Art of Seeking

A drop of rain briefly catches the light

before slipping from a leaf

and sinking into the ground.

Somewhere

moonlight is like liquid silver

on the water and the shadows

hide the creatures

whose song

creates a muted cacophony

in the darkness.

Somewhere

Death visits a soul

and stays, inhabiting the bones

and in speaking

becoming

infusing this world with

the worlds beyond,

greets all life with a silent knowledge.

Somewhere deep

in the earth, there is

death creating life through

decay and through meaning

This flesh, not futile

its end, mere transition

its memory, perhaps recorded

somewhere in time

or in bone.

Muerte

Querida de mi corazón

No me desampares…

Ustedes brazos me llagaran

donde quiera que esté.

Fire dies in a cold rain.

The finality of words that were never spoken

in the shadows,

long threatening

begin to close in and suffocate the air

I knew, but was afraid to speak

I saw, but was afraid to run

and now, I’m sinking.

Were it not for his arms, there would be little left

for me to hold onto

but the mocking lies

and years of deception

that I can’t help but feel that

I did little to fuel.

What did I do so wrong to you,

you won’t say

but behind doors, I know they talk

although I don’t know what they say,

and in the mocking eyes of all who surround you

I see

that the acceptance of

me

was never even considered.

I hope

they are as sincere friends to you

as you have always been

to me.

This is my time.

There is no late- afternoon urgency,

no disappointments or victories or musings

on how society is annoying me today…

Only the slow absorbtion

of the effects of waking dreams, of light

and water

and some ethereal essence,

sinking in like the overnight rain

into the morning soil

up into the plants that drink the moisture in

from their roots, and the sun in from their leaves.

The woods themselves seem to yawn and stretch,

The flowing water does not anticipate where it is going

but is happy for the moment

to play in its bed, over the rocks, to splash upon the banks.

Others can rush ahead on the trail,

I’m happy to let them pass

to find my way through the trees

and leave the trails behind.

It’s always so tempting to stay longer,

to walk further away from the cities

and their harried mornings

of caffeine and traffic and seven- a.m. meetings…

But that can wait

for tomorrow.

Today,

I’m here… I’m home…

I’m free.

Something is missing in our communication.

Words are short,

and even when spoken

are missed.

Misinterpreted.

Am I

just to afraid to say what I need

what I want to…

to confront you,

to comfort you,

to touch, to tell

And I know,

you do listen.

My thoughts scatter like bits of leaves

torn apart by dust devils

and left confused and vulnerable.

so…

I went to the cathedral

I lit a candle

and I looked to the lights behind the altar.

My feet bare on the wooden floor,

I felt the calm around me

until the people came,

and I left.

Those are words I can do without.

My head full

and hands empty,

the fountain overflowing

and water falling

into nothing.

I hear the words of others and

I drown a little

in the falling drops,

You remain silent and

I

with my feet in the water

fall into nothing.

In your eyes I saw

A sadness, a desire

for freedom, for wings

But these wings are heavy steel

and you oil their hinges

and hammer their edges,

hone them until

they can bear you.

In your smile I saw

a sweetness, muted

A distance, a longing

for another shore

Where wings take shape

and the sun calls

for you to lift them to the light.

I did not see

in your smile, or your eyes

any space where I could fit,

Any room for my rainstorms

and knobby trees,

My oceans and rivers and

long, winding streams.

If the rain is all I have

I will lie where it falls

and let the rich earth envelop me

If the trees are all who will listen

I will speak to their roots, their leaves

and rest within their branches

If the oceans

rivers

winding, oxbow- laked streams

are all who will bear me

I will sink into their depths

embrace the filtered sunlight through the waves

and float upon the driftwood

Until…

If there is ever…

room for me.

Something made me stop,

and listen

On the trail, my mind full

(of you)

My hands, empty

(of you)

The rain had stirred the scents

of leaves and earth

and they surrounded me,

and as the pattering rain

around me lifted

slightly

The air grew dense, and began to swirl

like the mist around the waterfalls

and I realized

I was in the skirt of a cloud.

Silence, but for the rain

and the river

I breathed in the clouds.

I want to send you

the smell of rain- drenched leaves

The grasp of the branch in the robin’s claw

The sound of the rushing water

over the stones.

I want to send you

The edge of a cloud, churning and breathing

The sound of the rain on the tall trees

The sunlight caught

in a single raindrop

on a thimbleberry leaf.

I want to send you

this embrace,

between the branches and the sky,

the leaves and the water

The wings of a sphinx moth

and its shadow

on the floor of the meadow.

I want

to send you

this embrace

In the burl of an ash tree

The patterns in a piece

of broken sandstone

The net of branches in the canopy.

I want

to send you

me.

There is something unfamiliar

about the familiar streets–

shops, signs, lights, and doors,

small under the darkness of the sky

that seems taller somehow tonight

as the clarity reveals an infinity of stars.

I know this place,

but it’s as if I’m looking from far away

through other eyes,

unfamiliar and unknown.

I live here.

I’ve walked here,

I know where to turn.

I know when the pharmacy closes

and the lights

in the library go dark.

Still I feel so far away.

Looking through a telescope

at things right in front of me.

Home is here, a house

Home is here, the sand

under my feet, the branches

tucked over my head as I

poke at the fire and

breathe the desert air

Home is

in the mist of the waterfall

that decorates the clover

with tiny, shimmering drops

like minuscule stars

in a universe on a leaf.

Home is.

Climbing to the caves

hanging my feet over the ledge

and guessing how much air

is between my feet and the ground.

Home is.

The dirt in my hair

the sand in my ears

the earth in my blood.

Where I feel

uninhibited, free

Not vulnerable, although I may be

Not challenged, though there are challenges

Not obligated, at all.

Home.

Sap on my fingers,

burdock in my hair,

mud on my boots.

I ran over the next hill, toward the silence

and breathed it in with a smile.

I looked to the distant hills and

the blue above them

and waited.

The white clouds drifted

silently

around each other

The wind was still, for a moment

The air

was not expectant or resentful or

Anything.

It was just silent.

I breathe in

the sunlight and slightly scorched air

and wait.

I close my eyes, just for a moment

and listen

to the lovely nothing.

Nothing

nothing

no thing.

A rustle in the brush behind me.

“What are you doing?”

“Listening to the quiet.”

“How can you stand it?” he asks me.

When he hears silence, he thinks it needs to be filled.

But I,

I need this silence.

Just a moment or two of

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing

No thing.

Sometimes I see your face before you see mine,

Before you turn to me and smile.

I see a shadow there, long and gray and somber

that covers you like a cloak of rain clouds

and seems to slow your pace

in time

In the shadow of a monolith,

you always stand,

the look in your eyes, as if

you are trying to see beyond it.

A steel determination

wrapped in a misty veil

as a storm on a winter shore.

I never understood

until the day we were asked

If there was anyone in the room

who had been a victim of sexual assault, to stand

And I stood

And,

several rows and

three planets of gray rainstorms over,

so did you.

Your face is more than a shadow now,

your smile more than a ray of light through the clouds

Your eyes

look not to see beyond the monolith that shadows you,

but to disintegrate it, with every step you take

as your future propels you forward.

Words don’t come anymore, when I try to talk about it.

In text, I can go on for days, but in person, I just stammer.

It’s easy to type,

I was raped.

Several times.

I was beaten.

For a long time.

Some people are easier to talk to.

Closed doors help.

Open the door, bring your friends, play music…

And I’m mute.

Worse than mute.

Stammering.

I can give you details of when

and how

it happened.

I can give you my hypothesis on why

these things repeated themselves in my life

for so long.

I can tell you

how I felt abandoned

lost

worthless

confused

abandoned

abandoned

abandoned

abandoned

But the words never come.

Little parts of them form fragmented half- words

And I feel foolish

So I apologize and I leave.

Why is text easier?

Text is friendly to me, I can control it better.

Why I can’t control the words

falling out of my mouth

like tiny, disoriented, frightened children

Is between my brain and my tongue.

They don’t let ME in on what the hell is going on.

Words, on a page.

Times New Roman.

12 pt.

A block of information- dense, well- informed, beautiful, meaningful

Words.

They seem to love me, looking back at me from my screen.

I can c o n tro l  EvE r y   LETter.

I can take my time.

I can re- read

look, re- read, look.

Breathe.

THe spatial geography between the words

the

creation

of space.

I want to try to do that with the words

that I say.

In how I speak.

I’ve heard people do it, reading poetry, prose

And I remember my thoughts when

David finished reading that poem on Latin.

They were,

“Wait a minute… did I just swoon? What the hell is wrong with me?!”

The tone,

the voice,

the subtle force and gently lilting

spaces

between the words.

I want to do that…

I want to.