Poem – monsters

In the sea, in the ocean,
there are monsters.

They are dangerous.
They are hungry.

We are here to teach them
they are not monsters,
they are simply
unknown
to us.

That which we fear is unknown.
That which is unknown we fear.

Welcome the monsters in.
Sit down with them.
Invite them to tea.

We all need to be heard
and seen
to be real,
to be whole.

Even the monsters,
the dark spaces.

Especially them.

Wade into the depths
of the world,
of yourself
and come back
intact.

For without the dark,
what is the light?
Without the sinners,
what are the saints?

We need our dark spaces,
our monsters.
They are not the forgotten, the lost.
They are the as yet
unfound
and unforgiven.

Poem – sing the blues

You can’t sing the blues in an air conditioned room.
You can’t sing about how far down you are from the penthouse.

You have to go there to know there.
You have to be it to see it.

You can’t sing the blues from an air conditioned room.

It’s too comfy, to cozy to know,
how bad it really could be.
It’s too pretty, to pleasant
to say anything useful to me.

(With credit to Lloyd at work for the first line.)

Poem – losing our hearts

Defense of the heart
may be the only way to
be whole.

Remember the time
when you
opened yourself up
so wide
that your heart
fell out?

Even though the
reason you did it
seemed good at the time,
even though the
person you did it for
seemed good at the time
you still got hurt.
You still lost your heart.

Anybody who is anybody knows
that being heartless
is worse than being
gutless.

Maybe
both are bad.
Maybe part of being
human is losing our hearts
and finding them again.

Poem – our tree lives

Life events are like rings
on a tree.
Death of your parents.
Graduation from college.
First house.
First car.

They are how we mark time.
They are how we know
we’ve arrived
or survived
or both.

They are how we define ourselves.

We say that this happened
after our grandmother died,
but before we moved
to our new home.

Each ring, each event
adds to us,
strengthens us,
makes us bigger,
and maybe stronger.

Each ring of a tree
is a year,
is a season.

Each ring of a tree
is enough to make it
thicker
more resistant
to the injustices
of insects
and fires.

Each ring is also that much
more armor
protecting its
tender heart.

Our rings define us
and limit us.
They say who we are
based on what has happened to us
or what we have done.

Passive and active,
we are shaped
and grown.

This soft spot is a place
that hasn’t healed.
Yet.
It may become a hole
a space
a void.

This branch is where we made a choice
to separate
to go our own way.

This burl is where we have grown around
and away from
a wound that never healed.

Burls make beautiful bowls
in the hands
of a woodsmith.

Holes make welcome homes for birds.

Branches are great for climbing
and for tree houses.

Our tree lives are ever growing and changing
And ever reaching upwards
While eternally rooting down
Into the past.

Poem – “Fighting for our Freedom”

We tell our children to trust us
And then we send them off to war.

We tell them that they are “fighting for our freedom”
but really we are sending them to die.

They fight for oil. They fight for glory.

They fight for nothing more
than to prove that the American Way
is the only way.

We’ve become the hall monitors
the snitches
the bullies
of the world.
What we say goes.

We are the ones who go and tell countries to stop
doing things their way
and to start doing things
our way.

Because our way is best,
you see?

Rampant obesity, depression, anxiety
in children and adults.
People stocking up canned goods
and dried milk
and ammunition
enough for years
enough for an outbreak of
zombies
or talk show hosts.

Same thing.

Our way is best.
Be like us.

With one in four children
going to bed hungry,
with people graduating high school
who still don’t know how to read
or think
for themselves,

our way is best, you see?

America, heal thyself.
Then,
if you have any money left over
after every child is fully fed
and fully educated
and every person has
a job
and a home
then maybe
you can think
about sending out your citizens
as ambassadors of this new
American Way
instead.

What about we “fight for freedom”
with love
instead of bullets?

What if we teach and train
instead of terrorize?

Oh, no, they say,
we aren’t the terrorists.
The terrorists are our enemies.

But how are we different
when we impose our will
on another nation,
another culture
by force
at the point of a gun?

Let’s invade them with water wells
and textbooks
and fresh food
and self esteem
and peace
instead.

But first, let’s practice here
to make sure we’ve got it right.

Poem – cut loose

This is a day of culling.
This is a day of cutting loose
and letting go.

No longer time to sow
or reap.

There is no harvest here.
Not yet.

This is a time to prune,
to trim,
to weed.

But not gently.

This is a time of slash and burn,
of cut and run.

This is a time of throwing off the rope
and sailing away.
No map, no rudder, no charts.

Just go.

Like a laser
Like a diamond
Like a scalpel

Cut loose.

No time for maybe
or might have been.

Cut loose.

This is the day not for new beginnings
or happy endings
but something in the middle.

We aren’t used to middles.
We are uncomfortable with
not being
here
or there.

But that is where we are.
The grey time
the afternoon place
the doldrums,

Better accept it.
The sooner the better.

Cut bait now
with a sharp knife and paddle on over
to another spot
because
now
that line is holding you down.

No matter if the biggest fish
you ever saw is about to grab hold.
No matter.

He hasn’t yet
and if he does now
he’ll just pull you under
or drag you along
to your death.

Cut loose
and live.

Poem – wine

Every day I eat a handful of grapes.
They are fermenting in me
making wine
in my blood.

The bread of my life
is laid out before you.

How many communion wafers
do you have to eat
to become the Body of Christ?
What is the half life of Jesus?

How long does it take
to know
I’m already
ready,
already
enough?

Poem – empty/silent

Because of this line between us
we are empty.
Empty hearts make for bad bedfellows.

Because of this line between us
we are brave.
Brave enough to be silent.

Our braveness
and our emptiness
fill us up
and empty us out.

Sometimes we don’t know
if we are
coming
or going.

Sometimes both.
Because we sure aren’t here.

Perhaps somewhere in our silence
we can stop
long enough
to be still
and see each other
for real,
for the first time.

Seeing and being seen is such a raw thing.
Unopened, closed off we are safe
from exposing our soft spots.

We face off like duelists,
turned sideways,
never straight on
for to turn sideways
is to expose less of yourself
and to protect your heart.

The heart is what matters most
after all.

So we draw these lines
between us
and are empty
and silent
always afraid
we’ll get hurt.