Only Listen

I want to speak beautifully,
for every word to count.
Not to contribute to the pollution of sound
in the aural canals,
or to roughly accost the sensitive, soft hairs of your ear.
Our senses are delicate but overwhelmed,
a false hardening.

It is not until sitting in silence, as a monastic,
that we empty our beings of the rubbish, the excess,
the oil, gloss, and sheen that are meant to mask
or beautify
what within us is raw and tender.
If we walk around open-hearted, the world is too much to handle,
creating intraversible chasms through the breaking,
which we frantically try to fill with the same world that hurt us
and harden ourselves to possible sorrows.

So I don't blame you for steeling yourself against its harshness,
as if wrapping one's throat before the biting cold.
I don't blame you for bristling at the thought of solitude,
fearing what lies beneath the present and familiar cacophony
that is jarring, but at least masks
the wails of the inner voice
screaming through the night.

Your breathing, warm, tender flesh has been rubbed pink and raw
by the grating, greedy sandpaper hands of media and capitalism,
yelling that what you have,
what you are is not enough.
So the world stings even more.
What is the balm for a being who has been marching,
burned, parched,
through the desert of sensation and dying for respite,
for sweet silence,
for the coolness of truth,
anointing the forehead with waking drops,
for a warm, gentle flame
rather than a blinding, neon screen.

A salve it is to embrace what is
rather than what the demon of ego
taunts you to believe,
convincing you that your worth resides
in all that is outside of yourself.
Eschew that which offends your sensitive soul,
and what seeks to drown out the wails of your inner voice,
screaming through the night,
"Listen, listen."

How to Survive Uncertainty

I’m no stranger              to aching

It’s no stranger                                    than             

                                                     breathing in

                                                     breathing in 

                                                        the air 

                 that hasn’t                                                      kissed your lips

                 that hasn’t                                                      brushed your hair.

And            what hurt               has greater             gall                     than this--

                   what hurt                                                       could      be        measured,

                                                                                         could                     equal

            the                     strain               of

         those               

words of devotion                murmured      

                                                                  into my whole     

                                                         being

      

 while 

                  yet                    remains                        the matter            of your 

                                                         being                        there.

                  and enduring                                                      there.  

I cannot                  write                this             poetically:

I cannot         bear         the thought       of never          laying eyes

                                                                                      laying hands           on

                 you                   again. 

The Night is Too Dark

My heart is burning.
Out of fear, and love
and fear of Love,
and a desire to detach
from worldly things
like debt and decisions.
How can I be at once
so blessed and so
wanting,
so conflicted,
confounded
about nearly everything?
When befalls me some relief,
I'm certain not to enjoy it,
for it is short-lived
and I will be here again.
When will the morning
God promised
dawn
and how long will be
that day?
I long for that of which I am
skeptical,
because night is simply
too dark.

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For the Children of Palestine

You are a mother--
three babies nursed at your breast.

Yesterday, four babies like yours
were murdered by rockets
playing in the sand.

When you took us to the beach,
were you afraid
we would be carried home,
bloodied and mangled?

When you told us to come inside for dinner
after playing with our friends,
were you worried
we might not make it back
to ever eat again?
Perhaps it would be our last meal.

With you, mother, we have our first meal.
And these babies have all nursed at your breast.

in this season of waking unrest

in this season of waking unrest
where all is in shadow
and night is an instant that stretches on                                         forever

i have nothing to say.

who knows what it means

      that there is no light
             but          also            no                 tunnel?


                 who knows when the shroud likes to lift away?


there is a chaos and a murky swamp
                                     my eyes are open underwater and       they                  can't see

    and           nothing         looks,
                                                       sounds                  beautiful


this time
                i will not drown myself

                                        in d  i  s  t  r  a  c  t  i  o  n

      there is no detour,
no way                                             but        through.

Three Seasons and Ten Moons

For three seasons and ten moons
you drew buckets up from the well of my soul
and repaid me with a wish and a kiss,
but no rain to refill me.
And each time you dropped in a penny
I also made a wish
That you would draw your water from me every day,
For I loved to see your face
and its reflection
on my shimmering waters.

I refused to let anyone else drink
from the well of my soul
for fear that there might not be enough for you
whenever you decided to come.
And there was no rain to refill me.

You promised me that one day
you would build your house
next to my well,
for you so loved seeing your reflection
in my shimmering waters,
and you were so thirsty.

Yet the wishes that you made
reflected other dreams.

One day you stopped coming
to draw buckets up from the well of my soul
and I had no kisses, no wishes, and no shimmering face.
For everyone needing water I rejected
so that there would be enough for you and your house
to drink of me forever.  
But now there is no house,
no reflection
and no rain to refill me.