You’re just sitting there, each particle
lighter than a hummingbird feather,
but collectively, you’re at least seven,
maybe eight pounds, not including the urn.
You aren’t much to carry, yet we can’t bear
to measure what remains of you—memories
hazy as motes of dusted sunlight—without
the weight of your soul.

end of the road ~ an old woman’s red cottage
perfectly perched ~ a stop atop
cliffs look out over vast expanse of sea
a tip-top of land ~ nature’s hand waves a roaring whisper
messages en-courage strength . . .
a hearty point
beginning and ending point
a diving point into ocean’s rhythmic rolling roar

reunions swim out beyond cliff’s edge
as deep dive meditation begins
a lulled time ~ a hushed hearing
bubbles up sweet sad feelings ~ caressing a wise old guide
a stilled time as hardened beliefs fade
reminders come and go ~ follow and know promises to set us free

south of land’s end a magical grove of wind swept trees
providies generous reassuring canopy
encouraging ~ to keep on keeping on
petrified witchy painted grove ~ caressed with angels’ wings
holds desperately onto a spit ~ a fragile land’s grip that means business
not for the feign of heart
this grove speaks reassurin’ encouragin’ words
wit a bit of Gaelic and Celtic salted wisdom
thar words can hit you upside the head
take yer off guard
slap ye around a bit hardly givin’ yer time to breathe:  

“Come on Lassie get your arse on out thar ~ nun likes the likes of a whimper’er, ev’er-on likes a larf, whether ye be liftin’ a pint or neigh! No one has time for a long face ~ get me salty drift . . . we don’t care how long you’s been sober!”  

a ‘we mean biz’ grove
a rough as they seem grove

a sheltered vista grove over merciless crashes and lashes of our frigid Pacific’s roar                           

Overheard
After Poem Denise Levertov’s ‘Overheard Over S.E. Asia’

I’m falling on people
where men send me to fall
  on bamboo thickets
  rich seas on rainy nights
I am the snow that burns
  each drop that hits the surface
 but I prefer flesh, so smooth, so dense
I seek the bone.

Over 110 in June
Tomatoes won’t set
Plumeria won’t bloom
Peppers in daily wilt
Despite shade screen on PVC stilts
Iris turning brown, easter lilies too,
All going down
Roses continue in their own way,
Beautiful blooms
That shrivel in one day
Basil and snail vine
Thrive and grow
Loving heat is all they know.

And me, you ask?
I’m hot, 
Fan’s whirring day and night,
Already sick of the AC rasp
It’s JUNE, not July or August,
No balm from the harvest moon.

it’s been 21 years since you passed
i’m 23 now
ain’t time funny like that
the only trace of you that’s left
are some facial features,
some old pictures,
and half a memory
people always told me as a kid
that I looked so much like you
maybe that’s why
when I look in mirrors
I see you staring back at me

I tossed my hopes out into the bin.

What a childish thing to cling to still!

Then, I paused 

to observe the wind playing with the leaves,

listen to an ensemble of birds,

watch my neighbors stomp out onto the street,

and sing along with each other demands for a change,

their voices rising higher and higher, 

as the sun came out from behind the clouds,
and shined brighter and brighter,

watched them share water, flowers, and kind words with one another.

I returned to the bin

and retrieved the hopes I had disposed of moments ago.

It may still be worth holding onto these, after all.

Lush green trees abound
The grace of sunshine resounds
West coast daydream

Like a brick –

staring at the window,
weighing on the page
blanked out,
where the ball penned
erractic fossils
of enthusiasm recalled
shamefully brushed
onto the rage
before the shouts
reached the margin,
textured mess
begging to evolve –

ready to be thrown.

turns out it requires two cubic yards of soil to make heaven
a raised bed of enormous bok choy, kale, and collards that open
like spiraling green mouths

native pollinators smell sweet and herbal
the scent of honeysuckle wafts through the windows
on the cool, Detroit air as I rest my body
beside my friend

we fall asleep three nights in a row
talking about the roads we’ve trod together
about the days when we held each other
together at the seams

and three mornings in a row
we wake up to sit on the stoop
of the Garden of Eden
on the Eastside of Detroit in June

we smack our freshly plucked mint and lemon balm
before they are torn and sprinkled
into the peaches and watermelon and blueberries

this is love
we smile and say
almost disblieving
this is love