Riding the train out of high school (1995)

All these questions

All these contradictions

Searching for

Searching for answers to…
You ask:

“How?” Why?” “What?” “Who?”
You forget

You forget the key –>

The question that is the answer

To all these questions:

“When are you?”

And the answer is:


You are now.

On the bridge.
Not a kid. Not one of them.

In the middle. On the way.

Part way there. Not there yet.
Cradle yourself.

Do not demand so much.
Cradle yourself.

Gently take this journey.

Which you can not stop,

Should not fight,

May not speed up.
Just be now sweet darling.

Gently ride this train 

Into adulthood,

Where the questions

won’t be answered,

But they won’t hurt so much.


Mindfulness Explained

The frogs get it.
They sit by the pool, reflecting.
Perfectly still except for the movement of their
Slow – Steady – Breath.
Perfectly still, and also perfectly alert,
Ready to catch, leap or continue being still and aware
As the circumstances which arrive warrant

On being in the Middle

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 for which
I do not yet have words.

It’s okay 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.

Each day I begin
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,
to stomp my boots impetuously
as I laugh at the absurdity
of it all.


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?
She has
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?

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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.