First Day of the Week

I don't need a greeter

obligated by duty

handing me a bulletin -
proof positive
that visitors are

welcomed to this
inhospitable

business institution.

The microphoned

message is recorded, then 

podcast to the masses 

who don't listen. They
already know more about 

what's being taught

 than they know
 what to do with.

 It hurts my ears.

 I can't hear the voices

singing next to me 

because the music

 coming through speakers

drowns them out. It's like

a staged concert that

leaves the participants

stymied, mere spectators 

 confused about when

to repeat and repeat

words supposed to get

 the spirit roused enough 

to do some mighty work like

redecorate the sanctuary

or trade the empty pews

for comfy chairs. I don't

want forced to stand and

raise my hands by a worship 

minister who thinks that what

he's suggesting is the

best way to usher

our hearts into sacred

places.

I want to break bread

at my own table and pass

it to you - so you and the

person sitting next to you

have the chance to give and

receive from each other - 

maybe touch hands, 

whisper, smile, or

graze shoulders -

until it comes back

around to rest
 waiting empty
in the quiet middle.

I want to fill your glass
more than once
with sweet wine - 

tilting the sharp,
flat world
soft and round again.

I want to hear
why the tears fell last week
and listen while you share
 the blessings 

that rained down upon you 

in spite of them.

Let's gather round the piano

with the poet's smoldering pipe

smoke curling us together

as we sing four part harmony

into each other's lives.

Let's hold each other's

aching, full hearts tenderly -

and laugh at how futile it is 

to try to do anything
other than
be the beloved. 

Do It Outside

nap

eat

read

ride

- plein air

imagine

love

dream

sing

- plein air

watch

listen

whistle

hum

- plein air

harvest

gather

pick

dig

- plein air

fish

dive

swim

lay

- plein air

skip

jump

run

walk

- plein air

draw

weave

sew

knit

- plein air

breathe

swing

linger

fly

- plein air

Yes, I confess, a new french word just took my fancy. 

Berry Therapy

Mud splatters. 

Tears run. 

Houses wreck. 

Men rape.

Soldiers pillage. 

Girls rip. 

Water rises. 

Drought ruins. 

Crops fail. 

Floods roil. 

Wind whirls. 

Sun bakes. 

Icebergs melt. 

Lakes disappear. 

Holes open. 

Babies die. 

Love ends. 

Preachers abuse. 

Saints quit. 

Farmers cry. 

Workers won't. 

Honeybees die.

Soil withers. 

Guns kill. 

Boys steal. 

Siblings fight. 

Children starve. 

Horses founder. 

Whales beach. 

Factories pollute. 

Trash grows.

Oil spills. 

Banks fail. 
Schools unravel.
Stocks plummet.
Books languish.

Pesticides persist. 
Seeds mutate.
Technology advances.
News distorts. 

My heart quakes

with helpless futility -

So I pick berries for 

hope and sanity. 

Thirsty

You hold sweet 

water to my lips. 

I see myself mirrored -

the one you adore

in the bulging tension

quivering in ecstasy. 

The surface skin 

wants broken to 

release life giving 

goodness to me.  

Glenworkshop East 2013

I threw up on the plane in a 

little blue bag I borrowed from 

my neighbor, who I woke from 

sleep to save my honor and the 

necks and laps and seats 

in my vicinity. 

Brandy's smile greeted each 

and every one of us on the 

stone steps of North Rocky.

This smile greased the hinges 

on the door into the unknown. 

Inside, Tyler, Nicole, and Anna Joy

pointed me to a room where I slept 

until keys and cards and rooms were 

assigned. I left drool on the

blue couch where the light comes 

in the tall paned windows. 

My bas bleu bohémien 

teacher gave Montaigne 

much attention, leaving us

wanting more on every score.

She gave books out like prophetic

prescriptions, saying, "Do you know....?"

or, "You must read....." 

I don't know who midwifed and booked

our hungry hearts and minds better, 

Warren or Patricia. 

I left kisses on the lips of 

the bereft, cranky, recently 

widowed one, and 

the lesbian who came out of a 

long relationship straight. 

I wanted to leave hugs and kisses for 

the other single girls to unpack 

when they too opened their doors 

to an empty house. 

I saw a green shoot growing between 

stones, an impossible, inhospitable place

lacking soil. 

I saw kaleidoscope cracks in the 

sun roof over the library.

My thoughts twirled as I pondered 

them in the quiet octagon room 

set with round windows.  

I saw empty pews in the chapel and 

empty card catalogues in the library. 

I saw myself through the camera 

lens of a pair of loving eyes. 

I heard poetry, learned new words, 

heard words of life, wiped tears, 

and sang with friends old and new. 

I heard broken apologies and saw grace

returned. 

We celebrated new work being published. 

We hovered over silent auction offerings. 

We broke bread together. 

We raised our glasses. 

Tin whistle tunes haunted the halls. 

Songs and plays were pieced together 

like Sedrick's quilts.

Self portraits stared out at the crowd 

well pleased with themselves. 

I learned that I may write bad poetry and

immature essays, take amateur photos,

and piece a beginner's quilt as a starting

place, knowing that I will grow from 

here because I'm willing to be 

easy being imperfect. It's OK 

to try something hard, new, 

and keep on trying to master

 the mess anyways. 

We left with this one last imperative 

wedged inside a song -  

"Leave the edges wild."  

Framed Raw

Carol is in the Glenworkshop East Photography class with Michael Wilson. One of their assignments was to ask a stranger to sit for pictures. My reaction was to say no. But I had promised myself to say yes to opportunities this week - even uncomfortable, scary, disturbing ones.

I am always on the other end of the camera, an amateur who is learning to see. I fall in love with what I frame through the lens's eye. Being on the other end where a strange eye can examine me is uncomfortable. I wasn't sure she would love what she saw.

She didn't spring on me and start snapping. We conversed and learned a little about each other. I started trusting her when she led me to Mt. Holyoke's magestic library. She correctly intuited that it would be a comfortable place to start. The atmosphere soothed and relaxed me.

I wanted to put myself in her hands and let her capture the me that is, not the me that should be. For one shot on the window seat, Carol asked me why I wanted to clasp the pillow to my stomach. Wasn't it obvious that I should try to hide and cover my obesity?  She saw the natural light pouring through the glass roof onto my head.

When the shutter clicked I imagined God's eye winking at me, his beloved, just as I am.

Curtesy Carol Sybenga

European Starling

I saw a picture of a Europeon Starling on Maureen's Facebook feed. The bird wasn't black, disappointing, or disappointed with it's lot in life as one of the worst nuisances of the world. Every tip of every feather has luminescent tips of green, purple, aqua, pink, and blue. Peacock colors made it look photoshopped. Maybe our starlings have jeweled feathers too, but we don't have eyes to see?

You have luminous feathers too. I see them.

Make Summer Glad

Find wood, gather kindling, strike a match to crumpled paper. 

Toast marshmallows, squish them warm between two graham crackers and chocolate. 

Take the rain flap off the top off the tent to look at the stars. They are waiting for you. 

Sleep naked beside someone you love. 

Make a warm oven under the duvet where cold can't reach. 

Caress flesh and feel the cares of pavement, malls, florescent lights, traffic, and technology flee. 

Pump the coleman lantern. Marvel at the mantles.

Pump the coleman stove. Light the burner. 

Set the tea kettle to whistle time for cocoa, spiced cider, or tea. 

Touch a toe to the freezing water. Go in if you dare, but never skinny dip........alone. 

Stay awake until the coyotes howl and mourning doves coo. 

Listen for owls and wrestling raccoons. 

Stay bundled, cocooned in the morning until your bladder won't let you wait another minute. 

Put layers on. Unzip the day. Fry bacon. Boil coffee. 

Give morning hope and call the sunshine to breakfast.

Lay on your back with wild flowers and blow clouds across the sky. 

Sing to the fire, make it dance. 

Gather a bouquet of violets or willow leaves and dress the table.

Poke the wood surrounded by bruised flames and loose the sparks. 

Look for little people in hollow logs or under mushrooms. 

Listen for the silence to speak.

Let trees embrace your ache.

Let scents of pine and pitch and smoke soothe your anxious thoughts. 

Allow the quiet to cushion your heart. 

Notice the water lapping at the edges. 

Camp unencumbered. Camp uncluttered. Camp unfettered. 

Sweep the dirt if you must and clean your fingernails, but let go of primping and scrimping and limping. 

Swing in a hammock all day and accomplish nothing except daydreams.  

Seedling Volunteers

pop up uninvited. 

They sprout without 

being watered, fertilized,

or planted on purpose.

They don't write letters 

begging for support

or pretend like prayer 

is what they want more 

than money. Volunteers 

sprout because they 

grub stake themselves.

They c'est la vie grow and 

c'est la vie bloom, 
serendipitists with
 a c'est la vie mission 

to sway and wave and add 

color to summer's gold. 

Their bold conception

changes perspective 

leaving fields effectively full 

of perennial potential. 

My garden is bursting with volunteer babies this year. Foxglove, cranesbill, sweat peas, nasturtiums. They delight me with their boldness and tenacity. They appear effortlessly and make me rejoice and be glad. 

My Garden

begs me for a walk along paths
through flower patches
where a driftwood bungalow
houses little people hiding.
Large Marge bosses the Mermaid
and the mama hen with three chicks
under her wings from her
throne under the loggia
which is only a simple
garden room covered
with five finger acebia
and hung with sea foam
green windows rescued
from the discard pile.
Sweet peas clamber up
posts, trees, wattled twigs,
and fences. Nearby plants
are shocked to find
themselves wedded to
these bold extroverts
clinging without permission
in a cozy choke hold. If I stay
still maybe I'll become
a sweat pea obelisk and
bumblebees will argue
about who gets to pollinate
my imagination.