it's been a strange life so far,
heavy on my heart. but i never
felt entitled--there are more people
suffering in this world than there are
those who are not. i want these men
to undo what they did
to this world--good at claiming
territory--but proclaiming love?
not so much.

when i was little i expected
to walk only once through the fields
of immaturity and to grow up free
of the hopeless hope that my
mother and father would never die
and that god would deliver each lost
child home ...let's face it--movies
were produced and directed by visionaries

who got it all wrong. i never expected
anything to turn out this way,
at night my dreams keep searching for affirmation.
mom and dad are dead, preceded by my son.
in the end there is nothing left but history.
back then, there were unlimited tomorrows
in which to do it over again and again
until we got it right

pretend that you have just met me
in a dream,
and i am beautiful
with dark hair like some long-gone
summer night
and a face
like delicate handwork.

imagine that like some sailor,
helm lost, gone astray
in far seas, by chance
discovering the greenness
of some tropical island,
you see me in the dusk.
and raising my eyes like bird's nests,
i ask you : what took you
so long?

evening comes at day's end
like the sound of dew;
a kite wipes off the scent of sunshine
from its wings.
all earth's colors are spent
and what is left
is a firefly's brilliant hue.

thus i have completed this fantastical tale,
an old story with a happy ending.

all the birds
return home to their nests.
all the rivers flow to the sea.
all the day's trials and errors end.
only darkness remains,
and sitting with me face to face,

you in a dream

the meaning of life is not only to be found in happiness”

i’ve had enough of meaning.  give me some joy–
make my imaginary havens real,
give my fantasy lover flesh.
but let’s face it, i still struggle to learn something
even as i try to forget everything–
it’s nothing but
a leftover habit.

i have learned that
in a life so short as mine,
one should never sell out for promises
or sacrificial things
or months that wound down
to nothing i understand..

i wanted to give you some time
i wanted to open a cardboard box
and have a god climb out and say Yes I Love You
i wanted to have a lasting love
or at least half a lasting love

half of something

this world is not my home-- i am
a sight-unseeing tourist, only.
my eyes are blinded
by tomorrow's dreams.
i plod toward a western horizon
that is strewn with missiles, bathed
in an eternal sunset of kindling fire.

barefoot, i dance through flames
and drift over trees.
i come to you every morning,
still smoking and warm,
holding in my hands
a fist full of charred earth
and pale green sprouts,
more delicate than morning light...

in our next incarnation
you will be a blue tractor,
and i, a red one;
or i may be a wheelbarrow,
and you, a chainsaw.
there will be lightning
in the sacred wood--
the blue robes of an upturned sky will open
and we will find the treasure we have buried here:

golden coins
spilling from a magic page

my hair was tied in a youthful ribbon
and my arms were encircled
by the velvety bracelets
of memory.  my necklace was
strung from the pretty stones
of a young girl's yearnings, 
my jacket was fastened
with the exquisite buttons of dreams
the man i used to love ran up to me 
and held my face in his hands.  
let me look at you he whispered
you look wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.
a sudden gust of wind scattered what was left
of last night's loneliness.
we stood like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle
left outside the frame
because they couldn't be made to fit.. 
the sun pressed closer
to the ground, trees and grass seemed to catch fire...

i climbed into my car and drove away

sometimes i think i hear whispers
in the woodpile, voices from far
mysterious forests where one long
beam of light shines on a patch of green moss.

sometimes tree-ghosts disguised as dogs
come and lick the bowls i leave on the
back porch. the wind spins me from
this ordinary world until i am almost
broken with regret, split

like this pile of green hickory and oak.
in the dark, a vision of rustling leaves chases
me into dreams, pursued by splintered voices
that moan in the pitch dark night,

then lift and become blue smoke

it's not a diary.
it is a wind of blue satin
between poverty and poetry
where people begin to love
only the fences they have built

the cuckoo in the woods
is calling like a haiku,
the meadow is a pointillist painting
the shadow of the past
is on the sundial

and humanity--oh the humanity! is softly
singing in a broken mason jar
a song of parting that never ends
a song that can walk through walls

*drawing by Allie Brosh

above the distant mountain
the golden cradle of the moon
gently rocked in the swaying branches
of the old maple, to the music

of the wind bells on my balcony.

i came inside, then, and i thought of you
as a long shadow slipped along the doorstep
and firelight from the kitchen stove
cast a red glow

on my bare arms