The problem of evil

Isn’t it interesting how other animals don’t seem to feel sorry for themselves?

The loss of a child

Starvation

Bitter cold, brutal heat

They simply bow their heads and eat when it’s offered

And how we look so hard within domes and people, that which is offered so baldly in the wild

I wonder

People don’t really climb Everest for the view

God doesn’t want me loved safely behind locked doors

I think he wants us like Szpilman

That gorgeous Jewish pianist who scarcely survived the Warsaw Ghetto in the 1940’s

A desperate Lover of family, strangers

Bewildered with pitched eyebrows

Lame legs, wandering still

So that when we sit at our pianos at last

His drama swells in and out our bodies

like a lighthouse sweeping dark waters for crouching forms,

everyone aching to see and be seen

Buddha Nature

Nature’s ceaseless muscle

Pulls us

From these small hours

These dying bodies

Because the Truth is

Fires that start in space never stop spreading

Sunlight is touchable on a horse’s hip

A soft hand always heavies the eye

And we breathe through our hearts

Knowing the notes of a song we’ve never heard before

I was here

If I live to be a hundred,

I will be just as beautiful as I am now.

My sun heart will still rise before I do.

My moon mind will still gawk about the midnight of my bed quarters.

My star-fire blood will still warm the bow of infinity that is my flesh.

And my earth belly will still roar into the pregnant silence of all our wanting.

-photo credit, my beautiful sister, Stephanie Donovan-

Love letter from my brother

I saw this man wearing a sign today on 42nd street and he reminded me of you

how you would have Loved him

and all the people who never looked up

You’d say–

Maybe the guy behind him is texting his wife

can’t wait for Colorado

Maybe the fella to the right is meeting an old friend from California

Maybe the woman in the red blazer got off work early to spend time with her daughter

Then I thought–

what of all the people we encounter every day

how no one ever looks up anymore

just brushes of hand and commerce

For some strange reason it reminded me of that passage in the bible

that one where Jesus gets his feet washed

Made me want to read one where he washes a man’s face

I bet he did that

I bet he did that a lot

So I stopped and took this man’s picture for you

because we should remember how precious we are, right

And even if what we do matters to no one else but the ones we Love

Congratulations

Shouldn’t they be the ones moved by us most?

Faithfully,

Jack

Drop down

Leap from your structures

There are animals down there clinging to rock canvas as old as God

Leave the dishes

The clothes on the floor

The wine in the bottle

Your nocturnal predator needs her beauty sleep too

Open all the windows

Do you see it now?  I do

There’s a sun ball on your chest reflecting itself

Mary’s Gospel

Mary asked good questions.  The kind only a woman thinks.

Do I see you with my soul or with my spirit?

He smiled.  The deep kind that starts in the eye.

Neither.  It’s your mind, Miriam, the space between the two.

She chewed on that awhile, holding the weight of her hair at the top of her head.

I ate you with my mind, she said, and now you’re inside of me.

Yes, a woman’s magic.

To suckle the world and then devour it like Kali.

To suffer the stone of truth like Cassandra.

To choose blood over honey like Eve.

To cut strange fruit like Billie Holiday at Cafe Society in Greenwich Village.

To cry out your gratuitous pleasure.

To harvest your ancient, rounded, beauty.

To brave your raw death.

To become Corinthian Love.

He who has the mind to remember,

Let him Remember.

Ode on intimations of immortality…

Just a little Love tonight from the Oregon coast and my first Lover, William Wordsworth.  As a little girl, I remember stealing from my mother’s book shelf, stacks of classic romantics.

But William was the first theft.

He and I conceived my passion for books.  Real books.  From the ornamented bindings, the textured ink, the earthy musk of page on page, and to the endless gift giving of their content.

This poem was truly my first kiss.

Happy Tuesday, my friends.