have ways, like writing, to express myself, to dance with words, to see the beauty, expose it, and celebrate it. I have come to midlife not with crisis, but a strong sense of who I am, what I want from life, and what I will not tolerate. Love is essential. Spirit is essential. Mercy, compassion, open horizons. All of that and more is essential for life. And I now have the courage to claim it.

Words

they're so flexible

and move so smoothly

on the page

on the tongue

man-made inventions

constructions

yet they elicit power

they can bless

or condemn

evoke tears

or a guffaw

(I like that word "guffaw"!)

the truth is

they lied

words do, in fact, hurt

they can be weighed down

with shame

evoke anger

rage

they can haunt

and cause wounds

that make one

slowly

bleed to death

but words

can also open a latch

on a prison door

turn on light

that can flood darkness

words can change

a life

give direction

and power

they can--

spoken rightly

set free

words are fun

to play with

as Ted Giesl well knew

like play dough

we can strethc them

press them

shape them

use them

to create beauty

In the Beginning

in a land before Time

was the Word

a power unshaped

therefore yet free

unencumbered

The Word went crazy

creating

coloring

loving

lighting

shaping

warring

dancing

and no matter how

we try to trap It

fit it into our small minds

It is still

a wild Thing

making life

making beauty

calling us

to divinity.

Flashback

every time

i see a Stop sign

its red octogonal shape

angled edges

abrupt instruction

i remember a nightmare

i had when i was 3 or 4

about flying houses

and Tinkertoys

that came alive

the smell of

wood smoke

and i'm back in pennsylvania

in front of a fireplace

or a campfire in the pocono mountains

when someone in authority

looks over the tops of the glasses

at me

i'm in fourth grade again

standing in front of the

principal's desk

who says

'what the hell were

you thinking?'

and i shrink

when i hear

a seagull

i feel the splintery wood

of the boardwalk

beneath my feet

i feel the stickiness

of cotton candy on my face

taste the grainy

sweetness on my tongue

waves crashing

on the shore

the smell of the ocean

jellyfish washed on the sand

abandoned by the tide

when i smell candlewax

and burnt matches

i'm singing

'kum by yah'

with weeping teenagers

hugging and swaying

with the love of jesus

the beatles are singing

'revolution'

and i feel my feet tingling

from vibrating floorboards

high powered stereos

belching rock music

i smell incense

from down the hall

hear the clacking of beaded curtains

my long haired brother

walks barefoot

down the hall

and lets out his daily primal scream

it's funny

how time works

we're here right now

but a song

a smell

a sound

or the sight of lovers

holding hands

and i leave my body

enter another time

briefly visiting a moment

in the past

feeling the pain

or joy

or peace

from another lifetime

a younger me

and i remember

i am more

than i appear

in this moment

i am all of it

i am a whole world

of experience