Tuesday, April 30, 2019

the end

the end always catches me by surprise

i thought i had one more day

we always think we have one more day

perhaps living as if we had one more day

is the problem 

                        “one more day”?


i’ve been told the end is supposed to be full of joy—

too often the end is marked with pain

i take no pleasure in the ending of any thing:

stories; songs. love; hope. the flight of birds

the flowering of flowers, the cycle of seasons


i declare to you: the only good ending is a kiss.

the beginning of a promise: a shared breath

a way to intimate: our unfinishedness is a a gift.

Monday, April 29, 2019


here are my arms

                             my mouth open

full of words

                     full of air

my mouth open

                          with silence

like a wound

                     my mouth open

my empty hands

                            here are my arms

Sunday, April 28, 2019


we hadn’t see any wildlife
along the highway the entire
time we were on holidays.
halfway home, it was still
all trees, pines and firs,
fireweed covered foothills,
fog enshrouded mountains
and cascading waterfalls—
beautiful, yes, but not
what we had hoped for.
we decided we’d ask God
to make it happen, and why not?
not long after we saw
a bear trudging along tall grasses,
a moose standing calmly on the shoulder,
a bald eagle circling over a small lake,
mountain sheep traversing
a sheer cliff face, one slipping
and recovering juvenile
causing us to catch our breath.
we all felt such joy and wonder
at those moments, nature
presented to us in bite-sized chunks
of glory, an answer to prayer
and the gift of coming home.
even without pictures,
that shared experience still
reminds us that seeing
something together
makes every journey full.

Saturday, April 27, 2019


in the middle of the conversation
there was a gap in the middle
of the meal there was a gap
in the middle of the day
there was a gap in the middle
of our lovemaking there was a gap
in the middle of the book
there was a gap in the middle
of the poem there was a gap
in the middle of the family
there was a gap in the middle
of the night there is a gap
in the middle of my memories
there is a gap in the middle
of the only story i know there is a gap
in the middle of my desire
there is a gap that i want to fill

Friday, April 26, 2019


today we spoke of tradition;
how it is both the river
and the river’s shore,
how we hold it in our hands
like water, but we hold it.

we all start from somewhere:
an action that finds its home in our body,
heart folding around that action
through the discipline of repetition,
desired or not desired,
as we labour with hands or knees
courting the divine,
or some approximation of it
that allows us some certainty,
convinced we are not entirely wrong.

we launch ourselves into the argument
of first and last things;
how language shapes our journey,
the edges of every thing we know
and how we can know each piece
as if existence is a puzzle
we can solve now and forever,
but not our own hearts.
we deceive ourselves.

we look for a place to anchor,
end up a stone’s throw
from where we started:
still unsatisfied.