She was the kind of woman
Who, believing herself alone,
Would glide into the moonlight
And there dance
Amid the dew and the stars,
Taking the night
And the moon
Equally as her lover
Give up this pain?
I would be lost—
A mere kite upon the wind
This pain defines
who I am
Proves me still alive
Give up this pain? Oh, no.
I am nothing
without pain to etch
My silhouette against the dawn.
With rhythm and a certain patterning
Of sound, take us
where we have never been
where we may not want to go.
Mold it in similes
if you have the courage,
or disguise it with a metaphor.
Teased by the similes,
as in a maze of mirrors,
we will wander where you lead.
Deluded by the metaphor
we will follow.
Entranced by the rhythm,
mesmerized by sound,
we will at last reach
the mountaintop,
or pit of hell–
and know for that instant
what we would not have understood
had we not journeyed with you here.
How like a greedy child you are—
Eagerly grasping every good thing
That comes along
As if it were designed just for you
Always coaxing for some new treat
Never satisfied with the all
That you have received
How childlike your joy
And the trusting in the goodness
Of your friends
Yet, somehow, innocent of true greed
You generously share
All your Little-Jack-Horner wonder
Blessing our lives
With laughter
And calling from us
The better selves we can be
As a prow cuts through the sea,
I force the wall of sky to part and let me fly
I practice Chi
upon my swing
As a bird strikes its wings against the air
calling the wind,
I climb the seconds against the pull of Earth
racing to catch the wind
I practice Chi
upon my bike
As the windsock blossoms upon the wind,
I move as music spills through my veins
I practice Chi
in my dance
As the sudden sight of the mountain
may hold still a life for that moment,
So may I hold one who watches
separate from the past, present, future
I practice Chi
in stillness
You have presented
Your demands to
Me, but I must
Write, must now not
Attend to you. Please
Go away and for just
This little while amuse
Yourself till
The writing is
Stilled.
No, you can’t be
Sent away today?
(I realize this will not do.)
Do not expect all
Of me to come with you.
A small bit will still
Hang back
To rework
The puzzle of words
Within my mind
While the rest of me
Moves outward
To meet your needs
For as long as no other choice
Is possible.
Should you give
One excuse, I will
Escape back
To the words
Which push
Their insistent
Worlds into mine.
There I will remain
Till the words retreat
From my grasp and
I am once again aware
Of longing for your
Company.
In these moments when I am away
I am
Not lost to you.
You are yet there with
Me, warming the chill
From a damp
Daylight and lightening
Fear filled nights.
I shall always
Return to you from
This lonely place
of words. Please,
This time
Will you stay near and
Wait just a
Little while?
Stepping away from his guide,
he was consumed in the emptiness:
miles of sand and rock
expecting nothing from him,
respecting not his so correct form.
His gaze buried itself
in the desert’s emptiness
where there was no one
with whom to exchange
required forms of etiquette,
stratagems of business politic,
ripostes in emotional tangles.
He stood in the desert,
the man from crowded places.
He stood alone
in the desert
and was afraid.
My grandfather never knew
What a treasure he left
For me to find—I was born free
Of the invisible reins
And the perhaps unseen,
Though keenly felt, whip or spur
That forced so many girls
To lie in meadows of bitter grass
Along a road they did not choose
I have heard so many sad tales
Of invisible chains and torture
At the hands of the blind
In mind and heart
Tales of so many girls
Who grew perforce
Like mushrooms in the dark
With a taste bland, delicate
Bitter or poisonous
When plucked in the sun
But I have always known
What my grandfather taught
To the brothers of my mother:
Boys must not be allowed
To enjoy leisure at the expense
of a sister’s labor.
Games, thrills and challenges
dancing, melodies upon the air
or under the fingertips,
the pleasures of the written word
are gifts for all, not for boys alone.
We never met, my grandfather and I,
So he could not know of his legacy
Or see the mercy in his gift.
(sung to We Wish You a Merry Christmas)
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
And a Poet’s New Year!
Oh, send us a poet scribbling
Oh, send us a poet reading
Oh, send us a poet singing
And send them right here!
We won’t go until we’ve seen them
We won’t go until we met them
We won’t go until we’ve heard them
Please bring them right now!
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
And a Poet’s New Year!
(alternate last verse)
We’ve all heard the poet’s reading
We’ve all heard the poet’s singing
We wish you a Poet’s Christmas
And a Poet’s New Year!
Is my being so unlike,
Unknown, unseen
That like some dark star
only a subtle change
in the pattern of other lives
Suggests that I may be?
Is there no astrologer
No physicist
No mathematician
Who might at least
Suspect the hint of me?
Or shall I cease to be
Before even one
Briefly dreams
That I once was?