How I Break Free of Depression and Find Poetry Again

To begin again
I awaken and pray.
I stretch and breathe.
I walk in sunlight,
And dance in rain;
Watch the stars for signs;
Read the trees wisely.

I will let hunger guide my eating;
I will bathe in living waters.
Now I let go of all old injuries,
Forgive old wrongs,
Forgive myself.

written May 2009

Puente 1: snow erases

all scents
from icy air
but for pine and smoke

~snow erases~

all hues
from a landscape
but one cardinal...

Puente of the city

the glass towers tell
the city back to itself

in cold images

of concrete,

~steel and emptiness~

echo noise,
reflecting blank expressions
yet with the rising
sun they burn golden

written February 2010

Dance of the Spirit

When I am alone moving from room to room,

There is a muttering in the walls but no distinct words;

A restlessness in the corners of my vision,

But no flutter or jerk when I look squarely there.

I turn my head toward it.

My skin cringes and hair bristles as it does

With chalk shrieking on slate or a cold draft passing by.

I try to find the source of the muffled sound:

Did static crackle as I brushed against the drapes or bed?

I retrace my steps: was it door hinges or floorboards creaking?

Perhaps it is the Shechinah, the indwelling 

Of the Sacred in this world,

Like a dancer rustling her skirts for my attention.

They say she is the “still small voice within”

But they don't mention that sometimes

She is around not inside us; and sometimes she is mute,

Only communicating in faint groans and gestures.

Perhaps it stifles her voice when so many words are used

To make excuses for what I know is wrong.

Now how to learn this kinesic code?

Luckily it is a language the heart understands.

Still when I try to put that fragile whisper in my poetry

It has escaped every time.

No combination of sounds and breath 

Can capture that surd undertone,

Like trawling the riverbed with nets designed to catch sole

But trying instead to ensnare those quicksilver slivers of minnows,

The Divine slips through an “o” and an “a” every time.

written Dec 1979, edited March 2011

Senior Moments

Just like that old saying,

"I don't care what you call me,
Just don't call me late for supper."
Sometimes you don't call me by my name.
When you scold me,
You use your children's names.
When we argue harshly,
You call me by the name
Of that woman you last had an affair with.
But I take no offense
Because when you make love to me
You always get it right.

written January 2010 (13 lines, 67 words)

Whoops of the Whippoorwill

The whippoorwill whoops
In the deep woods of Appalachian  hollers
From dusk to dawn
Drowned out near daylight
By the bellows and moans
Of our lovemaking
As we reach a crescendo
And by my baby's whimpers
In the next room
That escalate to hollers and howls
If ignored. I steal into her room
And still her with my breast.
She suckles in muted slurps
And falls back to sleep,
Swooning under the spell
Of milk and the whippoorwill's trills.

started March 1988, finished August 2010

Mirage

Summer heat creates puddles that aren't there.
Now you see them, now you don't.
In my childhood I would run
Barefoot through the shimmers
Looking wet and cool at a distance
But blistering feet as I slapped down
Bare plantar pads on the bone-dry griddle of sidewalk –
It's some kind of magic, that I was sure of.
I thought of it as a mirage – an illusion of need –
Very close to wishful thinking

When I wanted to find true moisture
In that dry Texas Panhandle
(Semi-arid I heard 'em call it,
But I didn't find anything semi about it.)
I watched for where the gnats were swarming.
And close there abouts I'd find some mud,
Dig into it with my toes,
Thrill in the thick ooze,
Chill in the cool primordial goo,
Only the swatting away of midges
Detracted from the pleasure.

written March 2011, published in "Houston Poetry Fest 2011 Anthology"

Soaring High

Falling is a way to die
from the high bridges and planes
some tempted fate, others tried
suicide, escaped their pains.

Dying is a way to fall;
To God's call our soul replies
and heads home, while flesh and bone
in graves thrown can never rise.

Falling is a way to fly:
soaring high kites look like gulls
but grounded by a strong string.
Though winds bring it high, earth pulls.

written May, 2011

death caps and milk caps

in
woods toadstools
over unmarked graves
push through decay: white shiny
skulls

through
humus from last year's garden
the mushrooms emerge:
baby's head
crowns

Cloud Enshrouded

High on mountain tops
Amid the clouds I wished to wander.
What do those billows feel like on the skin?
Is it smooth as polished cotton?
As silky as satin sheets?
Or is it textured like polka dots or bubble wrap?

At last I reach the cloud-enshrouded summit
And wade into the moist gathering
As if I were passing among spirits:
Reverently my hand moves through the strands of haze
With less pressure, less presence than water
But more dense and damp than fog,
My face and fingers feel lightly lapped
By many invisible tongues.

started February 2010, finished July 2010