Welcome to Four Lines! I have a goal I would like to write at least four lines of poetry or a haiku every day for the rest of my life. I'm excited about this challenge! Also, along with my daily poem, I will be reading at least four lines of another author's poetry. I'll try to include that here also. So I'm thinking - how difficult can it be to read and then write one poem a day? We will see! - Claudia

All poems on this blog, unless noted, are written by Claudia Callaghan.
© 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016 Claudia Callaghan
Used only with permission. Please feel free to join Four Lines and request permission.

Sunday, December 30, 2012

Hi!  My friend!  I wave at you, throw you a kiss.
A kiss never stays on one cheek, one person's lips.
A kiss travels around the world, touching hands,
noses, foreheads, feet, earth's ground,
trees bark, rings inside, leaf adorned.

I do not need to know you
for you to feel my kiss.
It is the kiss of your sister and brother,
though I am a light tan, the color of autumn wheat.
You are light brown, color of milk chocolate,
wet beautiful clay a million miles
and one flight away.

Hi!  My friend!  I wave to you, throw you an kiss.  Bow.
Oh... happy namaste to you.
A kiss never stays on one cheek.
It travels around the world.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Today I don't have one in my heart.
No. Not in my hands or mind.
So. There is nowhere to start.
Not inclined. Confined. Unsigned.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Something happened, besides snow
  falling out of December sky,
  besides laughter and merriment.
I fell too, feeling like snow born
  somehow by an uncertain wind,
  variance on a whim.
Still, snow I love, and I love
  with all my heart.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Listening is seeing.
  They are like trees with melancholy tunes, 
  leaves hued by a hidden sun,
  ballads with blue histories.
I hug them through the phone,
  as I hug my favorite trees,
  beside the gentle pond, the gentle pond
  where late in summer two swans swam.
It doesn't matter if their stories,
  their branches, sing with beautiful birds
  or coil with chronic, crying snakes.
  My answer must be to hug them all.
Hugging is seeing too.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

I cannot write the indescribable,
like consciousness. 
Like him.  Whatever I portray,
it is an atom of who he is.
And his kisses?  Presence I keep
for myself.

Monday, December 3, 2012

I dreamt of you for the second time,
  the second time that I know of.
This morning you are on my mind,
  like Lao Tzu's 10,000 things
that make up this world from infinity.

Thursday, November 29, 2012

My sister horse I cannot break. 
Tame is her camouflage 
for a force of nature waking.
She is wind around my house.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

He flies above me,
in his loaded airplane
with a loaned vision from someone else,
not me, not me at all.
He cannot shoot me anymore,
demand I sacrifice myself,
or throw my poems and flowers,
my songs and dreams into fire,
his fire...

love cannot burn.

How can one from afar examine,
know a human heart?
I sing everywhere
Mending my childhood wounds.
You, with false assumptions,
are not in the sky.
The sky I love.
You are in your made up world
and know nothing of me.

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Her record spins,
head to tale,
head to tale,
the same.
Real or a hallucination,
it is memorized and wept well -
deep as a dream drawn,
drunk again in telling.
I listen closely, trying to be 
the still, small voice,
and if allowed,
I stop the turning,
lifting the needle for one sweet, 
spacious moment.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Air is approaching
as I look for something
beautiful to give to you.
Air is beautiful.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

i've been a no show
on my favorite stage
a no ink
on the sacred page
standing up my prayer
so the man i love
gave me today
pencils and pens
a perfect bouquet
i pray

Monday, November 5, 2012

Four minutes to start and finish
four lines.  Two. Thinking about -
one - voting for Obama tomorrow
 and his win as I start my new job!

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Singing songs by Loreena McKennitt,
Blackbird by the Beatles, Blue by me,
Bach's Prelude in C Major like Bobbie McFerrin
suggested. I am golden and in love.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Oh! My third home, the library -
I'm in the dell room
among deciduous, palm frond,
evergreen books -
hibernating, resting, migrating, blooming.

We are free, baby, free -
we book lovers, learners...
sisters and brothers, living and spirited,
mingling like atoms in one brilliantly built
evolving body.

This home I will fight to keep safe...
though it contains thoughts not my own...
some I deplore - never to open... 
some I adore, like music living,
leaping off the page, pitched, melodied,
flowing like a river, down, up, falling, rising,
pooling quiet like the middle of a starry night,
or roaring like a cheering, chanting,
discordant and harmonious crowd.
I'm on an Indian Kayak of my making -
water drenching my face.
I'm carried down stream into the ocean room
where dolphins leap and right whales
bump the side of my kayak staring
curiously into my eyes.

Oh! This home I will fight to keep safe.
We are free, baby, free -
we book lovers, learners...
sisters and brothers, living and spirited,
mingling like atoms in one brilliantly built
evolving body.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Ten pounds, raw, ripe rounds of delicious, margaritas.
One slow kiss... one sip with salt on the rim -
hmmm....  another sip tastes lime on my tongue...
two long kisses, oh... love, tequilla, grand marnier,

Ten pounds, raw, ripe rounds of tempeh stir fry sizzling
with crisp brocolli, kale, garlic and coconut milk.
One hot kiss... one taste mingling with galangal root,
lemon grass dancing in my mouth -
hmmm... another taste I move my chair close to you...
two kisses more, oh... love Thai fragance heart shaped,
whirling around me and you.

Ten pounds, raw, ripe rounds of decadent chocolate
ganache spooned over chocolate almond torte.
One sacred, swooning french kiss,
God kissing you kissing me..
one bite of bitter sweet, darkness light cacao full
of antioxidents - hmmmm... creating celestial ideas,
causing the brain to expand... two kisses, three, four,
more... your skin on my lips, oh... love, almonds with
dark chocolate, butter and, especially, you.

Ten pounds because of love, on my thigh, my arms,
my stomach. You say you see beauty. 
If I want to lose these ten pounds of happiness...
you, a man of men, see action as the appetizer,
accompaniny a margarita, Thai stir fry, chocolateness...
action as the appetizer?  hmmm.....bring it on baby!
Lovers and foody runners.
You and me.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Tired of not writing,
I bought free trade coffee beans
with Michael's money,
(He is missing my visions.)
loving from afar,
peering into my treed path,
pining for rapture.
My own spirit's foot steps I follow,
through the painter's forest -
leaving city dreams behind.
In this fusion of fall, leaves snow to the earth,
momentary wings,
shadow and light falling,
coating me in autumn colors...
            ...waking, wandering wind.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Blog Update:  For a brief time I need to stop writing poetry for Four Lines while I focus on my job situation.  I look forward to writing again soon!  Peace and blessings to you all!  Claudia Annabelle

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Jim emailed me a jewel
about creating self
with an I love you,
reminding me of Sarie's
sayings she gave me,
pictured around the house -
one from Winston Churchill,
"Never, never, never give up"
magneted, residing over kitchen
life, over potatoes baking,
Pakrikash sautéing, stirring apple sauce,
adding cardamom, sipping deep red wine,
conversations.  Conversations.
I gave the jewel to Michael,
with an I love you,
because of Liana's brilliance
unknown to herself.
I love words of Amy Cuddy,
residing over our seeded ground,
growing, green leaves rising to the sun,
one by one, posing proud.
Her wisdom?
"You are supposed to be here!
You're going to fake it,
You're going to do it and do it and do it,
not just till you make it, but until you
become it...until you become it.
You're going to make yourself powerful..."
My dear brother, sending me jewels
of self creation, I am listening.

Monday, October 8, 2012

His first marathon, 26.2 miles,
In less then five hours -
Twin Cities finish line crossed,
like kissing the ground of home
after a long voyage to distant lands.
He wept in my arms,
this determined, hale, warmhearted man.
Next year I'll weep into his
following his lead.
Today I ran around the block
layered in crunching autumn leaves,
not a third of a mile, unable to run one more step.
The thought of 26.2 miles appears, a looming,
mountain behind continuously moving cumulous clouds,
clouds he suddenly appeared through
like running people of ancient times.

Now he says no to running.
Lying next to me, I smell his shoulders,
gaze into sparkling, intriguing eyes.
Giddy he answers the gamut one by one,
Run, not walk?
Run for your life?
Off and running? Hit the ground running?
No and no.
Run of the mill?
No. Walk of the mill.
Eat and run?
No, eat and converse.
Run an errand?
Run a tight ship?
A sailboat?
The course of true love never did runs smooth?
Still waters run deep? Stocks for the long or short run?
Run like the wind? Run your fingers through my hair,
your hand across my thigh?
Hmmm... Ah, hmmmm... No.  Meander?
Stroll?  Walk?  Step?  Pace?
Tread?  Journey?  Bike?  Yes.
Run?  Read my lips... N O.
The illusion of time -  heals all wounds, 
running included, so.....
might you say yes two years from now?
No.  There is no running out of time.
He's passed the baton to me.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

He is on my mind, warm,
like a glowing fireplace in January.
Stepping barefoot on cold floor,
deciding what to wear,
brushing my hair, clasping a bracelet,
sipping tea accompanying toast with jam,
buckling my favorite brown shoes,
opening the door to fall's greeting,
a symphonic whirling of leaves and wind -
I am warm.  He is always with me,
glowing like a fireplace in January.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Four Lines, for some anomaly,
  are like waking up Orion.
The alarm continually rings.
  He does not hear it.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

My body is tired.
Thinking confuses me,
but not the evergreen forest
of my dreaming.
I lay on pine needles,
blanket them around me,
warm under beams of dappled moonlight,
listening to the breeze glide through branches,
sounds guiding me to sleep.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

At Shoreview's library listening on a headset,
"When the Last Morning Glory Blooms,"
next to a happy, laughing fellow
watching a movie on the computer.

Windows in front of us along the wall,
an open curtain to cloudy skies and
tall, still green oaks, a glorious panoramic view,
I peruse between songs, sending out resumes.

I love Peter Ostroushko's violin,
imagine I'm standing under the oaks,
twirling now and then,
my hair in the wind's wake.  Oh, a piano enters...

I hear nothing else closing my eyes,
minor key, violin and piano,
and laughter next to me
in the Shoreview Library.

Saturday, September 29, 2012

For days I paddled my canoe!
an unrelenting pace,
never stopping long enough
to be aware of space,

not dangling my feet
in cooling moving water,
throwing out a fishing line,
letting go of matter.

Tomorrow in current, morning
to night, I'll float on reverie.
Oh, what a productive, peaceful
poetic journey that will be!

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

Sold for fourty dollars!
her impressionist painting
of trellised, willow wisteria.
Sold on the first frost, fall day,
for fourty dollars, surreal
springs blossums of violet-blue,
violet-blue heaven.
I jump out of my chair,
"Oh my gosh, Suzanne!
Oh my gosh, congratulations!"
"I am full fledged" she says,
"my first sold painting. 
I am an artist." 

I forget who I am.
She smiles through the phone.
We've discussed her painting before,
bipolar born out of a five months

"I wanted $100, but let it go
for fourty." she muses.
"Well, you can sell the next
painting for $100!" I see
the money in her hand,
hear, sold for $100!
sense abundance there all along.
"Are you working next Tuesday?"
she asks.
"You bet I am." I sit back in my chair,
realizing I was standing, applauding,
suddenly remembering who I am.

Monday, September 24, 2012

He turns my pages,
reading me,
every day.
He's my 
greatest fan!

I turn his pages too,
reading him,
almost every day.
The days I can't,
he's the protagonist,
the inspiration
of my dreaming.

This evening I visioned
our books shelved
in a library,
side by side,
spine to spine,
cover to cover -
often removed, 
pages turning,
traveling to interesting 
places and returning.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

It is one piece, one of many.
Dare we examine it,
every angle, ingredient, 
microscoped in every light and shade,
even in the dark, without
the whole, without the rest?
We do. Unbalanced, tired,
I do, and am sorry for it.

Take all of me or none.
I have been crying.
There is a piece lived with my head
afraid under my pillow. 
I hold it out with all the rest.
You do not need to accept it.

And I?  Your hands hold out
your entirety.  Take all of me,
or none. Sweet Sir, you do not say.
Yet, you are willing, longing.
I am a tired hipocrite.
Please, patience.
Give me the morrow.
Give me the morrow to accept,
cherish all of you.
I gift you the same of me.

Friday, September 21, 2012

You place your hand in mine,
lead me to the salt-wind cliff,
glistening, deep, turquoise sea.
I desire to leap with you!

Fear has kept me from this edge,
fear of loving.  Now I know,
in jumping whole-heartedly,
we passionately live...

Thursday, September 20, 2012

Your beautiful friend Maighread,
  time and timeless cast -
  There is you and memories.
The day is not her last.

I will listen to each one,
  make them mine, bring them home,
  extend them out in remembering,
your loyal friend Maighread.

I am for you, whatever you need -
  a quiet cup of camomile tea,
  arms to hold you comfortingly
company throughout your mourning.

Your sweet, dear friend Maighread,
  this day is not her last.
  There is her pristine energy,
time and timeless cast -


Tuesday, September 18, 2012

The sun this morning, a headlight
in the side mirror of my car,
tailgated me and everyone -
down on earth, checking out it's planetary
domain, it's summer home of living things.
Like God.
The sun drove close enough to tap
the bumper, like God taps my shoulder
every morning -
sun, so warm, like God's embrace throughout the day -
sun, curious and loving, like God through Michael,
gazing at me from across the table, smiling.
I think the sun must be God's younger sibling,
not asking for us to bow down, only asking us
to love.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Writing laying down
half in a dream.
Horizontal lines,
pull the blanket up,
hear wind from the open window
and a lullaby -
Winkin, Blinkin, and Nod singing
in their boat a lovely, lilting harmony.
Michael stands at the bow accompanying on his clarinet.
The song done, he disembarks,
climbing through my window.
Lines lift up the blanket.  
He lies next to me.
Sweetly, slowly 
kissing him,
words fall asleep.

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Writing seven hours,
I still have no flowers
no painting to frame,
no story to name.

I am in a tower,
wrestling power,
facing stone and mortar.
I might somersault down,

not my regular routine,
but there's a trampoline 
on grassy green ground
and you with a kiss

and wise encouragement.
"Let go. You can be confident."
Time was practicing spent.
Tomorrow I'll write in a tent.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Thursday, September 13, 2012

My dog,
Little Running Horse,
does not need a sweater
this morning like I do. 
I'll see my breath soon.

She does not need running shoes either
or words to tell me how much she loves.

We race-walk through the meadow,
glowing pink, orange and brown,
streaked with gray clouds laying down,
waking before our eyes.

She is black lightening against the light of dawn.
Her head and tail high; I hate to remind her
I am in charge, but I do, pulling her back
from exuberance.

She smells snow in September.
No one, canine or human,
dead or alive, adores nature
more than she.
This morning I wished for a caribou coffee,
and a marzipan danish for company -
a simple diversion to this morning's newspaper.
My direction turned towards the newspaper's wind,
whirling into the street, like a frail, fall leaf.

Never read the front page my neighbor warned me
many times.  It sucks away breath from you sensitive types -
cementing, sealing, seasoning bad news,
bad news delivered to your home, your brain,
for a day or two or more, depending
on your history and which country you live in.

And news and reality are beyond comprehension -
to read the news and be news,
life and death,
dreaming of scaling the mountain
and scaling it -
I hear Atticus Finch speaking to Scout
about understanding someone else. *

My fourteen year old opined one morning
over cinnamon french toast, Michigan maple syrup,
and orange juice, that religion is the reason for war,
all war, for why people kill each other.
I told him religion, sometimes a contagious paradigm,
aflicts or gives radiance depending who is practicing.

This morning I read the front page plague,
my extremities turning cold...
"news of the deaths of J. Christopher Stevens,
 the ambassador to Libya, and three other
 Americans emerged Wednesday..."
reminding me why I hate the news.

*If you have not already, please read Harper Lee's incredible book, "To Kill a Mockingbird".  Atticus Finch says "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view - until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Monday, September 10, 2012

The plate winks, waiting for me to step up, 
  hit a home run into afternoon sun.
I am ready too, willing to swing the bat
  with my entire self, every cell in agreement.
The ground breathes. Trees wave in the wind.
  The crowd is silent and raucous. I know nothing
at the winking plate.  I am the bat.
  I am the ball.  I am the body.  
And I am going to hit a home run
  into afternoon sun.


Sunday, September 9, 2012

The Holy Spirit, my sister,
whispered to me today,
"I love your poetry.
Keep writing every day.
Keep writing every day!
You are blessed with perceiving."
Orion in the sky,
on the saxophone,
on fire.

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Hey you -
true blue sky,
blue ribbon true,
like my favorite blueberry pie,
I am in love with you.

I, am blue vanda blue,
happy to be growing.
You shine on me
even through the suburb dark night.
I am in love with you.

Orion is playing his saxophone,
blues and hip hop, contented too.
My house is filled with hues,
dreams, melody lines and
I am in love with you.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

I touch my palm to the side of my face,
my hand on my cheek, my cheek on my hand.
My hand feels life with tender grace,
my cheek, my hand, it's own embrace.

Your face moves smiling close to mine.
We kiss slowly again.  I comprehend
we kiss like a poet's joy, making time,
lips to words in revising rhyme.

I play to heaven - to heaven I play,
devoted member of this earthly band,
remembering gratitude every day -
a prayer of applause, the clapping of hands.

I touch my palm to the side of my face,
my hand on my cheek, my cheek on my hand.
My hand feels life with tender grace,
my cheek, my hand, it's own embrace.

Monday, September 3, 2012

He left to drive home.
I stand inside, my hand
lays softly upon the door,
my body against it
as if part of him
remains inside the wood.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

I tried last night, but could not write,
and the night before,
slanted differently in the kitchen,  
the great room, where my family congregates.
My children flocked for one day and away.

I want the day back to live though again
to love and laugh and smile through
sanguine with all I have learned.

The tulip tree says with yellow and gold
 Leaves midst the green, like jewelweed flowers,
that fall nears.  Musical Orion is taller than me,
kind Sara Eve studies to teach abroad and
turquoise Zoli and Amanda
remind me of beautiful Zoli and Anda.
Michael asks if he passed, as if he could ever fail
in my eyes.

It is I who fail in feeling moments lost.
Nothing is lost and all is yellow,
golden and green from melted snow.
My children flocked through for one day and away.
They will many times in seasons antecedent.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Happy on the drive home,
our children met for the first time.
All four of us on sweet sand
poised to run into tumbling waves.
On your mark.  Get set!  Go!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Hi out there!
I am a four line poem. 
I wish I could see you
reading me.
This starry, still moving pond shines
  in my eyes everywhere I look -
 Dimpled drops of dew light leaves
  and flowers.  Autumn edges
              everywhere -
 this palate changing daily a little more.
   Nothing is small or large - equality is
The wrinkled tree creeks, melancholy
  and lovely like the hermit thrush echoing
around me. I find this melodic master
  perched on the tree's high branch.           
is home.  I love this feeling.  Like
  a haiku moment capable of being

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Under an umbrella
they kiss.  I feel it
on my lips.
My hair hats my head, veils my neck, willows my shoulders,
  curls around my ears, light brown and gold with a gray
slow-moving, melodic melody line I love. 
  I have no onyx Rembrandt hat with a rim
or cap of white on, no enigmatic expression
  behind which teams an ocean of emotions and history.

His hair, I run my fingers through whenever given the
  chance.  He wears no sable Rembrandt hat either,
no vague expression. He puts his socks on standing
   on one foot reciting Laurel and Hardy.
Laying across the end of the bed in my chetah silk gown,
  I observe him, intrigued with this behavior and imagine
him adding juggling balls of socks of different colors.
  Which socks to put on? The ones that fall.

He finishes, buttoning his shirt.  I determine to leap,
  pin him to my bed, kiss his mouth, face, neck,
bite his ear. I attack my prey. Retreat is futile.
  He observes my behavior laughing...
I wish I wore a black Rembrandt hat.
  Removing it last, I'd fling it up in the air to land
perfectly on the hat stand.  His socks I'd hide
 under my bed accompanying shoes secretly eclipsed.
I'm deciding.  Deciding... I don't want him to leave.
  I may never want him to leave!  Hmm... he'll
have to find his socks and shoes first.

Friday, August 24, 2012

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Oh my Lord, what nonsense! -
No me, not You -
nonsenses' antithesis...

How to piece together something,
anything, powerful in seconds,
before the library closes?

Overhead I hear every calm, laconic voice
I've heard in my life...
"The library will be closing
in 20 minutes. Please proceed
with your books to the front desk
at this time.  Thank you."

I have no books today - second on the list
for "Bill Moyers Journal,
The Conversation Continues" -
surrounded only by unfinished word
combinations I dance around sweating
to unlock.

The tigress she is, Annie Dillard said
something like...  don't save anything,
say it all, write it now,  and if you know
something, share it or it will destroy you...
among other things. Her wisdom kept me
pondering all day...  Now with fifteen minutes
to go, I race to figure out tumblers, the drumming
of my beating heart.  Can I hear my speaking blood
flowing to my hands?

Today studying Moon Beam without thought -
her golden, blinking, oval eyes,
unusual calico patterns of gray, white, pink,
her gentle movement transforming into
a stealthful, stalking lioness in seconds,
her soft paws, white, beautiful as spring lilies,
her needle nails, gray and pink nose -
an epiphany rose over the horizon.
Yes, I started thinking -
(often a futile habit, but not always)
God is curious, joyfully curious, about everything!
Nothing can be left out of this eternal pleased curiosity!

Today, I also semi-lied to Michael.
- Thought I would die, - Have to be cremated.
My epitaph..."Here she semi-lies, a semi-poet
of unfinished,  polka dot poems and songs."

"The library will be closing
in ten minutes."  Oh dear!
Well, I fessed up right away,
conscience in my hopeful mouth.
Weight of the dirt on my grave disappeared.
I burst forth like a geizer, my water self
settling to the ground.  Love!
His is of three elements.  It ribbons deep
into the earth that lives forever, rains lightly
with humor, knows, too, he makes mistakes,
using them like Michael Jordon - to learn.

Oh!  Dimming lights, the final call,
"The library is closing now."
The screen blinks, "You must log off
the computer now."
I'm bequeathed other chances to graduate with wings.
We're all bequeathed other chances!  Thank you Creator.
Computer off...

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Joseph Campbell, the universe sage
we love said, "follow your bliss."
Last night, I followed you.
Last night, you followed me.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

  What is it like to live in Eurasia?
Mom is flying to St Petersburg soon - 
  she has seen herself there.
In her bags there is no room again 
  to sneak myself in.  Perhaps 
I should set aside French, Spanish
  and learn Russian, across the tracks... 

  across the tracks I'd meet poetry kin
at ancient places, share wine at cafes.  
  We could laugh and drink till
we slice our hands and blood to blood
  become bonded siblings.  Yes... 
I'll fly over the illusory divide
  maybe with Michael, who loves
the entire world.  We'll pull up tracks, 
  plant orchards, extend our families
and learn more... what it's like
 to be Eurasian and American.

Monday, August 20, 2012

Sunday, August 19, 2012

In my house resides a dove,
  a connoisseur of conversation,
a source of humor and elation.
  Many a man has disapproved,
some have asked me to remove
  this bird who flaps her white-sky wings,
preens herself, struts and sings -
  flies around without a cage,
perches in meditation like a sage.
  I let her out, a rebel set free.
She knows every branch of every tree,
  glides on air, the sky her stage.
I have learned what it is to love
  for in my house resides a dove.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

A taciturn, waltzing monarch
and a purring bumble bee,
merry in their element
on a joe-pye weed, 
that makes three.

I am the weed's flower
growing to the sun,
enjoying every kind of weather
that passes swiftly on,
a reperoire of song.

Don't cut me down,
put me in a vase.
I'm happy from my rooted toes
to my flower face and out
into conscious space.

If you do, I will content me,
for a day or two stay strong.
When I die, put me under
my joe-pye weed
where I belong.

Friday, August 17, 2012

I remember when I was young
  part of me pined to be a nun,
    to love God, only, with all my heart
as my Creator and as a man.

Then everywhere was John Thiele...
  on the bus, in the halls, the basketball 
    court, laughing with my brother.
I thought I'd die when he looked at me,

my heart not in my chest - even then,
  I'd given it away as the sun gives light.  
    I dreamed, if I became a nun,
I'd commit adultery and kill myself!

However...   I know the fire of loving
  Yahweh, a fire burning in me more 
    every day and when I die,
Love will consume me.

This is the reason of my morning.
  The vatican is, in part, a sea of egos,
    yes, not always and not all.
Today, our brave and married nuns

follow their Son, wherever He leads...
  where He lead his disciples...
    to the poor and the outsiders hated,
to the devoted and the dead,

to all who would listen!
  Our nuns are on fire with Truth! -
     Egos at the vatican fear them.
Perhaps they could speak to Mother Mary.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

he's far away -
unfinished poems -
half done cakes -
unemployed -
unripe plums -
forgotten hopes -

animated hopes!
excited for plums!
cakes in the oven!
progressing poems!
he's almost home!

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

his vocal timbre,
like ocean waves
upon my white sand shore -

oil on my canvas
hands on my piano
garden to my flowers -

wood of my fire
fire through my forest
forest on my land -

water to thirst
yang to yin
wind to wind -

his vocal timber,
laughter in my air
laughter to my laughing!

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Slide down sun beams
to hug trees every day!
T'is possible!

We write her two lists -
a wonderful self list,
and a gratitude list.

Lovely like corn silk,
growing stalks of corn,
golden, from her mouth
not mine. 

She asks, "Are you for real?"
She lives in a Chevy truck.
I know she is real.

We envision her in her garden,
past and future, in her own home,
safe and welcoming...

In her wonderful self list...
she is first a nurturing mother.
She gives to strangers in need,
loves sitting under stars,
discovering worlds through a telescope.

We talk, she surrounded by trees,
me in a mountain of glass and concrete.
Tomorrow we can add 
to your lists too, I tell her.

I'm starting one of my own.
I slide down sun beams
and hug trees.

Monday, August 13, 2012

My stomach knots when the phone rings
  morning and evening, when you sometimes call.
A beautiful, braided knot...
  You braided my hair once,
the night we admired distant, white stars,
  before you left.

Sometimes, I sense it during the day,
  like aching hunger without being hungry,
or anxiousness... nervousness too...
  as if something is missing - a part of myself.

Can it be that you are a part of myself?
  A part of myself far away, far away,
traveling by bus nestled roads to Delphi,
  a part of myself far away, so far away,
gazing up at night at the Acropolis in lights...
  that this beautifully braided knot hurts.

Where is my scarce, pragmatic self?
  I must find her, because soon,
soon... heaven be with me,
  I'll cry.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

He cuts from the back...

unlike long ago when I faced it...
shaking in line between two courageous brothers.
I cried in my mind,  "I didn't do it! Whatever it is! We didn't do it!"
We were often one, not three -
one innocent, waiting to be bruised and survive
the scarred voice demanding to know it's own frightening lie.

He cuts from the back, his covered with stitches. 
Around him I decide to wear steel.

Yet, if I wear steel, I'll be shaking
again between my beautiful brothers,
panicking aware of his silent stalking.

What if he's bringing me a cafe mocha,
sincere conversation and an apology instead?
What if it's me directing a former scene?

Even in scary rain, real or unreal,
the celestial sun smiles on me.
*Above all else, I am determined to see.

He approaches behind me.
I'm ready.

*This line is from the holy book, "The Course in Miracles."

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Friday, August 10, 2012

This gentle dawn my piano seemed to
  play itself moving my hands before
    anything, before stepping out under
lillac skies to walk my canine sister,
  before sipping a hot cup of earl gray
    between bites of blueberry muffins,
before splashing cool water on my face,
  brushing my teeth, but not before
    the reverie of waking, breathing deeply.  
Quietly mornings bloom now, past mornings
  fade without trying - except for my
    mornings with you.  They are pulling
me forward to my piano, melodious,
  poetic days and adventurous terrain!