There's sunny rain and here am I

What we want is to be immersed in newness. Holes boring through hearts, cornfield blue skies gaping through.

Who are you, though? I love you much and I love you often. You told me all about a plastic bottle with my name in it, but not what else you wrote. What you wanted proclaimed to rocks but not to me. Was that love? You share and you keep. What share, what keep?

There are worlds created that are more full than the one cre-ote. I’ve told you this often I think but maybe it was unclear: these are where I remain, always. Your grip, lost. Grip?

I write now because I miss noodle-nimbling things. My Hudson-upon-Thames, brown river and oak-y banks. Come back. Come back.

I sigh often, often while walking up metro stairs, a sigh that disrupts the invisible borders we’ve built between. It blasphemes, this sigh that lifts.

Remember that time? It was my favorite. There was a flood, my house was different, very, I had to save someone, fields of snowy trees. Maybe also a kiss in a bush? Most definitely there was a haunted home. In fact, it all was. I never wanted to wake.

Everything, all the time, as someone once sang to me. I have forgotten my words as I so often do. I begin things because I want to capture sun beams before they fade. Where finish? Where fade.

You can’t finish the things you begin, that’s for true.

This is the poem

I wonder if this is the poem I'm meant to write--

are these the words?

A life so full that it explodes in each remembered moment,

each moment its own unending.

Swept up by music, blood pumps to my heart,

pumps that "I-must-write."

But are these the words?

This world will always be for me

one that cannot be loved until after,

an after the park bench pretzel,

after the sun's burn on muddy beaches kind of love.

I have a slow grip (have I.)

Slow but steady; strong--but slow.

(except for you; my grip was instant, for you.)

So. Here I sit, searching for words to explain

my grip that searches only after and makes

all that much more powerful,

a golden blood rush--

heart exploding.

After Szechwan

The mama cradled her baby,

humming on her porch,

wood-shingled and rain-worn.

Ho la di de, ho la di da.

Sometimes there is a boy in your mind

and you fall into him,

your body sprinkling apart in joyous blue--now your blue--

a color you jump into,

canyon of sky.

I shout! I kick!

I run run run

How could I ever explain to you all,

you masses,

how deeply I want to hold you?

Donegal Breeze

I haven't written in ages and ages but I have plenty to say. It's been floating around for a while but I just now have finally let go of caring about the fact that I'm not sure where this piece will take me. Instead, I've decided to just write it. This is mostly attributable to the good mood I'm in, that familiar ocean swell in my heart, when the world has become my one good thing; I see that everything is as much mine as I claim it to be, that I'm free as I let myself be. World, world, world...of blooms and light, of laughing with my father, of lying in bed talking, of all that has not yet come.

But this moment is scary, too, for it's not truly mine (is it?) I keep myself detached from it even as I start feeling lighthearted. I've never been that person who could see the world around her and engage in it simultaneously. So, here I am, seeing the possibilities, and completely afraid of submerging myself. I am full. But I am also stranded.

There's so much more to say, and I've lost it now. It's like every time I'm with you. My mind beats ever onward away, away from what my heart was hoping. Neither seems enough: mind, heart. Neither quite does it for me. Where is the moment that's mine alone, that's always enough and always what it should have been?

And it's funny because I didn't foresee this becoming what it has when I commenced; I thought it would stay with the sea swells and sunbeams. I've become frustrated, though. It's not enough. This feeling of elation is not enough. I need confidence in the elation, I need to know it can change my life. I need to let it change my life and I need to move on.

I'm the neediest creature of all: I expect life to give me the things I expect from it, and am completely bewildered when that's exactly what it does.

I named this piece "Donegal Breeze" after a song by Mary Black. The chorus goes like this:
With your dark hair in the Donegal breeze,
Bringing me softly and sweetly to the ground,
But, there's madness in the sycamore trees,
And there's no salvation to be found.

It reminds me of my own life, and I suspect a bit of yours, too. Overwhelmed by the gentle moments, just as in awe of the uncontrollable ones, ultimately left with neither. So response-less in the face of such wonder.

We do not know the way and maybe never will.

The Local Language

"bouquet de fleurs" marc chagall

the Dark Away

This kiss as deep as any ocean,

down far and wide upon forgotten rocks

down far among fish who bubbly murmur

about their business of being beautiful and unknown.

This you the sun's beams whose reach

to inkiest water feeds strangest creature.