haiku//october
two (piper, again)
her deep sigh, gracious
exhale, reminds me to breathe,
too, generously.
three (communion)
sometimes there are no
words, only the quiet and
her steady breathing
and that is enough.
it’s about the coming, the
rest, the appointment.
four
like the widow, I
come knocking, pounding my fists
into the heavy
door, light spilling out
through the slats. will you open
the door as I stand
in the darkness, as
I plead for your generous
mercy? I will wait—
five (i learned that her name was proverb, denise levertov)
so many of these
poems are dog-eared, readers
past who cherished them
before returning
the little book back to the
city library.
but today, the light
danced on a page whose
corner was smooth, flat
whose words once were burned
onto myself, years and years
ago, all while the
poem hid itself,
unmarked, waiting for me (I
want to believe it!)
to turn the yellow
page, for my breath to catch in
my throat, as I find—
at last!—the song I
once dog-eared with the longing
fingers of my heart.
seven
it is a blessing
that every bit of our life
is practice, is try
for the sake of it,
is watch for the beauty, is
telling a story.
eight (who can open the door that does not reach for the latch)
I am resistant
to begin, and yet restless
to end, drawn somehow
by the empty space
of the middle, candle in
hand, captivated
by the flame, frozen,
my hand around the cool latch.
“turn it,” you whisper.
nine (isaiah 2)
maybe some day the
battlefield will become a
garden, maybe then
the flowers will grow
along the river, maybe
that will be enough.
ten
how often do we
ask for miracles, only
to refuse your gifts?
eleven (isaiah 3)
in that day, maybe
the wind will not rend the leaves
from the branch, maybe
the truth will not be
so hard to speak, maybe your
gloved hand will find mine
as we stare at the
canopy of stars, who will,
maybe, be singing.
twelve
may I believe the
truth I breathe in and out, deep
in my aching bones.
thirteen
you build watchtowers
in our midst, you see the rain
slipping through the leaves.
you, too, cry with the
dying things, who are, in your
eyes, turning to gold.
sixteen
sometimes you whisper,
humming a silent song while
my wet hair dries in
the sun by the lake.
other times, crow-like, you screech,
breaking the quiet
and my heart lurches.
I whip my head around; you stare,
head cocked, watching me.
seventeen (driving down the 55)
my heart slows down its
frantic pace as my little
car winds around the
mountain roads, hemmed in
with trees the color of the
sun, lit and blazing.
how this life, too, morphs
and shifts as the sun touches,
comes alight in parts
and pieces, whispers
of your truth lingering, my
heart breaking open.
eighteen (crimson)
it is blood and leaves
and the smear of juice left on
the smooth countertop
it is the anger
as the table flips and the
gums flashing from a
smile so honest
you nearly break. it is cheeks
flushed, is bitten nails,
is fierce temptation
and unfathomable love.
it is both each and
every, within and
without, these shimmers of you,
near, as the sun sets.
nineteen (snap)
speaking aloud makes
it so, which sometimes feels like
too much to handle
so the dreams wait, paused
with the love and the fear, hushed
into submission.
how much longer
can I hold them in before
they burst out, singing
songs they’ve been writing
in the dark? how much longer
until I join in?
twenty (isaiah 8/9/10)
peace sits on the dawn
with a quiet waiting, for
his people to look
out instead of in,
to spare each other, to bear
each other’s burdens
to bind instead of
break, to give instead of take,
to weep, to embrace.
peace sits on the dawn
with a quiet waiting, for
his people to love.
twenty-two (fiction and fabric)
when I was younger
and my baby sister snored
beside me in our
yellow room in the
glow of the nightlight, I snuck
out of bed and in
to my closet, where
I read beneath my dresses,
swept up by story,
and kept up by “one more
page, then I’ll go to sleep,” which,
of course, was fiction.
it is hard to stay
awake now, long enough to
read a page, or write
down a prayer. now,
the room is empty but for
the hanging clothes, now
how I wish for the
soft fabric of the story
to sing me to sleep.
twenty-three (repetition of the heart)
she walks in circles,
blank smile lighting her face
in all weather, rain
or no. today she
wears a bright pink baseball cap
under her gray hood.
she walks in circles
so she won’t get lost, so her
body won’t forget
how to move, so her
heart will remember, even
though her mind is sick.
twenty-four (god is not like us)
when I want to step
out, you step in. and when I
want to hate, you love.
twenty-five (moses, monday afternoon)
the rain drips off roof
tops and onto my mother’s
garden, remaining
perennials who
revel in the glorious
soak. in the corner
a bush the color
of blood burns through the storm, though
this time it’s silent.
twenty-six (poem for the end of the world)
and then he said, “if
I had known the world would get
this bad, I wouldn’t
have had kids.” death hangs
heavy in the sodden air,
wafts up from the soaked
body of the squirrel
I ran over with my car
and the rotting leaves
in the gutter who
were, only hours ago,
lapping up the rain.
twenty-seven (the shooting at the mall, after psalm 137)
one day, maybe soon,
all the men of war will drop
their weapons. one day,
maybe soon, we will
pull our music out from the
back of the closet
where we hung it up
so long ago, and start to
sing, even in this
strange land. one day, and
maybe soon the music will
wade through the willows
of our mourning and
we won’t be so afraid of
our own empty hands.
twenty-eight (moses, thursday night)
1.
I stand—trembling,
and up to my ankles in
blood, which is running
everywhere now. one
muscle at a time I
lift my weary arms
high above my head,
begging to be seen, witnessed.
can you see? I want
to be encircled
by the light that makes even
the dust come alive.
2.
if you must speak with
snakes and blood and flies and death
will you also speak
in our poetry
and in the quiet humming
of the bathroom fan?
3.
do you, too, want to
be witnessed? are you waiting
for me to notice?
twenty-nine (letters from the land of restlessness)
I write you letters
from the land of restlessness—
can I wait in line
long enough to have
them stamped? to press them to my
lips before they slip
down the chute? can I
keep an address long enough
for you to write back?
thirty-one
the music begins
clearing a space inside me,
promising a home.
