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Language: English
breathe  day  gnocchi orange  gnocchi  heart heart  heart  life  love  moment moment  moment  morning  orange gnocchi  orange  snow 
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Preview: Four Lines a Day

Four Lines

Updated: 2018-01-28T10:13:08.458-08:00




my list is long
I am spread thin
give me my phone
bring me some gin



In the evening beside the lake,
immersed in walking
along willows and water,
moving through air
and light and color,
this walking is like flying.
I breathe in and out, stepping,
each step blending and disappearing,
strong and clear,
fragile and fleeting,
as willows and water.
This walking is like flying.



The window is open beside my bed.
I have invited you in.
Moonlight and wind light on our skin.
We are giving in.

We trace the dancing shadow leaves,
hear each other breathing,
learn each other's poetic lines,
reciting and receiving.

I remember this, our own,
as if you had not turned to stone,
as if you are water in a lake,
I swim across for memory's sake.



For the Birds Around my House

The feeder I am,
the woman who sings and brings
seeds, nuts and whole grain bread,
sometimes fruit,
fills the feeder and the plate.

Though I watch in wonder
the birds around my house,
so many now,
I realize who I am.
It is not for myself,
to live out my life,
and not for the joy in giving,
although it is a joy!

I am the feeder,
the woman who sings and brings
seeds, nuts and whole grain bread,
sometimes fruit,
fills the feeder and the plate.
I am here for them.



All morning
I draw
one Hosta leaf,
strong and fragile,
half-translucent in the sun,
a study of variation,
green and line.

All morning
I draw
one Hosta leaf
understanding curve,
drape and layer,
ignoring other thoughts,
the urge to give up being

All morning
I draw
one lovely Hosta leaf
till we're in conversation,
exchanging compliments,
arranging get-togethers,
sharing a cup of tea.



This morning I see sun swirling
though eyes are closed.
I tap my cell for today's poem.
"Paris Winter" is in my room.
I put words to memory before feet touch
the floor.
How would life change
if every morning this was ritual?
Instead of news
or mildly self torturing thoughts
we vaguely think along -
we memorize a poem
and float to get our coffee.
What do you say?
30 days to become a habit.
I'm in!



In this circle we discuss the great book,
that could be any great book.

We gather from all directions
of this city, that could be any city.

It is the book that brought us here,
and commonalities, the driver of gravity.

Who are we?  We are artists becoming,
becoming more beautiful by the minute!

In this meeting I am unencumbered,
lead by a drawing heart,

a heart without mine,
a heart without me.

In this circle we are here to heal
and allow the other,

that could be any other.



I hand them all to
You, path-clearing
    from squalls and seasons -
      debris, litter,
       thorns, sticks, logs, rocks,
    last year's, no, decades,
       of fallen leaves.
I pull out copious weeds,
hand them over.
No matter
    how weighted, sharp,
      wet or moldy,
no matter the number,
or that we work every day,
You remain!
     First I sang to make it easier.
Now our task is joy!
  I sing with devotion, turn,
hand each one to You.
  Where are
You putting everything,
  everything disappearing?
You laugh and say, "It doesn't matter,
just keep handing them to



There is no such thing
as old,
only refreshing.



We have no idea
what a miracle is.
Giving and receiving blend
like paint on a shapless,
illusory, moving mural.
We have no idea
how there is no difference,
a nebula, minuscule -
a whisp of dust, immense -
what same is.
We have no idea
how everything we see
and everything we don't see
is one and one reason
to be infinitely grateful.
One miracle.
We have no idea
we are blessed
beyond imagining.



I wrote of a daily kiss,
all morning imagining
what it would be like
to kiss one person daily
for the rest of my life.
It was a morning perfectly spent,
living part of a life in four hours
and over 12,000 kisses.
I've had enough kissing
for awhile.



He is returning and we try,
we encourage each other to remember
our own words.

What matters, if not that we live
by our own words?
We say to forget yesterday.
Each day is new,
another chance to choose.

I choose I tell them they can fly.
Disabilities are not real
and I believe it.

He is returning and we are learning
the meaning of our words,
what it is to forgive.

Forgiveness is not only to forget.
Forgiveness is to love.
Love sees he is flying.

Love knows he never left.



This morning don't write upon
the early white sky.
Don't fill in space with yourself,
who you think you are -
like a defending pufferfish,
what you think the day will be -
a bowing down to you.
Let this habit disappear.
White turns blue.
Everything shines in this detailed blur,
including you.



On a diet and all I can think about is
orange gnocchi from La Grassa.
A path in my brain is lighting up,
dinging like a pinball machine.
Orange gnocchi,
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
My mind is preoccupied with past thoughts.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
This morning smacking my lips
I hear the alarm while dreaming.
Orange potato pasta silkiness
melting in my mouth
perfect as chocolate ganache.
Orange gnocchi,
like Winnie the Pooh's honey.
Orange gnocchi.
Follow the orange gnocchi!
God is in everything, after all.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.
Orange gnocchi.



It reached enlightenment,
my cranberry liqueur,
meditating for months,
silently blending,
cranberries, orange rind,
sugar, vanilla bean, vodka,
Cross-legged in the ebb and flow
of simple, effortless being,
changing into the heart-red
ripeness of a cherry, a ruby,
a given rose,
it is not only liqueur,
like bread is not just bread.
Today it is ready.
I pour yours,
reaching through.



Je suis Charlie Je suis Ahmed in Minnesota

Deep windchill.
My son and I
hear again on the radio
this morning,
your days,
as if they were something to breathe.

I don't know what to do
from this periphery,
so I breathe in, like tonglen,
confusion, sorrow, defiance.
I breathe out unity, liberty, peace.
I breathe in your confusion, sorrow, defiance,
and breathe out your liberty, unity, peace.

"What are you doing?" Orion wonders
as I sit at the table, eyes closed, breathing -
urgent voices, gun fire, questions in the air.
"Part of my part" I say,
breathing in confusion, sorrow, defiance,
breathing out unity, liberty, peace
for you.



Something goes
every day now
a little more and a little more
in a world with less
   butterflies birds bees
     bartering and forbearing
        humans of the earth -
not humans of humans.
Our accordion world
is contracting.
We can still expand, but
        we need to decide soon!



Okay, enough already,
easily wishing things away -
the cold, Friday's working hours,
an insensitive word.
It's a futile misunderstanding of the world.

Snow I love.
I love the flake and flood of snow -
romantic, challenging.
I love moonstone evergreens,
and shoveling and shoveling again.
Sun and stars shining on the ocean
are here in Minnesota
in sweet-heavenly sun on snow.

Yet cold is cold, without glory.
It is coats, boots, gloves, hat, scarf,
long underwear, sweaters, ear muffs,
on and off, on and off,
blah, blah, blah, gray-blurry gray,
and growing old in the United States.
Indeed.  I'm wishing arctic air away,
magnifying what I like least.

Okay. Acceptance. Baby, bring it on!
I wish only to be here in Minnesota now.
I'm going out in the challenging c..c..cold.

Under all these layers
is a warm me.



Hi hibiscus.
Here is water,
a kiss for the day,
leaf to my cheek,
a gentle word or two.

You are a rescue,
saved from snow,
like a neighborhood cat,
waiting for spring air.

There on the iron stand
in the corner of my living room,
you grow red flowers
in December.



If only we could
fold and unfold
the world,
then this Christmas
I would share
my feast with you!



Here I am thinking about him
in the middle of the night again,
about our passing ships.

Here I am stuck on ice,
waiting for spring,
the ice breaker to arrive.

There he sails, a pirate
with part of my treasure,
east into the sunrise,
receding in my binoculars.



Misted and gray,
I stroll the street
in fluid, cool winter,
not frozen and white,
but misted and gray
with blue, stirring shadows.
Here is something
that touches my hand
and holds my breath.
Winter sunflowers!
Still taller then me,
they stand, old dancers,
outlined in charcoal.
Lovely and melancholy,
they cry,
they speak,
pearls without snow,
misted and gray.



Can we write together
       You and I
with no space between us?
     Give it a try!
All things are possible
   on my green earth.



Off Medication

He  searches and questions
from across the table,
beside her on the church pew.
She feels it between them
his searching and questions
and begins to think again:
I am not good enough.
I am not good enough.

I am not good enough grows.

She searches and questions
at the table, during work,
unable to sleep.
She searches and questions
into a deep, falling night.
It is a mission of destruction.
How easily she breaks
for she is not good enough.
She has never been
and will never be
good enough.



Our hearts are not our own,
pumping every beautiful moment,
moment by moment,
all of our lives.
It is easy to claim it mine,
my heart,
this heart inside me.
I believe I choose
to give or not of my heart
as I choose to give
a bouquet of lilies in winter.

Who gives you the heart?
Who gives you the heart?
Is it given to you or 
are you given to the heart
pumping moment by moment,
every beautiful moment,
inside you freely?

I say, the heart is not your own.
It is mine as mine is yours.
It is the heart of every life,
every life that has lived, is living,
and ever will live. 
The heart is shared.
You know what the heart shares,
moment by moment,
every beautiful moment forever.