Michael's gift: today's poem

You are my hearth
my soul-keeper
my flame
I was born to be ignited by you
I plunge sprouting wings
fanned into fire
by the breath of your love

You are my slow river
my ark
traveling through dark liquid night
silently
downward I sail
past star-glistened rocks
drenched in salt spray
and then opening
to the luminescent
shattered
moon trail of the sea
gently rocking
gently rocking

You light me within
and I am the lantern
the lighthouse’s cherished beam

Kissing you
I dream of sunrise
surprising my sleep-frosted eyes
like a squeeze of tropical fruit
across a blue tablecloth
quenching my heat-blistered tongue
and filling my parched throat
with sweet wildness

Love

I am still waiting for a sign,
a shiver across my shoulders, a word
written in snow by sparrow feet

hoping by that simple gesture
that means so much, the fertile
dark will be sundered.

Our longing we never shared,
too risky the journey,
the plow finding stones

and the heart crying foul once again.
But still I would hear it now
that you have reached light,

those flames burnt across my soul,
the grace of knowing we were once
twined, even if only in froth and sand.

Embers

If he asks you how to blow the ember
back into flame, whisper: here, and
here. If he points to a broken heart,
breathe these words: this is the way,
only this.

If he dances on your rooftop and
cups his hands to hold the moon,
sing. Sing and pluck the fine
silvered strings of his pleasure.

If he asks you if you dare, become
bold as amber honey, widen your hips,
hand to him the key. Do not
hesitate and do not
look back.

If he asks you if you love,
look deeply into his eyes. Light the
flame with your breath, let your lips
seal the promise, let him find
your secret rose. Open.

Give wine. Give fragrance. Give dew, and
then let the sea come in its force. Let the tide
overtake you, let the moon rock you,
let your seashell hearts
fill with joy.

The Many Voices of St Paul poetry jam

Black Dog Cafe
308 Prince Street in Saint Paul.
Monday Dec 7 at 7pm

Curated by Richard Broderick. Readers include Kathryn Kysar; Aleli Balagtas; Rich Broderick; Mike Finley; and Wendy Brown-Baez. Wendy established “In the Shelter of Words”, a powerfully revealing writing project at Face to Face Academy and SafeZone– a resource center for homeless, run-away, and low-income youth in Saint Paul. Also reading will be Marie Weber, a recent graduate of Face to Face Academy whose work is included on a CD produced by “In the Shelter of Words.” Music by Nathan Hanson, saxophonist from The Fantastic Merlins, and Toni Adedeji, lead singer of Wednesday's Bliss.

to read about In the Shelter of Words:
http://www.tcdailyplanet.net/news/2009/09/24/shelter-words

p prompt

privacy

this is secret, whisper, shadow
this is pure, untainted by human need
the all too human desire to touch and own,
this is protection when all the world has torn

you through with its jagged teeth of greed
this is solitude when prophecy is strong
when prediction means watch, wait, enfold

when promise creeps in closer to the soul
when the purpose of vows are to forgive
what cannot be undone

the way of the hermit, the steps of the
pilgrim, the muse of the sage
gone to bone, perfumed by the light
from the last eternal star

worn for the duration
pressed into memory
owned by no one
devoured with grace

Death brings a gift

Death always brings a gift. You knew that, didn’t you? Sometimes it brings a burst of life, appreciation, connection to people from the past, reconciliation. At least a taste so sweet and so bitter of how precious life is, how vulnerable we are, how human. The gift of someone’s memory engraved on a moment of time, a life brought into focus, savored, passed around, a photograph that says so much and so little, the enigma of a human soul no longer available to give explanation. The gifts that come with grief, despair, and unutterable pain are beyond words. The gift of a deep natural silence while we sit in a circle of honoring and releasing. To know that we are breathing, that we hear a bird sing, the sound of a green apple thunking to the ground, the bell or screen door as Fred goes in and out, in and out. To feel the ice cold salt rimming a margarita on my lips, the slide of liquid down my dusty throat. A moment before we are chattering, our hair streaming behind us in the wind from the truck window, the sun hot on my thighs, my silver bracelets glinting. A moment later I feel your arms strongly around me as we both sob. You didn’t even know him, you didn’t know until two days ago what had happened to me, and yet, your heart has swing wide open to take my pain in—a pain you can only try to imagine and can not begin to heal. This is today’s small gift I unwrap to add to the small basket like a pile of shells swept up on the damp sparkling shore of the black cold unfathomable and invincible sea.

My authentic Voice

When I speak from my authentic voice, I never know

exactly what I am going to say or how I will say it or where it will lead me. It is a magic carpet ride, it is a hero's journey to the center, it is an adventure on the yellow

brick road. Sometimes my authentic voice is strong and speaks the harsh truth and sometimes it is filled with tender compassion. My authentic voice is clearest when I walk the tightrope between worlds, between worlds of light and dark, confusion and purpose, wanting and awareness that all is fine. To dance between the living and the dead, this side of the border where I understand the language and that side where language is foreign, and gestures, smiles, tears, and laughter weave us together, between grief and joy, between this life and the one I am creating.