Holy Water, Watering Me

I want some external signal
flaring,
   a blaring light, but
I'd settle for seal eyes peering from
a wet head popping up
starboard, or a black and white dorsel fin
cutting the surface before my
bow, or a flailsome tail breaching behind me,
or an otter floating on her
back cracking shell fish - all unconcerned
and undisturbed by me
paddling by. But,
the one my soul loves resides
inside. I have no need for
external reassurances
after all. The water dripping
off the tip of my paddle is enough
to wet me through. And the salty
tears, too.

Kindlingsfest 2015

Familial Love

Her lyrics open the roomful

of hearts unfamiliar with invitations

beckoned by ethereal vulnerability. 

His words pull sacred cows down. 

The ease between them 

along with simple affection 

and the way they frame and build the other up

is more vital than the illuminated art they brought.

Our world needs to see how a beloved woman's 

eyes shine when her gaze lights on her lover. 

David and Sarah Dark - Kindlingsfest, Orcas Island Washington - 2015 

Spills

This poet repeatedly edges

to the holy mountain looking for a father

to direct him and experiences pilgrimages, 

yes, more than one, worth writing about. He tortures 

me slow because women are banned from 

this sacred rock. He spills the decorative 

foam from his coffee on my white shirt

when I tell him his writing

pissed me off with jealousy

all shades of green. He wants to 

make amends by sopping up the 

mess - but I'm leaving it forever and 

might even frame it. Little did he know

he already fixed everything when he 

sang Steve Goodman's Spoon River 

the night before, surprising us all 

with his rich, winsome vocals. I also forgive

 him the ease with which he spills

vulnerability all over the 

stage and into the sound system

 when he reads another 

idiot psalm to us 

with a voice resonant 

enough to etch wood grain. His

words need stored up if we're to be

 saved from suffering during the next 

seven year draught.



Scott Cairns - Kindlingfest, Orcas Island Washington, 2015 

Replenished

I'm like a bird 

bathing with abandon 

under evergreen shade

in a sun rimmed bowl

filled with clear water 

churning me

 clean and new - morning 

after morning after 

morning. 

Paddling the Snohomish River Estuary

Did I enter a movie set?

Derelict boats caked with years 

of neglect and tugs who haven't pulled

anything for such a long time

they've forgotten what they were built for -

sit moored to an ancient, still 

floating log raft dock that runs

this stretch of the river, a corridor hidden

from landlubber's view. A boat grave

yard for shy, hiding, hermit crab people
who sense or hear my paddle as it dips 

feather light strokes. Do they keep watch 

all hours? As I move upstream
they peer out dark openings 

wary and on high alert, somewhat 

territorial, but then return

friendly waves as I come abreast and 

pass on. Their boats wallow and groan

on the turning tide. Moorings 

pull and stretch, aching to follow

me back to the scouring sea. 

Tears Run

while I sing
lamenting troubles heaped.
Over and over I recall
ten thousand reasons
I have to be thankful. Bless
the Lord oh my soul I belt out
with my hands reaching -
no matter how incongruent
and ludicrous that might
be in the light of relentless catastrophe.
Maybe my gratefulness morphs
it into a eucatastrophe, a gift
in the end. I can not see the end
of this story.

Surprise me.

Dear God

You know the famous painting
on the ceiling of the Chapel
the one where your finger is
reaching to touch the finger
of a human
breaching the distance
stretching to love and remind
the earthbound you are
              the great I Am -
the curious one who cares?

Well,
today would be a good day
for a painting's idea to
translate into reality. I'm not asking
for a miracle or changes or a different
outcome to this nightmare. All I want
is a touch - the merest contact -
your fingertip to my fingertip. Will
your skin warm my frozen despair?