November 24, 2014

The basket is lop-sided

like my life

it leans into the golden carpet

vines twisted and bent

it won’t stand upright

but neither will I

I walk bent

my soul touches the ground

here, next to God’s heart

I place my ear

and hear the Weaver

soon, my soul will once more overflow

a basket of fruit

a cornucopia

The Chief Ladiga Trail

November 8, 2014

Before the train
Before the wagons
Before the cyclists
You forged the path
Wound your way between oaks and chestnuts
The golden leaves silent under your feet

You made the trail
You paved the way
We simply follow your pioneer spirit

“Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.”
–Anne Sexton

I loved you Anne Sexton
Drank your words like whiskey or wine in 1981

You killed yourself.

You killed part of me

And yet, your words remain
Poet with the beautiful eyes

You were radical
An artist mathematician
Rooted in the ground of being
Like rutabagas
Winter’s feast

Now, I know the saints know no moderation

I’ve always known about the poets

I am one.


Perhaps by a fire in the cold
Knitting the sound of words like scarves into poems

You helped me write
When all else failed

You traveled with me to England
In an Upper Room in a semi-detached
An attic, like Anne Frank, I sat
Tucked away at a desk, staring out the small window
The wrens building nests
In the brick two feet away

I typed
Pounded out letters
The alphabet on keys of a used typewriter
The type perfect on the page

Now, I know the saints know no moderation
Radical and rooted at the same time

You killed yourself
And left me to live

To carry on the poet tradition
To grow into a saint