I am a boat.

Not a Chinese junque. – (my blood is too foreign though I do wish it wasn’t).

Well.. perhaps a gleaming and slippery, “Have a martini”, 40′ ode to speed? – (I’d lose the key..).

Maybe that great outboard motorboat we used up at the lake to go bass fishing as the dawn steam rose and we, wee ones still with sleep in our eyes? – (Oh, I did love the control!)

What about a catamaran? Sliding and cutting so deftly through..intent on getting ‘there’ FAST!.. The constant thrill of capsizing the thing?- (Nope).

I could be a giant cargo ship with all the ballast I’d ever need in rough seas.. (No beauty in all that safety and way too much metal. I’m not that fond of metal, anyway).

A folded paper boat adrift on an even pond? – (Not enough substance or staying power).

I will be a canoe.

My own ship carved of a tree so I will remember dry land should I turn toward forgetting.

It will hold one.

Two or three if I so choose.

My family and friends will have helped me carve the thing.

We will have sung songs and toasted it’s doneness before they hand me two paddles and I pause to bow (to them and it) before I step in alone.

I will push off the beach and settle my frame into the curve of the tended wood.

I will not look back.

I am not sad. I will cut the glassy sheen of the lake

And lean into my direction.

I pull the water to me

And let it empty behind.

Pull.

Empty.

Pull.

Empty.

The rhythm lifts me.

And the work is not.

I am free.

Destination is uninteresting.

I just stay with the impossible beauty.

In raw weather

I huddle in the rain and wind

Sometimes, just yielding to the whim of the lake

Because it is bigger than me.

In the morning with wet and straggly hair

I peek outside my parka.

The way seems clear

Though I do not know where I am.

A loon sets me straight

And my paddle meets the waters.

I sing.

This is so good to read out loud:

KINDNESS
By Naomi Shahib Nye

Before you know what kindness really is
You must lose things,
Feel the future dissolve in a moment
Like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
What you counted and carefully saved,
All this must go so you know
How desolate the landscape can be
Between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride…
Thinking the bus will never stop
And the passengers eating maize and chicken
Will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
You must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
Lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
How he too was someone
Who journeyed through the night with plans
And the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
You must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till you voice
Catches the thread of all sorrows
And you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
Only kindness that ties your shoes
And sends you out into the day to mail letters,
And purchase bread,
Only kindness that raises its head
From the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for
And follows you everywhere
Like a shadow or a friend.

I love Maya.

Everything about her;

Her GRACE, wisdom, compassion, fierce loyalty to her beliefs in the innate goodness of people, the fact she does not let people who practice false modesty remain in her home because she wants to be around those who know their gifts and are unapologetic about them…

Here is a gift for her:

.

A POEM FOR MAYA ANGELOU –

THE GREAT WAVE

Big.
Booming.
Blooming
Blackness.

A wave born somewhere
With no name
We know.

SHE RISES.

In the impossibly dark,
Irresistable dark
Curl of the wave;

HER

Stray hairs mixed with moonlight,
Damp and unruly
Tended by MOON;

We had to wait

Until we were ready

To bear

HER BLACKNESS

With NO thought
Of turning away.

The Mystery
Did not yet speak
A familiar language
To us

And

We were afraid.

***

She rode that wave
In the rise
And the FALL

Until

We could hear her,
Approach Her

To ask Her forgiveness
For our tardy
Arrival.

Perhaps the secrets
That came
With those roiling and watery waves

SHE rode

Would stick
To us
Like pollen.

And we
Could try
Once again

To LOVE.

Only

Better now.

****

That VOICE -

Holder of each
And EVERY sound
Ever sung,

Is too big for us.

The largest part
We know
Of ourselves
Stuck in our throat

When SHE speaks.

We are yet young.
Our balance
On the surfboard
Wobbly,
At best.

We Do

Keep going…

Out.

Further out.

Testing
Our
New
Skills
On

The Wave.

SHE,

All ready
At the shore,
Guiding us

Safely in.

***

The salve
Which

SHE IS:

Made of whispers
And crooked,
Beckoning fingers

Is

Inviting
All of Us
Into that dark
Of Mystery

And a dawn

-With new air and birdsong.

Rather
Like to a tea party
Fit for royalty (Us).

The manual
For sweet change
Is to read

Between the lines

Of
Her life. Her breath.
Poetry,
HIGH
Wisdom

And impossibly precious threads
Of The Tapestry

Ready
To Be
Worked.

Our summons:

Handwritten
By HER

To roll

And s-p-r-e-a-d

On to the beach

At Dawn.

(but not alone as She had to.)

***

She asks us
Never to lose sight
Of the rightness

Running in the blood

Of those who took
The ‘us’
Out of RIGHT ous NESS.

We should look,
(I think she would say)
For our tribe;

They’re home

May well be hidden.
Down some scrubby, dusty path
Traveled by few.

But find them

We must.

***

We will

All
Begin
Crafting a spanking new
Stepping stone path

With Her pearls
And Grace
And impossibly large
And ready

Smile
Decorating

Our New

Host

Of meeting rooms
Open to those
REAL – ly

Ready

To ride

The Great Wave.
.
.
.CA 2011

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

© Mary Oliver.
.
.
.

I wrote a whole post this morning..

And it disappeared somewhere into the country where computers grow and thrive..

And so…

Instead of having a drink at this early hour..

I sit down,

Calm myself,

And begin again….
.
.
.
THE KNIFE- a poem
.
.
Self-criticism
.
Is a worthless meal to make.
.
My knife is too dull.
.
.
.
-CA 2010
.
.
.

BLONDE – a poem
.

On the way to Albuquerque yesterday
I looked at grasses
By the side of the road.
The colors were pre-winter
Blonde and rust and tarnished yellow too.

I found it intriguing
Just beside the blacktop
That the earth there,
Braving the wind of our speed,
Was disturbed.

Some big yellow manly piece
Of Caterpillar equipment
Dug it all up one shiny day.
And after the dirt settled there,
NEW and DELICATE fronds grew.

They seem to like that place,
Turned and routed around.
On their own they chose it,
Over a lonely patch of green
I might’ve picked instead.

No, the lovelies thrive there!
In the reckless and impatient jangling,
Some orange-clad, sunburned guy-man
Took pride in his spit
And numbly walked on.

I thrive too, amidst disturbed gardens.
The seeds thrown meanly
And left bare and dry.
But see this, here?
My body still bends and arches
And the wind never broke me
Or took me down.

I lean and quiver in my place
Hearing something of a tune
That always drowns out the heat.
And my perfume rises
Until the Wind takes it.
He is greedy and ill-mannered.
But I don’t care.
.
.
-CA 2010
.
.
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textile detail, pigment on wool flannel
_____________________________________
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.
IN THE RAW- a poem
.
.
I’m going to stand here
.
Dressed in nothing more than my
.
Unsolved heart humming.
.
.
.
-CA 2010
.
.