Painting by Marlene Holland

When Mind

Displaces the Heart 

Which Objects 

to the Ego 

that Argues with

the Soul 

Eventually Calling

Upon the Spirit

to Lead

i

I try not to let my mind

do all the thinking for me.

He’s too full of himself;

everything goes to his head.

He likes to push me around

taking the lead at every turn.

He goes around judging

everybody and everything

in a kind of unforgiving light

usually reserved for uncomfortable

public spaces like an HR Block

or a dental clinic. In fact,

he’s the reason I turned to prayer.

I pray to be free of his controlling

nature as he likes nothing better

than to come to harsh conclusions

about me that however insightful,

always feel heartless. He has no

fear of offending me or anyone

else with his obnoxious know-it-all

mindset and alpha-male tendencies.

He is Michelangelo’s The Thinker

as Little Lord Hog-it-All.

ii

My heart is a twelve year old girl.

She loves easily and is pre-

naturally self-conscious.

She’s sensitive and kind

and never ever wants

others to feel uncomfortable.

She feels she is pretty

though not pretty enough.

She loves making things,

cooking, decorating, planting,

anything to do with art.

Dancing, singing, painting,

anything that allows her

to express her love for life.

She adores animals and

basically sees the world as

a gigantic unfolding flower.

She loves to imagine things and

when they’re scary she 

screams, when they’re

happy she laughs, and when sad,

she cries out with everything in her.

She lives in a constant state of astonishment.

Oh, and hairy legs make her blush.

iii

My ego is on his last legs.

Has been since sustaining

several injuries in his teens.

Puberty destroyed his Eden

and turned it into a hell.

Before that he was a child star

(in his own mind) craving the spotlight. 

Everything happens to him

or at least that’s how he sees

things. Like David Copperfield

he was convinced early on

that he was to be the hero

of his own life. Trouble was

he suffered a breakdown

after a falling out with his

insensitivity to the feelings

or lack of feelings of others.

Determined to be a success

he ran away from home sev-

ering any ties that bound him

to the perception of himself

that did not jive with the

image of his own self worth.

iv

My soul is in the medical profession.

He is very old school. Instead of Doctor,

he prefers Alchemist. He believes

in remedies, particularly holistic ones

and has been writing everything

that happens down in a book

so as to be clear on what and why

he is who he is. He wants more than

anything to connect with others 

but knows that his aloneness is

necessary to his own evolution.

He loves rain and wandering

unfamiliar streets where he has

been known to weep at the sight

of houses simply lit up by the life within.

He longs for a mate but refuses

to let that be any requirement

for his happiness.

He exists in a constant state of

bewilderment because in

every moment he is aware that

this may be goodbye.

iiv

My spirit is the personification of Spring.

It has no sexual assignation though

it loves nothing more than joining in

when things get interesting.

Excitable, fun-loving, easily moved

to tears. 

Nature is it’s favorite abode.

It loves the mountains and sunny climbs.

It loves to smile and is eager to enjoy

the smiles of others. It wants the best

for everyone. It loves gatherings

and two glasses of Shiraz wine

at the end of the day or before

things get interesting.

Its a gift giver, a cake baker, 

and likes to dress up. 

It sees theatre, movies, and church

in the same light.

It loves candles.

v

You may be wondering who exactly is

making the above observations. 

When the going gets tough,

who is it that best takes the lead?

When problems or troubles arise

which parts of ourselves hold the most sway?

When Mind displaces the Heart 

which objects to the Ego 

that argues with the Soul 

eventually calling upon Spirit

to lead…I take a breath,

close my eyes, and...

destroy myself that I might live.

3/01/22

 

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