Hankering to be Haunted

Does anyone so long to be haunted
as the recently bereft?

Every mysterious breeze
every fallen picture
every bird in the backyard
every noise in the next room
every electronic glitch
increases the hope

As the lights flicker
we ask
is that you?

we challenge —
one blink is yes
two blinks is no.
Is this my beloved
coming to blink the lights?

The lack of flickering
answers the question

Even those who would set up equipment
recording the sights, sounds, and temperatures
of activity-filled spaces
cannot compete with the yearning
of those left behind —

who demand the noise to repeat
who challenge the potential spirits
to show themselves
who long to know
we are not alone

Last Name

My name is a dangling participle
a diving board over a canyon
it is the number on the screen
after the dropped call

My name is a frayed rope ladder
a stuck door that won’t open
an empty cookie jar
packaging without the contents

My name is the ghost
that creaks upstairs floorboards
ET’s glowing finger
with no Elliot to heal —
only “ouch” remains

My name is the lost connection
the whistle in the woods
where there is no answering call

My name connects me to you
but there is no you
anymore

there are only dreams of yesterdays
scrawled in the pen
of my signature

Sculpting

Like the sculptor
finding the form
carving away anything extra —
I am chipping away at my excess assets
to find my home

I chisel away at the buildup of belongings
unclogging my passageways
to let them breathe

I whittle down the waste
trimming the waistline
of my dwelling

I envision the future
forsee what will be necessary
and what won’t be needed

I situate my chisel
pound the end with my hammer
and faction off the excess

leaving the lodge lighter
and ready
for life

Workbench Self

On the workbench
helplessly messy
are an assortment of wires
screws, LED bulbs, resistors, gears,
transistors, alternators, plugs,
gears, and tools to put
everything together

Some bits are broken,
missing, stolen,
don’t fit because they’re the wrong color,
size, or duplicates

I wrestle with the pieces
tiring my wrist and my eyes
trying to make sense of my work instructions
which were not written
in my preferred language

I am frustrated and tired
and some of those close to me
are frustrated with my slow progress

Sometimes I remember
I am not the workbench
with its puzzle pieces,
instructions, tools
but the light
which illuminates the work to be done
allowing me to take a step

back, see what I am doing
and not get lost in the shuffle

Two Kinds of Art

Which is greater —
the mountain
or the alpine water which reflects it

the Washington monument
or the Reflecting Pool

the mural
or the mirror

the moon
or its double in the sea

Which is greater —
the beloved
or the eyes which reflect that greatness

the eternal
or that which sees the expanse

the sacred hum
or the wall which magnifies the sound in echoes

Which is greater —
the full
or the empty

Sacred Dust

Let’s get sentimental about the dust motes
we can gather all the sheddings
of my late love
the hair, skin cells, breath
he left drifting around this space
wandering in the air

We can light a special incense
play our song
as we funnel his miscellaneous remnants
into a bottle
put it on the mantle next to his urn of ashes
and the bit of fur from his late cat
I loved as my own

Let’s burn all his favorite books
and his art
his clothes, pens, and notebooks
his portfolio
his vital records, tax returns, and wedding photos
to put in a crystal vase
wrapped in satin ribbon
elevated on a cake platter

Everything turns to ash —
every ash is sacred.
Let’s make a sacrament of the love
as we burn our dreams
and my heart too
put it all on the altar —
except the bit we’ll use to smudge our foreheads
as we say a prayer of gratitude
for what once was

Advice from a Little Me

I pat the wooden plank fence next to me
inviting my younger self
to take a seat

I ask her what she does to soothe herself
and she tells me

she likes to wrap up like a burrito in her bed
she likes when her maple-scented water bottle whistles
she likes reading along with audio books on records
she likes walks in the woods with her dog
she likes comedies where she finds herself laughing, despite her troubles
she likes calling friends on the phone and talking for hours
she likes singing along to her favorite songs
remembering all the words and harmonies
she likes sitting down with lyric sheets
looking for meaning within the words
she likes reading fantasy and sci fi,
poetry, animal and mummy facts, and friends’ favorites
she likes indulging in squirreled away candy
from Halloween, Christmas, and Easter
she likes spending time in her favorite tree
and swinging on the swingset

She reminds me to pick up my bean bag frog Freddie
my favorite toy and buddy
and cuddle him
then let him perch on my shoulder

She helps me remember how I didn’t lose
my coping tools – though some are a little dusty

She puts her hand in mine
and we walk away
looking for grasshoppers
to catch and release

On Second Thought, Let’s Not Cuddle

What I spit out on the page
is the cud
I’ve been chewing
in my mind

Sorry I had to do this in front of you
in polite company —
I normally do this alone
where no one can see me be uncouth
no one can hear the noises I make
as I get this out

No one can see my face scrunch
in thoughtful concentration
No one can smell what I’ve been thinking about
as it dribbles out onto the page
as I smear the rumination on the lines
as I pile it up in the corners
and smooth out the bottom edge

No one should have to witness this regurgitation
nightmare echoes to follow, surely
embarrassed recollection of a disgusting intimacy
where truth was more important than modesty

Zeroth

Love is doing its thing
and we get the responsibility
to witness —
the way it trickles and streams
and twists and carves shapes in the rocks
of our hearts —
the way it drops over cliffs of pain
the sparkles in the spray
the removal of harsh edges.

Where once was criticism
there is now guidance and patience.
Where once was cynicism
there is now appreciation.

When the glaciers melt
the waters rise
the love has a mind of its own
and carves the way
in the watershed basins of our needs.

We watch and wonder —
it’s the zeroth wonder of the world
predating us and outlasting us
and penetrating anyone with hearts
that beat for another.

Stop and Let Me Bury the Roses

Stop just stop just
stop!

Right there

I need to let all this rainwater of time
soak in

let these currents of sorrows
find their way deeper

let these filters remove the poisons
as the waters shift the stuff
I’m made of

let these landscapes of my life
settle into new landscapes
as the topsoil shifts
into more comfortable positions
taking its trees and panoramic vistas
to new depths at the bottom of my cliffs

Stop just stop —
I need to catch up
I need to catch my breath
I need to catch on
to the fact everything has changed
is still changing

The rains of the times incessantly
tap morse code signals
on the roof of my small abode
quicker than I can decipher
their instruction

Just stop
for a second
while I shapeshift
into new scenery