For Ruth

There’s a secret only poets know
a special lens
through which we see the world
a way of listening to the stories of things and people
and places
which to some may seem silent
but which whisper to us
when no one else is looking.

And in those hushed voices
we hear our own hearts
as the soft voice of
God
in human form
before us.

And so given to us
is a Holy Charge.

God says to us:

Quickly now! Tell EVERYONE!
This room is too small to contain all the music!
Throw open the doors and windows
And let the Dawn Chorus be heard!

And so these secrets we glean
we tell every day
through the words we share
so that Life
has the chance to
hear its own sweet and sacred song
sung back to itself in another’s voice.

These words have become the fountain
of our own hearts
and the hearts of all beings.

We listen by writing a story
and so reveal our heart
through the life lines of another.

You and I are poets
like this.

—

The lines you’ve written
run from you to me
down mountains and rivers
and across the sea
speaking songs of love and loss
and of what life can be.

It is a songline you’ve entrusted to my care
not of blood or title
but of love to share.

From poet to poet
the truth is clear
speak from the heart
and without fear,

and like the goose flies north and south
so our words
from heart to page and mouth
do fly
to all those who need them.

Poetry is our medicine
and the waiting room is full.

Come, Doctor.
Let’s deliver the good news to the next patient.

I remember the long walk
up from the Ashram
winding up the hill
through the cold Avalon morning,
frozen mud underfoot
and lakes and lakes
reflecting the perfect blue
barely visible through the mist.

Jackdaws and wrens
on the hunt
for early worms,
horses snuffing,
moving to shake the cold night
from their bones.

Winding along the fences,
over fields with lone trees,
and through the kissing gate
– beloved on the other side –
we stop
for a moment
in that first, cold light.

Though the ascent
is enough
to keep our blood flowing
better yet to move the blood
of love
across our lips.

Mistletoe bright overhead,
the cattle don’t mind us watching them
on our way down into the gardens,
full.

When you’re called to cross that wide sea
When finally, after you’ve set aside
any hope of completion,

how will you walk
your final walk
down the pier to that great ship?

Will your cadence convey the majesty
of all your days,
with pride and surrender,
to all you’ve given,
and what is yet undone?

When you’ve come to understand
that goals and dreams
are map and compass,
and you’re no longer interested
in arriving on any particular shore,
as much as
finding arrival in the crest and trough
of every wave,

will you finally hear
the whisper of water
lapping the hull,
is the subtle reminder that
this is it.
And this.
And this.

And when you surrender all your direction to the sea,
her wild winds and tides,
reef and rock,
When at last you’ve put away the scope and sextant,
content to drift toward the setting sun,

Tell me, then, do you breathe freely?
Even as you go,
can you yet take her all in,
deep into your still yearning lungs
knowing
there is nothing so full as the Nothing
to which you now return.

From the harbor they will watch you.
And some may wail and long for your return
as the farthest horizon
swallows mast, sail,
and you in the crow’s nest.

Which direction will you face upon that final wave?

It seems I’m often starting again
like New Years Resolutions
remembering why I am here
what gifts I have to give

and looking at the painful reminders
I leave for myself
post-its on the desk
an old photograph of a time when I was ALIVE
some token of the courage I once had
to be still
long enough for the fire to blaze
and from that point
I chose
moved forward.

Here I am again.
The same place I’ve always been
but now, perhaps, with less momentum
and courage in short supply.

Searching myself for discipline
enough to start the conversation again.

I’d like to start the day
engaged
challenged
and swimming in the fire
blazing hot
with ideas and passion
so that even when I leave
to handle the rest of the items
on my to-do list

life cannot help but be imbued
with a little of that heat.

I will start again.
Maybe that’s what’s needed
every day.
Perhaps it is giving up starting again
and refusal to see every morning anew
that dulls the dialogue.

I offer a willingness to be a student,
raw, fresh, open,
perhaps that one can add the next log to the fire.