Everything That Lives is Holy

Windows
Bowls
These are the things that call
Me to and through and in
Possibility
Illusion
What is true
Not what was true
Nor what will be true
I filled my bowl with tears
Then broke it
And all that was sorrow ran out
The emptiness became a space
To fill anew
Carefully
Careful of what I put inside
Aware now of the damage
But empty for the filling
None the less

I watched from the outside
Looking up into the window where
The drapes were pulled back
And I saw into what looked like my soul
It made me sick
To see how sick it had made me
How hard it was to be inside
Looking out through the dirty window
And how much time I stood at the window
Looking in
I met my eyes through the glass
And said “everything that lives is Holy.”
And inside I awoke

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2008...lost in blog editing/draft land until now...(“Everything that lives is holy” is something William Blake wrote and was the inspiration for this piece.)

The Altruistic Efforts of a Gourd

Are admirable.

From excess water, it forms knobby tumors
So a blind person, coming up empty for odor
And oblivious to the brilliancy of its colorful show
Finds the messages in Braille.

An experienced gourd interpreter

Or a tactile hungry unseeing person
Might, after spending time with the gourd,
Come up with the secrets of the garden
Or life.

In the afternoon,

grief soaked and spent,
I held the gourd and tried to channel its messages
And interpret the earth and the garden that gave and took my father.
It had so much to say
Though I think it mostly spoke about any of us
And not my father
Who would have outspoken the gourd and told it a few things or two.

-Jennifer Lowe
From Hugo House class "The Poetics of Objects", 2012

I Am Fruit

I am fruit
Before the picking
Hard and sour
Hanging on to the branch
That will hold me
Until I am precious

I am grass
Reaching up to heaven
Until cut
I love the smell of cut grass

I am a pillow
Lay on me

I am glass
See through me
You will only know I am there
When I am dirty

I am a secret
What I keep
You can’t have
Like a liar
If I tell you I lied
Then I am not a liar
If I tell a secret
Then it is not a secret
I need the power of secret

Bones, hair, toenails
Skin, lips, a navel (pierced)
Blood and breath
Fat and muscle
Organs
Tongue and eyes
All around
This soul
Protected
And damn tired of it
Sometimes
I open up the outsides
Just to make sure
It’s still in there

Brazilian Wax Poetically

In South America they have no idea
How women in America pay for torture
In the name of their Country

Perhaps we shall do this for ourselves
Or on the off chance
An adventurous explorer
Will meander through
The foliage stripped rain forest
In search of the Fountain of Youth

Dilemma

It matters not
To those who will see
Without a thought
Of propriety
Selection of garb
For day of inconsequential interaction

Yet still she stands
Perplexed, unsure
Of who she is and what will fit
The state she’s in without a hint
Revealed to those whose path
Might cross as functioning on she goes

For what is the cut that fits the mood
Of ease and comfort
Or the constriction of formality
Unsure of who she is and what is right
For what she is supposed to be

With vast selection and depth of choice
But not a one will match the voice
That speaks to her of what is wrong
Or what is right

Selection stifled by too much thought
Turns away from so much there
Still unsure of what to wear
But none is right and all are wrong
To define the thing she is inside
As if it made any difference
To anyone
But her

-------------------------

Picture source

Invisible Words

My words
Selected so carefully
I offer as a gift
Of myself to you

So much invested
Paid dearly for most of them
In return they gave me pleasure
And I had hoped would mean
As much to you

Intellectually
I know lack of acknowledgement
Is not in and of itself
A rejection of me
Or my thoughts

But I am back in pre-school
Presenting with great ceremony
My awkward drawing
With feet too big
And lumpy hands
Cartoonish really
But pridefully drawn none the less
And you don’t see me
Standing there with
My offering
And I am invisible
Once again

What I Will Miss When I Die

I will miss the quiet
Time to myself
I will miss the fine opportunity to
Break dishes
Roar and burn
And die a hundred times before sunset

When I die
I will miss reading
And aha moments of truth
And lies
Mine and others

When I die
I will miss falling
And bruises and the pain
From goodbye
And hello

I will miss violation
Tears and tearing
I will miss missing out
I will miss the hours in the middle of the night
When I am holding hands with my demons
Daring each other to go beyond
What we would ever admit

I will miss misbehaving
I will miss shopping
I will miss writing a check to fill a bowl
I will miss buying avacados and mangos
Finding just the right ones in a pile of tough ones
I will miss buying pretty bowls that I do not need
I will miss buying books that I will never read
But want to anyway, someday

I will miss the burn and good pain
From pushing myself just a little too hard at the gym
I will miss good coffee and bad desserts
I will miss making mistakes whether I learn from them or not
I will miss stepping off the plane in a country I do not know
And finding myself there anyway

I will miss looking forward to dying

-----------------------------

Photo Villa Gadallo, 2005

I Am Fruit

I am fruit
Before the picking
Hard and sour
Hanging on to the branch
That will hold me
Until I am precious

I am grass
Reaching up to heaven
Until cut
I love the smell of cut grass

I am a pillow
Lay on me

I am glass
See through me
You will only know I am there
When I am dirty

I am a secret
What I keep
You can’t have
Like a liar
If I tell you I lied
Then I am not a liar
If I tell a secret
Then it is not a secret
I need the power of secret

Bones, hair, toenails
Skin, lips, a navel (pierced)
Blood and breath
Fat and muscle
Organs
Tongue and eyes
All around
This soul
Protected
And damn tired of it
Sometimes
I open up the outsides
Just to make sure
It’s still in there

-----------------------

Photo Sicily, 2007

Bursting

I am a seed,
Over ripe
Bursting with

Words
Keep me up
At night

Reading
Writing
Spilling
Bursting
Pinching
Poking
Pushing out from
Below the surface

My skin
My head
My chest
My heart
My feet
My fingers
Hair even
Spills

Words
Contained
Only agitate
Compelled
To spill
My passion
Words

When I worked in Pioneer Square my second floor office window looked out over the corner of 2nd Avenue and Cherry Street. Nearly every day, several times throughout the day, I would look out and see “the Professor” braced against the side of the bank, bending over a notepad, frantically taking notes. Always writing. He had the dress of the homeless, poorly fitting sports jacked, brown/gray tweed, holes in elbows. Skinny. Bearded. Generally dis-shelved, professorial looking. I am on my way to being the professor. Always writing. I would like to compare notes with him someday.

Jump Rope Rhyme

One to win as one I win
Two alone I have no twin
Evil things you say to me
Bounce they back me to thee
Return to you Three times Three
(times three times three times three times three)
An incantation, a desperate recollection
With Wicca based jump-rope rhymes
Little girls protect themselves
From the unseen evils of a treacherous future
Cinderella Dressed in Yellah
Went upstairs to kiss a fellah
Made a mistake and kissed a snake
How many Doctors did it take?
Four and counting as ropes go spinning faster
And reach the limits of fine found footing
Five to pair and one left over
Red rover red rover send left out one over
Do you have a pick for six?
Will you leave me now I’m sick?
Evil things you say to me
I am gone and there you be===============================
Photo from Victor Friedman Photography

Green Mile

He takes his breath and breathes into the hurt
Sparks healing, embers of hope
As ashes of darkness flee from harbor
Miraculously reviving that which was dead or dying

Tall, giant of a gentle man
Simple and pure

But what was given freely from him
Takes his strength and resolve
Tearing down his resistance
To his own dark, defeating demons

Sacrificing his strength
In order to strengthen others

Full of love, he cries
For the pain of others
Becomes his own
And a little of him dies
And a little of him grows

But in balance,
It is killing him

Bird is Hurt

Bird is hurt. Devastated.
I want to mend him
But I am shut out.
Mother bird instincts kick in
Regurgitating my own sustenance
To force into his screaming beak
You will fly again
But come into the nest
Where we can practice singing
And flying
Baby hops,
One baby bird hop at a time
Mending you is mending me
Bird, it hurts. I know.

(May 2006)
Painting by Don Sutherland

I Am On My Deck With Jasmine (July 2008)

I am on my deck
The smell of jasmine kissing me
The lake through the trees
Provides perfection
It is in this moment
Saturated with the scent
The warmth
The sight
The taste of so much love
I wonder
How is it I am here?

This week was brutal
As they all seem to be lately
When I give up
I crawl home
Overwhelmed and
Undernourished
Open a Stella
Bring my pup into my arms
Wanting to check out
Except
There You are
In my neighbors
Who call me over to their
Spontaneous tailgate celebration
And before I know it
We are all on my deck
Carla, Dick, Hugh, Cynthia, Jenny, Jenny’s husband, Chris, Meaghan, Rod
And me
Celebrating Friday

They have gone on now
And I, with too much alcohol
Into me
Am bittersweet
Like the beer I sip
Unbelieving that I am here
Happy
And sad
And feeling sorely messed up
I feel so loved
Yet so separated

Mo-orea, Polynesia (December 2005)

It did not lay lightly on my mind
The beach, the laughter, the families and lovers
In each other’s company, fragility was silent
My family, my son, my absent mate
With danger unseen in the beauty of the sea
The fragility silent but oh so there

The honeymooners in dazed lazy blissfulness
And sunburned discomfort
Look at our children with hope and dreams
Fragility suspended under the water’s surface
Above the beautiful fishes
While sharks pass just beyond visibility

The flowers whisper of love and beauty
Their fragrance calls
In the breeze
That chases away the bugs and heat
The native music swaying hips in rum punch buzz
Laughter in the tales told a hundred times
Fragility gathers beyond the bay

In collecting waves imminent assault gathers
Paradise’s paradoxical impermanent beauty
Fragility gathering in a sunset
Pink and orange and blood red red

We are not safe but for a moment
Paradise is ours
And fragility stays at bay