CANYON POEM, LATE SUMMER

Mornings in the canyon

I let the delicate fray of my nerves rest.

The descent feels private -

a steep and bumpy trail.

I kick up dust as I scuffle down.

A stray plumeria flower in my hat

–or one day, a hawk feather–

and I am alone in this dry and quiet universe.

Smell is the anchor of the coastal sage scrub.

The land is rich in its dryness, nourishing in a way the desert-dweller knows.

Daily walks through this space become devotional.

The pockets of coolness in the shadows,

and the sea breeze

greeting me on the west-facing

curves, a benediction.

Mindful of poison oak,

I look out for the wild rose hips.

They’ve been ripening in the late summer sun.

Sometimes I parse out the rich ebbs and flows of my internal world here,

and sometimes (today) there’s poetry.

I start with the poem.

It wriggles quickly out of me

like a newborn eager to greet the world,

but then the landscape says “Stop, I’m calling you.

Join me with every sense you have.

Put your awareness here - we are one organism.”

And so I put away my phone,

and the little taps that spin words and build worlds,

and simply be.

These days,

the earth feels like a lover

and I can fall back,

like a swoon,

into its arms.

These days,

old loves feel

like unused trails

being reclaimed by the land.

Like jewelry I once wore

and have since put away.

These days,

I wear my dark hair loose in the sun

and the ends turn

the color of honey.

These days,

I wear a white linen shirt

to protect my skin.

It flutters over my body like a flag:

Surrender.

-Del Mar, CA 2022

HOW TO CLOSE A DOOR

When the phone is hung up

and the screen remains blank,

but the threads of loss

and questions

and imagination

still float free,

find a dark stone.

Any one will do,

but let it have weight in your hand

and let that weight feel heavy.

When silence follows you,

but is occupied by ghosts

and shreds of color

that flap in the wind like old prayer flags,

cut a branch that flows rich with sap.

Get the stickiness on your hands –

it’s hard to wash off.

Cut a ripe tomato with a sharp knife.

See how it slices through the tender flesh

so cleanly.

Make a stew and eat it hot enough

to almost burn your mouth.

Make a pile of bones,

if you can find some.

When you wake up in the darkest hours of

the night,

peek into the private spaces of your soul,

and see if you still have a few tears to

shed,

even if those rivers of grief have largely

dried,

and are now full of sunbaked rocks

and parched willows.

The nocturnal animals:

the owls

the mice

the roaches

the raccoons

the bobcats

roam outside your den,

carrying on their night-work.

Albuquerque, NM - 2022

CEDARWOOD

Last night in my dream

there was Eros and death -

Thanatos.

A golden young man,

dying by my hand.

I lay with him, stroking his back

in awe and horror of what I had done,

but filled with the certainty of this death.

It was inevitable,

it had to be done.

“Take this,” I said,

“It will help you get to God,”

as I smeared cedarwood oil on his upper

lip.

In my waking life I revisit the dream.

I pick up this beautiful man

and carry him to the edge of the forest.

I lay his heavy body on the earth beneath

a cedar tree.

He and I are there together,

our hands clasped,

as he breathes his last breath.

The light flows out of him.

I split open the earth,

warm and fertile,

and lay him inside.

His body is not yet cool.

The earth swallows him up,

the grass grows over the disturbed soil.

Graceful stalks with little puffs at ends,

like I saw on the shores

of the Aegean Sea.

The sun sets and the sun rises.

He’s in there somewhere,

dissolving as I write this.

He becomes molecules of nourishment

for the vast network of roots,

and the tiny animals

who feed on such things.

I trust that the microbes

and the mycelia

and the earthworms

will do their jobs.

I trust that the roots will pull up what they

need

from the water and the soil.

I trust that the xylem and phloem

will shepherd his atoms through the

trunks and the branches.

I trust that the light will meet the branches

and that green will spread wide, reaching

towards the sky.

I trust in buds and in blooms.

I trust in fruit and in seeds.

I buy some cedarwood oil,

an elegant unguent in my hands and on

my lips.

I breathe in the perfume of ancient myths,

Inanna’s scent before she goes down,

her inhale as she returns.

-Del Mar, CA – 2022

CONVERSATIONS WITH VENUS

In conversations with Venus,

Why? is generally my question.

But this is a dance,

and inquiries are not answered in the

order in which they were received.

She’s a green planet

and I do not know her well.

Except maybe I do –

she has been an orchestrator

of moments behind the scenes

and a whisperer behind folding screens

and curtains.

What I mean is, she is a familiar

but unacknowledged thread

that runs through my life.

I look back and think,

Oh yes, she was there that night.

And I do remember catching a glimpse of

her that day,

and now that I think of it, she was the one

who told me what to say,

when I leaned across the table to you.

Venus, let’s bring our relationship

out into the open.

I invite you.

I love it when you complement my hair,

and suggest the blue shirt that matches

my eyes.

I appreciate how you whisper,

“Try thinking of this situation in a different

way, a softer way.”

I love dancing with you –

we look good together,

and our moves swell the room

with pleasure.

As much as I love the joy,

I also need your help.

I’m tired of repeating the same dreary

scene from the same depressing play

with the stark spotlight

and the lonely chair

and the chiaroscuro stage.

In fact, I even got fed up

and closed down the whole playhouse.

And I’m making moves,

and they feel new and uncomfortable.

I know I’ll break in these dancing shoes

with time.

I know what feels awkward now

will eventually be a graceful glide.

Please stay by my side

while I learn.

To love and be loved –

it sounds easy.

But my love rushes into strange channels

and the love I allow in

has to pass through a pointless gauntlet.

Please accompany me while I soften

my edges.

Please keep whispering to me as I learn

why you are the bravest planet.

Please remind me of your light,

even as I feel your shadows.

-Menorca, Spain - 2022