Thursday, May 31, 2018

When we let Spirit Lead us -- Alice Walker


When we let Spirit
Lead us
It is impossible
To know
Where
We are being led.
All we know
All we can believe
All we can hope
Is that
We are going
Home
That wherever
Spirit
Takes us
Is where
We
Live.

Sunday, May 06, 2018

Optimism -- Jane Hirshfield

From Given Sugar, Given Salt

More and more I have come to admire resilience.
Not the simple resistance of a pillow, whose foam
returns over and over to the same shape, but the sinuous
tenacity of a tree: finding the light newly blocked on one side,
it turns in another. A blind intelligence, true.
But out of such persistence arose turtles, rivers,
mitochondria, figs -- all this resinous, unretractable earth.






Another Way to End a Relationship - Demetria Martinez

from Devil's Workshop

If you can't pull it up
By the roots,

Take it out

Of the sun, stop
Watering it.

I Don't Want Love - Demetria Martinez

from Devil's Workshop

    Not love, but something
That, when it loses its green,
Holds its form
Like ocotillo,
Long flutes of cactus
To build a ramada
At the threshold of my house.
My house, my home,
In my name.
When I love myself
As I loved you,
I will invite you in.

Thousands of Feet Below You - Alice Walker


Thousands of feet
Below you
There is a small
Boy
Running from
Your bombs.

If he were
To show up
At your mother's
House
On a green
Sea island
Off the coast
Of Georgia

He'd be invited in
For dinner.

Now, driven,
You have shattered
His bones.

He lies steaming
In the desert
In fifty or sixty
Or maybe one hundred
Oily, slimy
Bits.

If you survive
& return
To your island
Home
& your mother's
Gracious
Table
Where the cup
Of lovingkindness
Overflows
The brim
(&
From which
No one
In memory
Was ever
Turned)

Gather yourself.

Set a place
For him.

Balance - Dorianne Laux

From What We Carry

I'm remembering again, the day
we stood on the porch and you smoked
while the old man told you
about his basement full of wine,
his bad heart and the doctor's warning,
how he held the dusty bottle out to you,
glad, he said, to give it away
to someone who appreciated
its value and spirit, the years
it took to settle into its richness
and worth. I'm watching again,
each cell alive, as you reach
for the wine, your forearm exposed
below the rolled sleeve, the fine hairs
that sweep along the muscle, glowing,
lifting a little in the afternoon breeze.
I'm memorizing the shape of the moment:
your hand and the small bones
lengthening beneath the skin
as it tightens in the gripping,
in the receiving of the gift, the exact
texture and color of your skin,
and the old man's face, reduced
to its essence. That,
and the brief second
when both of you had a hand on the bottle—
the thing not yet given,
not yet taken, but held
between you, stoppered, full.
And my body is flooded again
with an elemental joy,
holding onto it against another day
in the unknowable future when I'm given
terrible news, some dark burden
I'll be forced to carry. I know
this is useless, and can't possibly work,
but I'm saving that moment, for balance.

Mother of Myths - V.B. Price

From Chaco Trilogy


We read of the Hopi (that’s all we can do)
that the dead are clouds,
that the dead rain down their souls on earth,
that life depends on their essence.

I felt a closing when my mother died,
felt the past had pulled itself from my life;
where she was
now nothing.

              Where did she go?

Is she anywhere more than a sorrow,
more than something gone?

              I am starving for new stories.

I have no heaven for her, no Elysium.
She isn’t waiting, in pillows and poppies,
for curtain calls from the gods,

              She is a memory
              I often forget
              has no memory itself.

But at Hopi
the dead never leave.
Rain is soul.
And the souls of Chaco
sill feed them.
All history’s in the sky,
the crops, their bodies.

              Any meal is a communion.

But my mother and I are as far apart
as I am from faith
in the Fall from grace.

She is like the canyon was on a Tuesday
7,000 years ago, or a Monday just last month,
a detail
in the history of time.

The canyon is
every day it was,
as the species is
every person it has been.

              But she
              is my mother,
              not a day in the shape of stone,
              and I don’t know where she is.

She is not in her bones,
not in her ashes I put in the waves.

She is an idea
I have not yet formed
like clouds unborn in the sea.

              I want her home with me. I want
              death, all death, to be
              a right proximity.

In Chaco, at least, I know
the canyon is
where the past remains.

              I know it is not
              only now.

So can I say
it is time’s common grave,
a mother of myths,
where death conceives, where memory
gives birth to the future?

Can I say she is somewhere there
waiting for doubt to leave?
             

Running to Wijiji - V.B. Price

From Chaco Trilogy


When you know who you are
you do who you are,
polishing a mountain
without a goal

(There is
nothing
more.
There is
nothing
other.)

At ten,
I did who I was;
I had no choice;
                     knowing and doing were not apart;
and where I was
was as much of myself
                               as what I did.

                               (Now is
                               a holy
                               place.)

Then years of trying
          and coming apart,
polishing stones
not the mountain
until
          the canyon
          wore me away
so I could see myself
                               singular as rocks,
                               as shadows, clouds
                               as cliff curves, edges,
                               water scars and swirls,
real as skin,
clear as sudden change,
                                         my body
                                         opening to the stars
                                         like Chacra Mesa
                                         on the skull of the world.

Now at 50,
I am the place again.
                               (The front
                               and the back
                               are part
of the same.)

At ten, the place
                    was a forest street
where I did who I was,
          biking to eskape
          tender failures,
sailing through arbors of high ponderosas,
winding like grassy streams
                     through Saturday morning sun.

When you are who you are
you do who you are.
                               (The sacred
                               and the profane
                               are sacred.)

At dawn near La Fajada,
breathing in
the rising light,
                    I am
ten and 50 all at once.
Running through fossil fields of corn,
running the cool space of canyon shade
as one runs memories through the gorge of time,
I see myself
                    in the shadow at my side,
bike rider, now
                               dawn runner
reaching Wijiji
                               at
the
moment
the sun
                    blooms
wildflower light,
          lighting white
over the canyon rim,
over the edge of my brain.
                                         Stunned by God
                                         again and again,
why should I doubt
                               any longer?




Coda

Now is
a holy
place.

There is
nothing
more.
There is
nothing
other.

The front
and the back
are part
of the same.

The sacred
and profane
are sacred.