On a Saturday that feels like Sunday

On this Saturday that feels like Sunday,
somewhat cooler than I’d wish
as I practice not having obligations,
as least not immediately,

when spring rises in the coolness
and the tree blossoms turn green
with traces still of pink,

on this Saturday that feels like Sunday
I wonder what Sunday will bring.

Will I wake from liquid into an incandescent thing
with wings, wet, vulnerable, poised for flight?

On this Saturday that feels like Sunday
the pregnancy is nearly obscene,
the tumescence liquid crystal.

Only missing is the sound of spirit
whishing from body. It won’t happen.

I will be here tomorrow on a Sunday like others –
grounded with what we have of mystery,
love and explosion.

Those Things

Those things one is supposed to know,
how to tie your shoes
and tie up your life and dreams
into reasonable patterns

that can be discerned when needed
to assure you that your fiber
will cover the stream of unattached
things that glide like translucent platelets

on the sclera of your eyes,
and are all around you,

time, people, places, memories,
what was thought to be,
what is imagined to be,

what your heart thinks is real
but your mind rejects,

what your mind thinks is real
but your heart rejects.

Those things, bundled,
neatly, or not so neatly,
casually, vibrantly, bursting
out of the bag, calliope of chaos

beyond time,
outside of beliefs,
not collectible into Something.

Those things one is supposed to know,
where have they gone off to now?

Infinite Loops

International Women’s Day – March 8, 2007


In the beginning was the word, idea, energy, imagination
that created thoughts, tides, walking, breathing,
the micro and macro, universes mirroring each other inward and outward, infinity –

language, blood, laughter,
material world of joy and pain and children

and aches of hearts not knowing what they have lost,
sensing a home to be regained through briars of chaos and schism that may not be here

except as imagination is unleashed.


Plump-plunk in the middle is you, me, us, we, mother, father, extended family –

those dancing at weddings, those starving,
and so many sold for sex and labor, those killed in Iraq or Afghanistan, those killed by guns,

those who will be killed by guns, those killed by ignorance,
those breaking bread, those tending the ill,

those who sing acappella in cathedrals or showers, those who use everyday bravery to feed their children,

those who birth children in deserts or well-lit private rooms, those being born, those dying,

those given to generosity, given to fear, given to despair, those who hold hope as their most hard won possession.


Infinity visible on earth:

A small yellow bird eating seeds along a road.
A French horn in a cathedral in Germany.
A woman’s hand touching mine in the dark as she said, “Help me.”

A baby whose tears ran down my cheek.
Warm pebbles under my feet on a beach in Italy.

My hair stood on end once when Afghanistan police closed
in around me.

Young lovers in a park, kissing.
Ice on the bloody nose of my stepson.

I danced in a spring wind off a new cornfield,
pretending to fly.

Sometimes I am more alive than ever I’d been before.


Your soul is imagination in love with real time.

Imagination unleashed dances with the last digit of pi.

Love set free guides us home.


You, who ties the kids’ shoes,

who frets about bad hair days and your weight,
who thinks people will find out how dumb you are.

and shovels the walk and sends an email,

you, with the bad knee, who clings to the past
as if it defines you, who feels so busy and pressured,

who feels despair over U.S. policy, who feel the world is beyond repair.

who feels guilty your life is good and you’ve suffered little,

Your burnished beauty is ready for primetime

plump-plunk in the center of infinity

in your reality show.