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I disagree.

What we write is an expression of what needs outpouring, release, or clarification. It is so beyond us, that we look back on it in either repulsion or awe. Rarely do we say, "I did that", but rather "It needed doing."

(Reposting this poem from my dragonfly, Marion...)

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? By Mary Oliver
There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.
The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.
And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.
The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,
out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing
from the unreachable top of the tree.
I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.
Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
as though with your arms open.
And thinking: maybe something will come, some
shining coil of wind,
or a few leaves from any old tree–
they are all in this too.
And now I will tell you the truth.
Everything in the world
comes.
At least, closer.
And, cordially.
Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.
Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky
of God, the blue air.

~ Blessings

Through The Cracks

In the fracture of so many pieces

it's amazing how light still manages to shine

between them, a type of binding.

No human effort could hold such shatter together

into a functional shape

yet a divine power gathers elements of chaos

into recognizable form.

We easily accept the dimension we are in.

We accept it as the only reality.

But we are changed by the light we allow through us

each new crack projecting the kaleidoscope

of something that never used to exist.

Construction of Indecision

I keep my hand on the knob
clenching and unclenching with fearful muscles
tired ones,
an emotional spasm if you will.

I want to slam the door.
I want to lock it.
I want someone else to lock it...remove my choice.

I want to fling it open
so hard that the latch is incompetent
nothing but decorative hardware to a swinging door,
removing my choice.

I want to assemble a deadbolt
that can only be opened from my side.
I want you to screw in a hook & eye
that I can easily batter through from my side
when I wish...
so that finality is not really
final.

I want to leave this door.
I want to run so far that I am unable to return,
unable to find it when resolve wavers like a hiccup,
those quick ins and outs,
Lamaze breaths with no birth.
I want temptation removed.

I want to become this door.
I want my molecules to fuse with it
so that there is no possibility of separating myself
and temptation is mythical.

I want to destroy this door...
every scratch, dent, and warp that showcases my handiwork
and yours.

I want to reconstruct this door
additional panels
glass panes
antique knob from decades ago
and new squeak free hinges.

But I am not a carpenter
and this is not a door.
It is a bridge.
And even though we are on different sides...
I will not burn it.
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Smith - Unplugged

I saw a dragonfly waltz above your voice.

You never knew how the sound drew wings...
how hearts soared and memories danced
on the floor of fading proms.
I watched old women lose their frailty,
middle age men grow hair
and children frolic as if you had brought them the meadow.

I tried to tell you that angels had chosen you as home
to anything they wished to sing,
but your father kept plugging your ears
and you let him
because obedience has a similar pitch to flight
until you're actually mid-air
and finally out of bounds.

You stood in your own regard,
which is always a mistake,
and let it transform your opinion.

I tried to tell you
what the dragonflies know.

HSS Concert September 2012

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Hello Lonely

Your loneliness spent the night,
having arrived for dinner
unannounced.

Do you feel better today
knowing I went so far into the heart of it
that I tapped out?

I am weaker than I ever imagined
and stronger,
the brows of both
lifted in surprise.

Loneliness is a fog.
It is not the blanket that some poets romanticize.
It is just cold.
But it motivates us towards warmth
and inclines us to see.

We swipe at our eyes
and wave our arms like windshield wipers.
Where is home?
Why has our shadow gone missing?
We look comical,
but here in the loneliness
we no longer care of hecklers.

Their company is welcome.
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Cutting An Orange

I am just a woman cutting an orange.

I could be the woman getting a divorce,
faith rattled
and no longer reliable,
or the girl without a childhood,
the child without protection.

I could be the one whose knife quivers
as anxiety mounts an attack worthy of all out war,
or the one whose e-mails hail her like Paul Revere
needing and assuming,
and whose work calendar overflows its daily boundaries.

I could wear the colors of past Spring
or the hues of coming Fall.
I could sing a swan song
or whistle a new aria that would lessen my impact
on those I hold dear.

I could be the woman who has neglected family
avoided friends
and hibernated in the disillusional safety of a foreign land.
I might even be the flesh that was not touched
in ways that made her cringe into her sunflower sheets
at too tender an age.

All of these things gather in the blade of my knife
as my breath swims a shallow stroke
that never reaches the shore of my lungs.

I teach the hand to tell the blade to steady the knife...

This moment I have not been harmed.
This moment I am not hurting anyone.
This moment is not the accumulation of misdeeds
and their consequence on the future.

I am just a woman cutting an orange.
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Tripping Up

We forget to look up,

focused as we are on the path

and how we might trip.

Ahhhh...

but even so doing,

our clumsiness comes to the rescue

and us now, flat on our backs.

Suddenly

we are outside the box of our feet

and the whole world

is a cushioned place

without border.

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