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"The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching," a tanka series about finding refuge in a Colorado mountain cabin with the man I love. Please check it out. a restless ocean roaring in the trees I float on the porch eyes closed adrift the storm sneaks in with the night fourth of July sitting on the grass watching them try to shoot down the approaching storm sheets rippling on the clothesline waiting for the rain heading home the rain meets me halfway storm yellow sky the whiptails scatter with the first drops of rain making their way through the raindrops a hummingbird and a ray of sunlight deeper and deeper blue until the sky falls away and the desert steams flash flood a boulder dances down the arroyo thunderwind tall green weeds lean over and point to where the garbage can was the rain that soaked my skin the thunder that silenced your words (oh but the lightning that showed me everything) the tingle of each cold drop on the back of my neck as we kissed the rain away after the storm the scent of stars through the open door night breeze a patch of cattails stalking the moon a few days after the storm a patch of yellow in a sea of green buttercups where the gravel turns to dust then turns to rain how far down this old dirt road we walk for love [This Spring I spent most of a month in and out of the hospital with plenty of time on my hands. These are some of the poems I wrote...] ~~~ the one sparrow who just didn't care singing in the rain nevermind the bad dreams... this perfect sunrise when I was the person who wanted to be me the day I found you the fourth heart on the clover how the picture never captures the color of your perfume or the sunset's smile the frisbee my bad temper threw into the sun the stray dog who brought it back smiling deep in thought watching a boxcar pass and fighting the urge to leave my keys in the ignition I asked an old log how he had fallen but he just smiled and told me sit down tell me about the sun buds sprouting on an old Spring poem I left in a notebook tiny yellow flowers whooping and hollering in the alley out back neighbor boy with tussled hair growing like a weed the place behind the moon where bears live on marshmallows and no one gets mad or makes mistakes that one little thing you said fire ant rows and rows of wildflowers the rusting tractor a nuthatch swoops down to ask me to dance then changes its mind before I can accept Spring I burst out of myself and take my first breath how quiet this dream under florescent lights automatic doors open and close for no one that angry prayer God answered so calmly in spite of me the slam of the dumpster from the garbage truck the whisper of a cloud passing overhead the blind ferret who wanted out past the screen door into a brand new world on the faith of fresh air when I was the night falling you were the last song of the sparrow watching a crow turn a crosswind into a tailwind for no reason at all boys throwing stones and the one-eyed squirrel who always stays up high in the trees the dandelions who decided not to wait for the roses night wind sweeps away the ghosts of birdsongs caught in the branches the angels who watched over the crazy old man who believed in angels the day my heart burst out of my chest and sang in the trees as hearts often do in momentary grasps of sunshine and reason unlabeled jar of seeds I plant them just to see what we'll be the rocking chair my grandfather made out of the old maple that swayed in the breeze and fell in the storm in the exam room at the surgeon's office wide-eyed and angry for all the times I didn't go dancing always the tree that never thought it would fall cord of firewood that first trickle of rainwater that becomes the river love where the desert forgets the sound of the highway a sparrow skylarking attached by wires to digital readouts but my mind through the window and roaming the canyon two dots of birds of unknown origin high over my head and spiraling to unknown destinations the mountain and I on a first name basis with the sky my lousy choice of cable or the window I watch the morning sun rise like a balloon midnight the bright silence that outshines the moon when I turn off the lights how quick this life my eyes try to follow two white butterflies twisting and turning in the weeds meadowlark sings higher and higher sun on fire the things that can only be fixed by running on four paws down a deserted desert highway sometimes I'm a smile and sometimes I'm the marigold gone missing empty IV the floor nurse untethers me so I can float away into blue sky mountains the selfie I took way up on the mesa of my tail in the scrub behind some old man holding a camera dying sun through a golden hole in shadows of rain what's left of the day soaked in liquid night the day God decided that flowers should fly butterfly just when I thought I knew this desert sky May snow tiny blue moon skyfast and alone glowing in the clouds so much braver than the rain morphine sunrise only a hint of color in this gray sky of stretched clouds and dream mountains almost inaudible the sound of the sun through the window hitting the smile on my face bird on a line with a chest full of sunshine he gathered just for me she waits for me no scent of sage rising from rainwater this ever-patient desert where even the whiptails are waiting to dance photoshop I color the pink peony blue and plant it in my head I tell the sparrow who stops in mid-song he did nothing wrong to sing so beautifully my first day home ~ the woman who left the holy well still with crutches who gave her miracle to me (for Jenny, who never didn't believe...) ~ passenger window with his nose sticking out Volkswagen beagle so far away I can barely see the star in the night of his eyes as long as I can underneath the tree listening to different songs of different birds until I get on the bus and fly off down the road when I wanted to be the sun and everyone told me that I could only ever be the rain and to get back to watering the flowers she keeps telling me how cold she is in that voice of hers that holds up the sun and puts the wind back to sleep listening to an angry sky with nothing to say but rain running until I become the light of day half the day gone walking tree to tree as the crow flies just to find this kiss we left by the river pigeon or angel I keep the feather anyways seashells filled with rainwater nothing is ever the ocean I think it is park bench wishing the snow would turn to rain and the trees had more to say sunset the color of your lipstick the first time we kissed and you stayed with me to watch the sunrise when I didn't know where I belonged California gull chasing his shadow across the desert the sparrow who never thought himself any more than sunlight flitting branch to branch outside the cat's chair empty and filled with snow underneath the parked cars quiet sphinxes watching the snow cover the lot walking down an old dirt road and I swear it's you but it's just a crow and I'm almost home I start to type out this daydream but I backspace until all that's left is the first letter of your name old coyote sings one last song to a freight train pulling a trail of stars across a bright sky I watch the sun fly out of a pine tree without ever once looking back winter robin thinking he came back way too early and I stayed way too long robin in the snow this fickle romance the snow and I have February the blurred photo of a sparrow I heard with such clarity the crow I disturbed rubbing his wings on the day moon winter dusk the moon's apology the sun's redemption and I the only witness to this sky filling with stars ten degrees the river ice snaps its fingers to the sunset song glass dragonfly in a winter alley one wing shattered and streaked with mud the other catching sun the way I loved how you loved the rain when we were puppies and life was just a bone too big for our mouths piles of apples on my grandfather's farm my brother and I and a jug of cider all going bad that perfect ray of sunlight I wanted the sun to shine that would have melted this ice and turned your heart into rainwater the first time you kissed me the helium balloon I let slip from my hand swaying on the ceiling empty box of chocolate I learn to love myself first a bite then a kiss then another bite and another kiss till I can't tell chocolate from love little girl at the store making a song out of everything I say the wedding ring I took off my hand and threw to the desert the silence of these junipers as I walk them each sunrise arguments inside and out one of the crows on the fence takes her side eyes through the scrub so careful not to disturb my dreaming dusk as if there were no sparrows at all no electric ball just stars on the mesa shining in the new year coyote moon chasing your tail as we circle the bed three times under the covers before we fall asleep in the crosswalk through the windshield his eyes meet mine and we just know green light new snow the morning I spent playing with my neighbor's dog disappears on the window my name streaked in fingermarks where the frost hid the sun the blood on the barbed wire between the horses in the field and the horse running down the dirt road under asphalt my footprints in the dust of an old dirt road face first into the morning sun the way the mountain taught me how to pray open blinds she fills the vase of gladiolus with fresh sunlight a week after you're gone I still make my coffee the way you like it shoveling the walk I find part of a wing of a chalk butterfly today I am not going to rescue the planet instead I will go for a walk and let it rescue me I meet the brother of a sparrow I knew back at the old house and he sings me a song his nephew taught him the old white bigot who even hated blackbirds sticking my fingers into a winter stream until I can feel my heart beating in the palm of my hand full birdfeeder the chirping of the heater fan hidden in the trees and singing to the dawn sparrow moon coyote sitting on the hill licking his wounds the sun comes up the snow comes down just the same behind me sleeping on the couch under the covers the ferret who has my back I read until the book gets so sleepy it starts mumbling another language the light so thick from the end of the day pouring off the sun like water running down the side of the mountain the pitch black window of a pitch black room cracked open the perfect pitch of a night bird shine on me softly this moonlight I seek though the car is packed and the morning young and she still sleeping as if the stars all fell at one time and the world was covered in wishes my private sunrise with each squeak of the old pump well a spurt of cold water and an answer from the chickadee before I throw it in the dumpster a homeless woman asks for this book of poems with no rhyme or reason when I went walking down my grandfather's drive out past the mailbox to where the dirt road turned into summer the swayback mare who would not let me sit on her back the rusted red tractor in the weeds who would making up for all the lost leaves winter sparrows after slamming the screen door the sparrows come back but you don't putting away groceries milk on the top shelf ketchup in the door and a couple ferrets in the vegetable bin after the argument when you walked ahead throwing stones and building yourself a mountain hole in the candle where we talked until the sun flickered on the wall brand new morning brand new footprints in brand new snow white keys I tap out Jingle Bells to the rhythm of new snowflakes city complex the morgue decorated in Christmas lights walking downtown at four in the morning so quiet I can hear the Christmas lights clicking and buzzing Walmart greeter both of us almost pretend to look at each other when we say hi Walmart associate tells me I can find Jesus next to electronics Walmart dad gives up trying to find everyone and watches the game on a wall of TVs frost on the inside of the window I write "Peace" with my finger backwards the blurred picture of a butterfly... a little warmer now I wake her to show her the snow but she goes back to her dreams and falling falling... Bourbon Street the night we kissed so passionately and the snow clouds threw Mardi Gras beads Big Easy the snow falls like powdered sugar from fresh beignets into the Mississippi driving back from visiting a friend to see her new baby I follow the brightest star all the way home the strand of tinsel stuck to your sleeve without you knowing as you sleep next to me the whole way home the glass bottles in the bottom of the homeless woman's cart sound like sleigh bells as she makes her way past last minute Christmas decorations... new snow my old drunk neighbor who likes to give me grief I pack a snowball and hold it in my hand until my fingers get cold on the muddy floor of the uptown bus the shiny red ribbon everyone's careful to step around on my back in the front yard with my arms out magic gloves to the sky making the snow rise cardboard box tangling the Christmas lights for next year Autumn City I follow the yellow-leaf road home burned-out porch light all the summer moths headed to the moon four am listening to sirens turn into coyotes autumn wind spits out the crow it swallowed coyote wind chasing plastic rabbit bags through the barbed wire I tell the coyotes I'm only gonna throw it one more time -- sunset I give her an apology and a candy bar (she eats the apology) side of the road disco lights flashing on a wasted cowboy trying to dance in a straight line the young man who thought he was gay we talk for a bit until the silence answers the question the poem I sent that you never read sneaks back into my room and sleeps all night curled up next to me clouds swirl sunset into pink and blue guesses she feels it inside her moving across the sky like the daylight moon... three am night sky god's face big as life then back to clouds without saying anything Monday morning the homeless woman and her daughter sleeping in the woods behind an empty church spot of sun I open the door to let it in but it scatters off the porch and runs up a tree when God lost my bus money and made me walk home through the park where I met you... shadow of a sparrow lands on the shadow of my finger November sky a hawk takes the long way around the sun at the bottom of the well the top of the sky and when I got home how he yowled and cried and kissed my chin until I promised I would scratch his ears forever patches of snow not yet melted I leave the white stubble on my face November snowstorm summer butterflies still chasing flowers on the strings of my neighbor's windchimes all the ferrets wide awake the smell of turkey from the oven Thanksgiving I spend a few more seconds than I need to licking mashed potatoes from your finger when I was a kite thrashing in the wind headed for trees and pulling on the string of you watching the clouds write a poem so obscure I cannot copy it down before the rain comes the longer he sings the louder I dream coyote canyons disappearing into canyons coyote sky the things I learned and didn't tell anyone lilacs in the alley before I knew anything about sex tadpoles nothing to do and all day to do it cricketsong skyfull of delphiniums tugging at the ground co y ot e s t ep p ingt ai ld ee p th r ou g hmu dd yw a t er was the secret she or I? cactus flower summer rain not even the river knows where we're going when my dad taught me about the bears and the bees the way all rivers start in heaven the most beautiful girl who turned into the sound of passing cars no wings like the present baby sparrows I remember not to cuss he said he was a flower but he was just a jack of all weeds when I was a turtle with my legs in the sky your soft hands momentarily occupying the same airspace... cat and grasshopper blue-grey pigeons blending into the pavement then into the rain ship of silence in a sea of moonlight steady as she goes zazen traffic and sirens turn into sparrows when I had nothing for a rainy day dandelion gold pickup truck your first orgasm startles the crows no next life just this one (no matter how it goes) how long I waited for you to stop barking and close your eyes so I could touch your nose through the fence upside down squirrel hanging sideways off a tree asks me if I'm going to answer myself too afternoon bluejay singing his ass off one-word texts from my wife two big wings on too little a tree crow doesn't wait around to see if I'll stop laughing I ask a tree if he remembers when I was twelve years old (and he shows me the scar) campfire in the middle of nowhere a coyote and I switch off every other song the stick I throw that Loneliness always finds and drops at my feet so I can throw it again canyon road I spot two coyote pups where we parked and rolled around in the stars rooftop patio the bartender makes me a thunderstorm canyon sunlight I find a broken bottle half full of stars tall grass and sagebrush the butterfly-shaped spot on the wild pinto glowing in the sun in a field of dark green -- ultraviolets when the whole world was angry except you sleeping moth when I believed whatever the bluejay said... always the littlest one showing off the most... shooting star underneath the maple tree where it rains after it rains storm in the foothills a wild horse kicks up his heels and spooks the thunder the night I dreamed you in flashes of light and woke to thunder morning church bells shaking off the crows wrinkles on my hands I blink and the coffee is done the morning I made love to you so quickly and drank my tea so slowly twilight thunderheads way over my head a hummingbird and his wingman rushing home carneceria a Mexican man and I bump into each other and we say we're sorry in different languages white flying things sometimes moths sometimes butterflies depending on how happy I am how my father could fix almost anything my mother's blank stare from the window of the nursing home your hips pushing to the stars I hold myself back watching a katydid crawling through the moonlight the one sparrow who just didn't care singing in the rain back alley window the sound of God squeezing cats in between flights the drug dog who just wants to play this is the poem that chased my feet then hid in a dark place and slept all day until life was but a dream... the earring I kissed that fell off (how long we looked in the dandelions behind the garage) midnight thunder through the bedroom window I stop inside you for a few seconds just to listen afternoon thunderstorm when I thought you loved me but you just loved the rain the way she said "love" like it was a candy heart she spit out and left on the ground the time I sat under the tree and told you about my day after you told me about yours -- squirrel ten years old wasting time at the frog pond how the sun only made sense when I saw it through dragonfly wings August wind I listen to the leaves speak of future colors the scent of ozone way before I see it sparrows shoot like darts in all directions shining star I unwish all the things I wished for and take the fall myself how rich I am these hairs on my head made of silver and these aspen leaves made of gold spilled bowl of cereal marshmallow moons and stars all over the floor glistening in the moonlight an everything so big it could have been anything it wanted eight years old the crows and I take turns ploughing the corn field on my grandfather's rusted tractor that unbelievably foolish thing you said when I was just about to let my heart do foolish things the rain and I take the long way home... arroyo where the cardinal sang all summer long... red maple leaves after the cicadas stop the sun buzzing in the weeds early morning rain the dreams pour out of me cricket big as a june bug... thundersong cardinal hiding in a cherry tree top of the mountain where the pine trees polish the stars sunrise storm the last rumbles of night forgives and forgets last bit of sunlight sets the mountain on fire aspen trees the first time she said I love you while looking away the way she loved me and the color turquoise whatever it is that makes the spider stop makes me stop too a feather from the tail of a thought about you the first time meeting my great-grandfather who stared at planes the same exact way I stared at him I walk into the desert until the cars stop and I can hear the coyotes breathing tied to the bike rack a guy tells me not to pet his dog (I wait until he goes inside) she kisses me goodbye and tells me go do not wait for me one more second... Lady Time I notice the last dandelion behind the house the next morning it and summer are gone... the last dandelion seeds of summer I go my way you go yours almost autumn she lets her red dress fall and closes her eyes to wait for the rain... maple tree two hawks fade into one hawk fades into an endless blue sky trailing feathered clouds the rocks on the mountain the rushes by the river we never wrote down their names a sky full of rain borrows the mountains for a week and brings them back covered in wildflowers the kids ask what we’re doing I say nothing so we can do nothing one more time the lines in pencil my mother drew on the doorjam where I got taller and time got shorter all the holes she filled with tiny yellow flowers rushes stick out of the sand like ferret whiskers next to the river how slowly I walk through the house the ghosts of ferrets always in-between my feet when I was the color red and hovered in the flowers waiting for twilight so I could become the last seconds of sun |