It was the day she cried for 24 hours -
not straight but in short fits.
Just like she had lived her life -
in short fits of goodness
and long hours of nothingness.

But there were those things that would make her cry,
cruel words, things that threatened her power
and joy:
the bliss of feeling everything in everything
and this day.

The old woman with barely enough strength to walk
across her old tile,
broken like she was with age.
She got up that morning and, with help to get dressed,
lived the day she had lived for.

It was a day of lemon and cherry colored leaves -
the bright light of the sun;
the fear of losing
- they say only the right come out on rainy days -

but today was the day worth waiting for -
a day worth waiting at least 106 years for.
The bonds of slavery broken
and a day that she stood as tall as any man.

It was like pushing a button and having hope delivered,
it was like dreaming
and waking.

And she cried because, finally,
she couldn't tell the difference
between the two.

"St John of the Cross heard an Arab love poem
Through the bars and began his poem" ~Robert Bly

This is a wide ocean, we could swim for centuries
and never find a shore
but you, Dear Robert, have given us so many ladders
so many points of entry to the sea

St John of the Cross heard the Arab love poem
and climbed down that ladder
I read your love words
and find myself in foreign pools, at home

I've never heard a love poem absent of the Beloved
never heard a Muslim, Hindu, Jew or Christian
who, when speaking of love, didn't love the same Being
that this heart longs for

our Beloved may be an elephant
but his trunk wraps about us all
and hold us up
beyond the waves that could take us under

we all are trapped behind the same bars as St John
we all long for the same escape
if only we'd bare our necks bravely
no one would be left in the house
there would be no need for pews

prayer mats
or turning toward the east

every spot of light
opens to the same freedom
there is nowhere we can turn
that hasn't been touched by the Beloved's gaze

sometimes a number has a tale to tell
sometimes two
sometimes three
sometimes it chases its own tail in circles
like a hula hoop
like Bernard on his first flight through the galaxy
 
sometimes we become more than we are
a simpler thing, smooth and round
winding off toward infinity
 
sometimes when you look in a face you see the image you were made in
you see the first sound, the last sound
and the hum of the in between times
 
sometimes the second thing comes first
and then the trees grow, you glow
the flowers reach up to meet you
and there is no need to bend down
 
when you are at the teachers feet
there is no need to bow down
everything rises up to greet you
 
things flow in circles
like a crazy 8

in union square Gandhi is stoned
walks with a stick - half starved 

I am full and half drunk and wondering
if we are cells in God's blood
how do we move about without ever colliding
and never becoming much more than we are  

yet we could be so much more  

we could be Gandhi
who collects salt and stands up
looking square into the face of the oppressor
and seeing God
everywhere  

but here in union square
we don't look in other people's faces
and it is hard to see God
if you can't see into the eyes of a thing  

and we move around one another
too busy to be bothered
too busy to stop and help a brother

"My soul turns into a tree,
And an animal, and a cloud bank.
Then changed and odd it comes home
And asks me the questions.  What should I reply?"
~Hermann Hesse    

She's been telling him for months that she can taste God -
the smoky, woody taste of eight years old
and grapes
and see her brother's bicycle's back as she chases after him,
once again.  

She can see the Grandfather holding ice cream
and hear the bell that rings in the silence long after he is gone.  

Sometimes, inside the right tree,
under the right angle of the sun
anything becomes possible.

Sometimes a small duckling can be saved from drowning
while another floats in an irreconcilable upside down.  

When you are eight, anything is possible:
mud is still a pie, the sun is the warmest oven
and God can talk to you.  

The smiles that were once sweet and cajoling
now become unbelieving and/or irreconcilably upside down.  

But an eight year old pays little mind to these things -
she believes that grandfathers never go,
that God is in the rock in her hand,
the taste in her mouth  

the trees, clouds, the animals
and in her ever "becoming" soul.

It's been forty years of wondering.
Why do chosen people wander?
Why read five books each year
and never make it to the land of milk and honey?  

It's been forty one years of wandering
and life is no less sweet than it ever was;
no less bitter;
no less biting or with less caress
than before.  

Why do chosen people wander?
Do they ever make it home?  

We take things apart like dressers,
like words, like wounds,
like last night's encounter  

when you thought you might lose everything
and for a moment you did.  

We keep building these temporary structures
made from well rounded metaphors
well meaning actions
and they fall  

like you did
right before you began to wander -  

right before you began to wonder
why chosen people wander so long in a wilderness
and if you will ever make it
to that sticky sweet land of bees and goats  

and will you want to stay if you ever arrive?

tonight         the black letters of Torah
against a blue black night

but no white, no words beyond the words,
no lover's whisper
no empty space to lie down

two times I cry out for more
but receive no answer

I am afraid to write the words
afraid they might capture you, take you prisoner
make you less than you are  

and you are everything  

I am afraid to turn you into a poem
that might end
and leave me longing
 
I am afraid to sing the words of your song
I never want to limit your tune 
but to always be humming  

"you are everything"

these words are so insignificant
and you are so great

Maybe it is just because I have fallen in love with riding my bike.  I had a bike when I was a child, but I also had an older brother that terrorized me and had trained me like Pavlov's dog, I suppose, so that with just the call of my name, "Peggy!" (as my family called me), I would scream and fall over like some bad gag out of the three stooges.   Because of this I have spent the majority of my adult life avoiding bikes and fearing riding near traffic.  But something has changed.  I have a new bike, I love it and suddenly I am doing all those things that I couldn't as a child... riding without fear, raising my hands over my head, just loving it.

So, maybe it was no surprise that when I had a free hour yesterday afternoon I jumped on my bike?  I rush out like I'm expecting something... maybe just that breeze that will make me say, "ah, yes, God!" or the light in the trees, or the smile on the faces of the people I pass.  Whatever, I went biking and I was given a gift.

As I rode through a local neighborhood I passed a lovely lady, a paraplegic who was traveling down the street in her automated chair.  I smiled and said hello and rode on.  It was about three blocks down that I saw a black purse/bag lying on the side of the curb and wondered if I should pick it up... and then thought about the woman I had seen and felt sure that she had dropped it, if not I should still find out and picked it up and began racing back the other way, where I had passed her. 

I found her turning back around to travel back in the same direction she had come from, but I had to stop when I reached the opposite corner from her because a bus was about to drive through.  I yelled, "is this your purse?!"  The smile on her face was so beautiful as she nodded.  We waited as the bus passed and I rode to the corner she was waiting on.  She told me "thank you, thank you, thank you,"  and she struggled with each word,and all I could say was, "your welcome, have a wonderful day!"  But her face was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.  It filled me with joy.

I turned back around and continued on my ride and passed a jogger who had witnessed the exchange who yelled, "way to do a good deed!"  I smiled and said thank you.  But you know, it was myself that received the real gift.  It was myself that received the joy of that smile.  I think it was myself that had something returned that was missing... she had dropped it along the way that I might find it. 

The trees, the light, the breeze, her smile and the thought, "ah, yes, God!"

It is the scent of my own neshamah:
Thai tea, that one tree,
the subtle smoke,
your hair.  

It is the smell of my own perfection
to be
that draws me in
and makes me weak. 

It is heaven inside weeping out:
it covers you
and it drunkens me.