This, my favorite portion of each twenty four,
When the connection to the universe is gauzy and clear.
You reach me without words, shame, or reticence,
Feel into me with intention, desire, imagining.
This simple request becomes a devotional offering.
You balance me on the tip of your tender hand,
You abandon caution and invite me to pay attention,
Watch with me as divine truth crystallizes
in the sweat between our mortal skins:
This is the place where souls cross over.
And the truth flows through me,
This moment saturated with the beauty
of this wordless and profound truth:
If I can know this here and now,
Surely it has been here in every moment.
Surely it was there when a new child passed that very spot,
Surely it is there in every waking moment
Ready to be seen beneath so many needless layers of busy.
How cavalier and careless we are with this,
How we forget to pay attention.
In this moment, my desire and intention shift
To a devotional offering to pay attention without caution,
To breathe deeply without shame or reticence
To be ever mindful that these hearts, these bodies, these moments,
Are the place where souls cross over.
It’s okay to be – part way there.
To cry while I make love with you.
To still use words where touch belongs.
To feel sensations of which I can not yet speak.
To melt lovingly into your embrace,
while I use one hand to hold reverence
for my own fear of abandonment,
and another to cradle my desire
to not become trapped.
We are always right
in the middle of the beginning.
Beggining to follow this thread
that weaves seamlessly in and out
of your soul and mine,
to feel how it spans between
pleasure and purpose, safety and freedom.
I allow myself the space
to stand naked
in a puddle of love
and laugh with you.
I sit swimming in words, swimming INwards
wandering wondering about love
when I check for her words
and find five notes that splay themselves
out for me to touch like waiting lovers.
Will she let me be her editor?
One of learning
Two of Church and Family
Three of Motherhood
Four of Discovery and Revelation
and Five of me.
She thinks this is prose, a post,
journaling a truth to send my way
to maybe send me away.
This handsome disclaimer that she is —
Does she know that she has made me poetry?
I have a picture in my mind
of a lineup of cars leading into the school
and I can see in front of me,
and in my rear view mirror
that each one is filled
with a tiny adult and a giant man-child. Continue reading “Drop Off”
What is the difference between
Making love, poetry, and a prayer?
Your tongue tastes like honesty
In my mouth.
I want to meet you in that spot,
Where God comes through.
This, this is a daily practice.
On a snowy evening, the goddesses invited them to gather,
where the soft shirt with dirty boots met the yellow dress with sneakers,
and they asked in unison: Who am I that is asking for this?
The noisy Buddhist and the rule-defying Sufi dared to question God’s plan.
Continue reading “It’s gotta start somewhere”
I’d like to hear more about how I annoy you.
I have shared myself, and over-shared myself
delighting in using you as my muse.
And wonder if it sometimes feels like
I am abusing you with these words?
Continue reading “Love letter to my penpal”