Wisdom whispers
in my jagged, jangled head:
Dissolve
into these distractions
till there is only the doing
and no more you at all.
This is always spoken
in a calm, cream-colored voice,
dressed in silk,
smelling of incense.
I seldom follow her advice,
preferring to cling
to this sneaker-scented world
of eraser dust and denim,
with its Technicolor talk.
On Hectic Days
Zen Master
Here’s what I love about those stories:
The bumbling student asks a question— I picture him with a cap in his hands,eager and earnest, twisting it in nervous circles. The master answers him and the reply is often enigmatic and offered with no fanfare at all,in a querulous, impatient voice. Not what the shaken student expected of wisdom, to be delivered in irritation.
But then (and this is my favorite part) the student leaves, wanders forests, contemplates waterfalls and mountains and flowers, returns to his house or his shop, holding all he’s been told, until he discovers wisdom in himself by solving the puzzle set before him. Until he convinces himself that the master was tricky but wise.
I do it every day. Convince myself about this life, always pushed off kilter a few degrees, not quite what I expected or aimed at or planned on. I hear myself over and over say Ah, this is perfect for me, and in saying it, make it so.
One Direction
She clutched the book in her arms,
held it against the t-shirt emblazoned
One Direction, the boy band of the hour.
You should read this book, she told me.
It changed my life.
She is 14 and not ironic.
Enthusiasm sparks off her skin
and scents the air around her like mint after rain.
You lift your head from Important Work
to smile back at her as you take the book.
By next year, probably, One Direction
will break up and their t-shirt
end up in the Goodwill bag.
But you offer a silent wish
For one thing to never change:
that being knocked to the ground in joy
over a book will lead her forward forever
throwing off light and small green leaves
pointing her always in the direction of another book,
the next and the next, building her path as she goes.
Pierre, Who Lives Inside A Cliche
When you say, Take it with a grain of salt,
a round little man walks into my mind
wearing chef’s whites and carrying a serving tray.
From a delicate green bowl,
he lifts one single grain of coarse salt
between his finger and thumb.
Pierre—yes, I’ve named him
by now—Pierre steps forward and bows
as he hands me one more grain
to add to the mountains of advice
I’ve already been given.
Interruption of Lemons
Yesterday was a tangled knot
of interruptions,
of bodies standing in front of me
all saying Pay Attention to Me now.
So I did the practical thing,
in the face of all that need:
Chopped myself into a million jigsaw pieces,
handed a bit to each earnest face,
saying, This is all I can spare now, but
come back tomorrow for more.
Oh, it tastes like lemon sugar,
I heard one of them say as they left.
Even now, I feel a tug of affection
for who I was–puzzle woman, smiling and
making sure
as she handed out
delicious pieces of herself,
to hang on to the lemon-scented core
for keeps.
Transformation
Inside our houses
heat has dried us out,
parched our skin white–
the houseplants curl
in on themselves,
dreaming of deserts.
Outside our storm doors
the world shifts beneath
its frozen weight, deep
in its own dreams.
Step outside.
This whole world
only needs
a tiny cup of your heat
to melt it into
what winter’s old stories
prophesied–
even the thickest ice
can become
a soft summer rain.
American Sentences: February
I.
Sky spits snow I wave away, tired of the same old conversation.
II.
Patch of snow melt shows sweet brown dirt, where old sage bush whispers—Garden, grow.
Tillie’s Gone to Texas
Sounds like a lonesome country song
about a cowboy crying in his beer
over the fickle girl who left–
blond curls and an old Ford truck
rattling down the highway
and out of his heart.
She let her apron
catch the breeze and blow away
so now you’ll have to cook
for yourself, cornbread that will
never taste the same,
which brings the chorus back to you,
there on your barstool, all alone.
It makes me almost sad
to remind myself that
Tillie’s gone to Texas
was what the neighbor said
when I asked about his funny dog
who used to keep me company on walks.
But he promised
she’ll be back come spring
unlike your Tillie, cowboy,
who is gone for good.
Puff Of Smoke Poems 