Daily Archives: June 6, 2016

For Weeks

We’re out
in the meadows
hiking although
there’s a predicted
likely chance of
torrents and thunder.

Ahead of us hours
of waiting, walking,
hanging on the movements
of every breeze-turned

I suggest we
might not want
to get our clothes
wet, and it might be
a fine idea
to take them off
while we’re waiting
and stow them in our
packs (which also make
fine pillows when filled).

You smile like
the light behind a long,

low cloud full of rain
when the ground
has been parched
for weeks.

Door Dreaming

Originally posted 6/6/2012.

In half of my dreams
I see a door

sacred to no two faced God Janus,

but instead dedicated
to a three faced
unnamed god:

one face for out,
one face for in,
one face looking back to the world

that would have been
had I never seen this door,
a face that’s always looking away. 


I always wake up angrier
than I was

when I went to sleep.

In the last dream of the night,
I am being beaten
by a masked man.

He asks me
how it feels 
to be beaten.

I lie that 
it is neither bad nor good,
that it has 
no flavor.  

Let me spice it then for you
with more blows, different blows,
he says,

slamming my hand 
in the door
as I try to push through.


Always aching when I wake,
always wishing I could
just go through the door

into the day
happy, light
and smiling.

I live in
this wrong world

of in or out, this or that.

I hate walking
through that door.

Some days, I try not to.

On those days my hands
look like meat 
from taking the beating
as I try to stand in between the rooms —

fingers clawed into the jambs,
terrified of the unnamed man
doing the banging.

Choose, friend, he says.
Crawl through or hang back,
but the door is here;

you have to choose
now that you know
it’s here.

What of
the promise of the third face,

I ask.  

No one ever
gets to look that god

in the eye,

he says.
They all die 


When moving across 
yard or continent
toward peace, 
across a border
or a walkway
toward something
you hope will be better
than where you are,

you place your trust 
in an ancient wisdom 
that suggests your feet
know more than your head
and your heart know, or

that when and if those
are in conflict, the decision
should be turned over
to those who have always been
closest to the path.  

My own feet must seem dumb
to those who don’t walk
as often as I do, since
I have stumbled more than once
into swamps and piles
of refuse upon departing
what seemed intolerable
at the time, found myself
staring back toward
what I’d left behind and muttering
about my idiot feet; but then

I turned back to the direction
they’d chosen, and slogged on
to the next destination
that would soon become
the next point of departure;

I might have regrets now and then,
might have let my feet choose poorly,
but look how far away
the first intolerable place I left
is now; look at the meanderings
you can read in my footprints,
the magnificence of that often 
broken tottering toward this Now.