A Tree in the Palm of My Hand

“My imagination sentenced me to this journey.”

                                               ~Wislawa Szymborska

I trust the trees

with their diaries writ

in wood and their histories

ground to a pulp,

even dismemberment

can’t stop them

from sprouting

another stalk.

I too am

of two natures:

in one I’m

holding fast, while

in the other

I let go;

a perpendicular bridge

joining what’s above 

with what’s below.

With my  

rorschach of roots,

my feet dipped in snow

I reach toward the sky

  unsure if I'll reap what I sow.

Beneath a nightly moon,

I note the phases as if by rote,

with my heart like a knot

in a lover’s throat.

Green as the trees

but with memories

of meat and bone,

I walk upon the earth,

my anatomy my home.

Playing the long game

I choose to burrow low, then

a walking stick sprouts a flower 

to show I’m not too old to grow.

Above our interiority, 

a body intermingles,

each a careening marionette 

at the mercy of unseen fingers.

It’s true we all are being tugged

limb by flimsy limb, but

must we all go with the flow

at the hands of 

a fickle wind?

Having learned

to grip the sky

with the same tenacity

as stone,

I’m never more

myself than

by myself alone.

Consider the single pine

in a grove of eyeless birch,

 pining for its tribe

having been left 

out in the lurch.

Blushing in the sunlight

and blanching in a rain,

a foot soldier

knee-deep in longing

and stuck in a foreign terrain

with no way to march

and nowhere else to go, 

instead he'll honor

his fellow comrades by

not seeing them as foe.

Some worship green;

think of the book of Kells,

oh, to be at home as turtles

in their helmet-shaped shells.  

But now I say its my turn

to light myself from within

by rubbing palms together

to start a spark beneath the skin

to rekindle my own moon’s light

after gestating so long in the dark,

as if fire were a sign of spirit

and wood it’s means to spark.

2/28/22

 

I, the

Eyewitness 

to Things 

That 

Never

Happened

I don’t recall

things exactly

as they

happened

because I

tend to

remember

with my heart.

The only thing

I can be sure

of is how 

I felt

at every

turn.

This is 

particularly

true in

dreams 

where

everything

that occurs

happens

unbidden

and only

seen

through

closed eyes.

That said,

when awake

I look solely

through the

youthful eyes

of someone

afraid 

one day

they may

go blind. 

In my days

I’ve taken to

collecting

things 

to keep 

them 

from hunting 

me down.

I turn off 

the box 

that narrates

the world

in only

cold facts, 

sure that

a memory

of beauty

can still

warm me. 

Even as

the trees

of my 

childhood

grow

further way,

I am

the fort

that still

holds both

our hearts

up to the sky. 

The world 

presses 

its face 

at our windows,

azure sky

scratched

by a

solo plane;

if only 

scars

were so

impermanent.

I tell myself

I will not

grow old 

rather only

grow up;

a flower

breaking

through rock

with the 

force of a

bomb blast;

I am

all boom

and bloom.

I know

one doesn’t

necessarily

grow old, 

but can

stop

growing.

Tonight I am

the one-legged 

man

keeping 

his poems 

in a shoebox

beneath the bed.

I part 

my hair 

to the side,

signalling to

the departed

that I feel

their quiet

longing.

I am

the mute 

playing

silent piano

in the corner

of the 

speak easy.

I am

the woman 

in Illinois 

grazed by 

a falling star

whose 

fading bruise 

is erasing her

proof of

celestial

contact.

Apart from

my body,

I could be 

a horse 

or a cat

ambling 

nimbly over

a path of roots

in a forest.

I pause to

drink from

a spring,

only to wake

with a 

pebble

in the pocket

of a mouth

ready to 

open again.

2/21/22

 

One Day Our Shadows 

Will Hit the Ground Running

We keep our tragedies hidden,

choosing instead to live 

by design.

Those who reach for Personas

often do so because their truth 

went unaccepted

by those around them 

at an early age.

A Persona enables

an individual to adapt

to society's demands.

Personas serve as a template

and are often chosen 

for their integrity.

To be rejected for 

how one truly feels

causes a wound. 

The wound heals over 

but leaves a scar

on the psyche

that like a burn 

continues 

to blaze beneath

the surface years later. 

A Persona is a way 

to live with a wound 

because the pain 

finds camouflage

and can be hidden

from others.

Personas allow us 

to stand apart from 

who we are inside

by the acquisition of 

a template

for behavior and

consistently adhering to it. 

From here on

the Persona will live

life for us;

an invisible barrier 

between who one was 

and who one wishes

one was. 

One now must live

defending the Persona

as over time it metamorphoses

into a brand. 

Brands are marks

of ownership

like that of a slave.

In this way

one can, in fact,

be one's

own slave.

Personas are generally

positive images,

often admirable

if not entirely good. 

They persuade in order

to keep us in the good graces 

of others who've only ever met 

the Persona 

and not the Original. 

Originals are invariably imperfect.

Having been abandoned

early in life, they remain stunted,

hence dangerous 

because their instincts 

live hidden and are

hopelessly subversive.

The law is: 

That which is interred

in darkness will grow;

potatoes in a drawer

sprouting grotesque

arms and legs.

Eventually eclipsed, 

the Original

continues its life 

un-integrated

and in darkness. 

The Original

is now one’s shadow

and despite how bright

our Personas become

the shadow grows

equally as dark.

If the original was abandoned

at eleven years

the shadow resurfaces 

still at eleven

while we are ourselves

middle aged. 

Our shadows want to live

a life beyond us. 

The Persona must defend

its existence with 

all the pent up energy 

of an ex-con

denied parole. 

That said,

there need only be a breech

for our shadows to bust out

of their confinement

and hit the ground running.

Shadows prefer to set up shop

in a sunny warm climate.

Sunlight strengthens them.

Long tired of dank basements 

and cramped quarters,

they want to make a big stink

and they have revenge on their minds.

Shadows feel their oats

and need to prove their worth.

Having been denied for decades

they're ready to shock us all

right out of our senses.

The moral:

Never bury parts of yourself alive

if you can't find it in your heart

to forgive the world.

2/16/22