To the Tender Man

To the Tender Man

On ghee

Hosting his ancestral pain.

I’m singing through

Ink black nights

As glitter

On the crest of a wave.

I’m calling with the lion tribe

Outside the mouth

Of your healing cave.

We ask the birds

To wrap you in their wispy wings

The snakes to pull the thorn,

The whales to swim

Your diving heart to shore.

You know this Earth is female.

Her endless arms are Gold.

She is alive within you,

Forever,

she can hold.

Rest in her

Your body, love

Let the broken, be.

Rest in her

Your suffering

Open the deepest the scars

To see.

Kneel into her,

The kindest place will come

From within your own heart

And you never

Have to run.

rock the heart

The day Jonathan came

we hiked to the ledge

where raven feathers whispered

close to our ears.

Luminescent wolves perched

and the forest family

caught on fire.

The heart rock

of the beloved,

placed on our path

had disappeared down

the empty river bed,

covered in winter's

dry stick bones.

. . .

Today, machete and hands

I clear tulip tree saplings,

baby fern tufts.

I uncover worn dirt

that has always been the trail.

And there,

The stone!

The beloved.

The heart,

washed and wondered

seven jump strides downstream.

It rests and leans,

blinking back

towards all things

growing and bright.

metor shower

all of it-

the stars dying dance

the pattern on the buffalo

it's all

in the print

of my thumb

the universe calling

Last night the owls

and the coyotes sang me awake,

not a drop of sleep

to drink.

In my home

there is a hand.

Through grief's darkness

she reaches and points.

Sit here.

Take off the blindfold

of what this is

leave it

on the doorstep

of who you think you are.

See what grace

you have become.

God is here.

God's fire is here.

We will be transformed.

All the women in the world

still dance outside.

One sits inside.

She knows who you are.

She has watched you burn.

We overturn a field of rocks

and stare at the fear

we’ve been hoarding.

When the Universe tells us

Her message,

It burns

as a washed face

in winter wind.

It does not waiver

Wonder, negotiate

it goes

with you

on it's mighty back

Galloping.

You will not turn to count

the bags you've left

or if you've locked the door.

Quick like a lightning blade

God's forest fire

slashes holes

for saplings

to grow.

When the Universe calls,

the conversation is -

As you wish. I'm coming.

My hands

my hands

are a conduit for God

my eyes are lakes

my voice, the song

sometimes shy

as a bird calls

cracked

from the sacred egg.

born into the darkness

breaking light she begins to ask

beautiful questions.

in your heart is God’s heart,

you must build a bridge.

crafted with language

into a new frontier,

full sails

to the land of listening.

Little Ones

From the coniferous forest

of my parents arms

in a house without running water

I was born.

When the soul sees darkness

in a life it’s been asked to live,

fragments fall to dust

and huddle deep

down in a bed

of sediment clay

until the war is over.

Harvest them back

with black panther courage,

our own fractured and scattered

Little Ones.

We must.

At 30,

I ran through the burned redwoods of Big Sur,

where fire had turned decades

of orbiting bark poems

of drought and rain,

into coal

catacomb hearts.

I took shelter in one

charred redwood belly

gaping hollow as a truck bed

and wailed for her

for my own heart

The Little Ones,

and for God.

At 35,

I found a cave behind the house.

Her black rock mouth cracked just enough

to slide into

the womb of Mother Earth.

Lined with tiny, sparkling fox teeth.

The Little Ones.

Clear, stalagtite crystals

undisturbed.

Conscious of all love

beyond our own earthquakes

and trauma.

These are our fallen fragments

nesting in the tumbled rock wall

at the base

of the Mohonk Preserve.

She holds them

in the cracks tremors cause

for us to sing to

when we lift our oars

from the water,

knowing it's time to heal.

My voice is enough.

I am enough.

There is absolutely

nothing

wrong with who I am

and who

I will become.

let the maker be

The tall dense pine shadows

feel the rain

of the sky, silently

the way we

are often asked

to hold

our ancestors pain

and walk the long way home.

I stand in rubber boots

on steps made of stone.

The stone leads to the front door

of a house I did not build

but dreamt of

many years

before.

It’s time.

Make an altar

at the edge of tame

where the wild begins in you.

Leave an offering

each morning

before you take your own.

Ring a bell, send smoke

however you praise.

Feed the hungry

who rest on your shoulders

in neck, bones, ears.

Feed the hungry

who whisper rain

into your heart

for grief

they left undone.

Here Family ­

take words

take prayers

in pencil, pen, and food.

Take this art

and leave the lights on.

Let the maker

be.

Panchakarma, Day 27

Watching the rise and fall

of my delicate

internal empire,

James sits on the bed

while I wail.

Each passing hour

becomes a private storm

of old, buried thunder

let loose to rattle the bed frame

and latches

of my mind.

He gently watches,

weathering the gail of

uncatalogued memories

flung out into the yard

coverend in pounding hail.

Branches whip over wires

and fold a deep bow

to the soil.

Window glass cracks

basement floods

and the lights

I once knew,

blink out.

We have been whittled down again.

Gee ­ the wild cat

ayurvedic oil medicine

rips through the rings of my lifetime

with each drag of her

giant clawed paw

down the trunk of me,

a motionless

jungle tree.

mountainous river rocks

extend thick arms

to collect all the grief

I’ve ever held,

in a suspended, twisting pool.

I am the diver, the witness

taken under.

I am not the woman

who arrived from new york

a month ago, floating through winter.

I am not that woman.

I have removed

old coats of my mother

worn shoes

of who I thought i had become.

Now barefoot

homeless

clawed awake.

I am the mantra.

The mantra used to call God

who’s soft breath

over the last remaining ember,

calls it back to life,

dispels darkness.

The mantra the illuminates

Father Sky

in my fresh heart.

A newborn fire child

to rest in the arms

of the divine

and forgiving

Mother Earth.

panchakarma day 22

unraveling the tied up balls

of my yarn mind.

tiny thread excavations,

we remove the old jackets of who i thought i was

together.

we have time. we have more time to browse

through cluttered books

the pages of my bones,

until a clean

crisp

sheet appears.

Panchakarma, Day 15

Our complicated lives have been

whittled down

to one spoon,

warm water,

red rice.

All the wool we’ve been winding

spinning, weaving has begun

to uncoil, a gentle

coaxing back

by the lamb

grazing softly in the meadow

of our bodies in bed

with a belly of ghee

through the morning.

Our past traumas

stain the weave of our wonder.

I hand wash my pillowcase

let it bake

back to nearly clean

in the hot, Kerala sun.

Like the ghee

we soak our stains loose

give way

open the channels out

like a blue whale finally breaking

the surface

to surrender and receive

so much tightly

wanted

breath.

the most beautiful thing

is to love each other

and be a witness

be a witness

to each other

as we burn.

Panchakarma, Day 1

We are in a place that has become a womb.

A sweltering jungle womb.

Each morning, they rub us

with dark hands

deep, medicated oil

laid out in loincloths

on wooden tables.

In a light pink sari

Oosha pours hot water methodically up and down each limb,

coaxing to the surface

darkness

from the bones.

They bring medicines in tiny tin cups.

Sweet ones. Bitter ones. Warm sour ones.

We sit in bed, chairs. Read some. sing some.

watch our own unearthed dirt

and wait

for the next few lines

of this poem.

A fist of stones, Rishikesh.

On the street

we meet

a tiny barefoot boy in blue.

He grabs my hand with his dark tiny fingers and locks my eyes

as if we were both awaiting this reunion.

For Two lifetimes.

His name is Sanjeep.

I know he wants money, candy or to take us to his father's

shop

but I pretend he's found us

because he loves us

and we have finally made it home.

We walk holding hands, across the swaying, strung bridge.

stop in the center, suspended.

he hides his cheek

from wondering cows

pressing past with nubs as horns.

Then, high above the raging jadeite blue Ganga Devi,

he

shows us

how to feed the fish.

Open your grip

Open your grip

Open your fist of stones

Let it fall

Let it all

into the Mother.

Kuari Pass, Day 5

Some mornings it's so cold

I want to have nothing,

pack nothing,

just wear absolutely everything all at once

and set it all on fire.

Kuari Pass, Day 2

In the dark morning, before the sun emerges

we make fire

to call back the light.

Sing songs that lick a healing balm

on my wounded

woman voice.

White Apes crash

beyond the darkness of trees.

The sun cracks.

The Horsemen bring us each 

a steaming bowl of washing water

and set it in the dirt.

We bathe crouched over the pan

naked on our knees

in a ceremonial wash.

Clean hands, clean neck

face chest chin

to open our hearts

for the rest

of our lives.

Rishikesh, Day 1

Monkeys toss rocks on the tin roof of our hotel, maybe to keep it from blowing away.

The incredible craziness of colors, this is such celebrated life.

We taste the vibrancy with our eyes and our noses ­dusty, dirty sandalwood masala orange yellows smear together, in the shade. sacred cows walk the streets, third eyes anointed, marigolds strung on streams of string, monkeys roam like stray cats fucking on windowsills and plaster arches, chaotic tuk tuk drivers battle the scooters, incense burns on alters in every corner, doorways dedicated to Shiva, Hanuman, Ganesh.

We walk folded in color. i wear pants like rainbow pillowcases, covered in a white wool tent poncho. James says I look like a Swedish llama.

And through it all flows the thick turquoise Ganga. I watch a man perched on a rock spread his skirt and shit into her blue hands, a boy delicately drink from her and a family swim under her currents carrying all that can't be held

to the sea.

lights

Many mornings

in the blackest part of dawn

I hit the switch, the lights

will not go on.

Darkness.

Stuck. Off. For days.

Today, made tea by flashlight

and decided

I will turn these lights on

with my mind.

Today.

Kitchen. No light.

Entry. No light.

Art room. No light.

Bedroom

LIGHT

Yes, I turned them all

on

with my beautiful

amazing mind.

peep hole

yesterday

I walked up to the peep hole

of my mind ­

a brown, knotted 

hole in the barn door

i’d built

to hide

what i might not become.

I looked through that crack

touching what I really want

with a raven’s eye,

my life to be.

It’s not so much the sight

of a tumbling garden

the shaded sheep grazing

a bun of gray hair

spun up by wilting, happy hands -

it was the brave act

of gazing

towards an opening.

the wild life

the sober life

aligned with The Divine

that will be

mine.

I came to release darkness

I came to release darkness

from this sacred body

where the past 

left shame,

as a bowl of stones.

I came to releases the darkness behind my heart.

where sorrow thrives,

self loathing laid eggs

and the flock hatched

a swarm of busy wings.

I came to releases the darkness of my mother,

and what she can't forgive.

I came to release the darkness of my father,

and what I didn't do.

I came to release the honesty

of what I could not say.

Dear Body,

I ask your permission.

will you sit with me

and feel the anesthesia taper

slowly surrender

and step from the cave

to become

even brighter,

The Living.

Grace and the ground

Three things I am seeking,

light, grace and the ground.

If you know

what it means to deeply crave

anything

that blinds you from yourself,

blinds you from feeling the emptiness

of this day

which has become your life,

than you

and I

are one.

I have heard the wild woman’s call.

A merciless wolf

on the dark ridge

hunting for wholeness

from within a gaping hole

that was once

a full heart.

The choice to hear her

has been made.

The choice to hear

the subtle sounds of snow

has won.

Under a vast night sky,

far from bridges, dealers, drinkers,

a painful novel of mistakes

far from Brooklyn

I have traded a sky high apartment

to shovel a path

to the shed.

I have traded cocaine deliveries

for a long dirt driveway

and a little stream.

I have traded bars for the forest floor.

Into this kingdom, come.

Fear and shame

are guests some nights.

We chant by the fire,

hold court in the bathtub

cut through the snowdrifts

to fetch the mail.

My door has cracked open.

Wild turkeys emerge through the woods

at dawn

pecking tracks in the mud

while my heart syncs

with the swing

of Mother Moon.

Let’s begin

a chance to live.

Grace and the ground.

I will chop wood.

I will tap trees and carry water.

I will drop

to my knees

in the leaves

by the shed.

Face Father Sky

and pray to everything that is,

for something as simple

as joy.

holy fire

I found a poem this morning

along with God

where your hands had been

to carry me from my own darkness,

the shadow of the hunting hawk

over winter

where patient leaves

fell

and the entire forest

of our love

was revealed.

I've always left part of my truth

in a paper shell

to someday burn

and send as sacrificial ash

into the sky.

These little envelopes

never met the flame

filling space in my ribs,

sheltering my heart 

when i was trying to build a home.

If I've said something now

that hurts you

causes grief

tears down a barn we were drafting

on the kitchen table,

ruins the garden like a thick frost over sprouts,

it's my way of opening your beautiful hand

to my vulnerable chest

to burn the past

so we can call this truce

a new freedom.