West Coast
Northern California
Redwood trees
Huge groves
Avenues of Giants
One may stop, decide
‘I will hug this tree’
Go on, give it a try
Give it some time
Mature trees
Deep dense, living beings
Silent sentient presence
Masters of meditation
They let you come inside
If you put clouds
in your pockets
danced in the light
saw yourself in old lockets
read the stars at night
listened to nature–
heard what she did say
felt the heartbeat of earth
most every day
wrote letters to trees
cried when the whale sings
walked with the breezes
waited what love brings
without overstating
a poem is in waiting
I got another bucket list wish
not quite in the way I’d intended
I was rocking the coolest style I’d had in a hot minute, one of the few I hadn’t hated in my adult life – a curly 80’s rocker mullet
But when your BFF does chemo and loses her hair
And her husband of many years won’t cut his rockstar hair, and you’ve sworn, it’s just hair, and she can’t do it by herself
You. Buzz. It. Off.
And suddenly the folks that wanted you to have long hair, love the short, just for the sentiment
and
it bothered me much more than I expected
Short. Fine.
But I’m menopausal and thinning. And I HATED it. And felt petty for that.
My husband (who shaved bald in solidarity, and is a good dude) said – maybe it counts more, because it hurts.
settling into significant changes
accepting this is not temporary, but an all encompassing adjustment
forging a life, a changed life
not the easiest
exhaustion reminds me
I am no longer young
though on the contrary
much is ahead and I can now see a glimpse
I am still
becoming me
From the river to–
know anti-colonial
resistance is not
the same as terrorism
–every shining sea–be free.
I’m reaching into dark corners
With spiders and webs
So thick and beautiful
That I have to pull them down with clenched fists
And teeth to reveal what they are hiding,
not on purpose
Simply put away,
Not thoughts I’m using everyday.
Isn’t it funny how long
A memory may hide and then surface
When you are least expecting it and come crashing down upon your head
Shocking you with the truths it holds and reveals
To help you sometimes settle
With yourself and come to grips
With who you are.
The past is truth however cold
Or distant it may be.
It still is.
But there is no denying it is there
And waiting for you to unlock the door
So it may escape
To this one reality
And make you know
You are not immortal.
Only human like the rest.
there is no greater pain than to witness a tear
falling from my brother’s eye
i would drain oceans to stop it
from reaching his cheek.
Fra Andrea Pozzo, Glorification of Saint Ignatius, ceiling fresco in the nave of Sant’Ignazio, Rome, Italy, 1691–1694.
Despite dilatory ill-intentions
Triumph turns through transformation
Gimmick only goes so far
Transition requires remontoir
True to mood, even God must move
Paint perspective vaulting, unscrewed
As aestival awakens above, ere our eyes fall
So below, becoming blurs the lines for us all
Jesús today would be an immigrant
—brown-skinned, banda-dancing, Mexican-passing—
& he’d march down the rainbow streets every June
with arms spread wide to provide all with his radical love.
He’d be a starving artist, I’m certain,
a short story writer or a spoken word poet
who sought to dabble in parables of miracles.
Jesus testified to touching the Untouchables:
the sick, the lame, and the blind
—physical ailments, of mysterious leprosy & the unclean.
He loved the sinners, the poor, & the othered
with that wide gaily love of his, an unorthodox radical.
Jesús today would embrace the outcasts, the misfits, the rebels.
He’d love them like he loved himself:
a queer colored artist from a humble background,
with no employment except for the Word Of His God.
Call me an atheist, yet I believe
in the holy trinity of Love, Kindness, & Compassion.
