STORM DAMAGE: Performance Edition

STORM DAMAGE: Transformative Healing

Musical Poetry Performance

(Visit this link to learn more about STORM DAMAGE Performances 3/23 – 4/6/2025 and the Ensemble)

ORDER OF PERFORMANCE

Written by performed by Lisa Ann Reilich (unless noted otherwise)

Music arranged and performed by Gary Bushee

Images from Moo’s Corner at Walter’s Beach Nature Sanctuary and taken by Lisa Ann Reilich unless otherwise noted.

Letter to Lena, 22 September 2020

INSTANTLY22 September 2020

Letter to Lena, 31 December 2020

NEW YEAR’S EVE31 December 2020

BROKEN SYMPHONY: Movement One — 4 February 2021

BE A TREE — 21 March 2021

COZY CORNER 30 March 2021

RETURN FLIGHT 3 April 2021

COBALT BLUES 27 October 2021

CAN YOU SEE YOU IN ME 3 November 2021

My Friend Mellie

GLITTER FOR THE SKY (for Mellie, my Love) 21 January 2022

HOW WE CAN KNOW (for Margaret Mae) 27 January 2022

STORM DAMAGE 27 January 2022

HOW TO GRIEVE ON TUESDAYS WITH FLARE 3 March 2022

BROWN BREAD AND JELLY BEANS (for Mellie, my Love) 10 March 2022

SPRING SOON SPRANG 15 May 2022

STIRRING SLEEPING BEAUTY (An Incantation) 23 February 2023

HOW MANY, SAY HOW 3 April 2023

COME SIT AND REST (Ode on All Souls’ Day) 2 November 2023

FINDING YOU, FINDING ME, HOLDING WE 7 November 2023

We Are One — composed by Br. Phap Linh, Plum Village 

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“Through writing we preserve history. 

We ignite the inner sparks that have been buried beneath the surface 

just a little too long.”  

~ Maiah Alyssa, March 2020

STORM DAMAGE: Transformative Healing

Musical Poetry Performance

For my Teachers

Maiah, my Heart 

Mellie, my Love 

Thich Naht Hanh (Thay)

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LETTER TO LENA — The Compassionate Friends

2020

September 22

The Compassionate Friends


Photo Credit Stacia Montenegro 2003

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September 22, 2020

Letter to Lena

The Compassionate Friends

Dear Lena,

My name is Lisa and I am Maiah’s mom — Maiah left for the Otherside both expectedly and unexpectedly — expectedly in that I had been bracing myself for her leave taking since she was not even one and stood at the top of our steep stairs with an invincible smile, and I caught her just before she could really discover that people cannot fly — and unexpectedly in that only Hollywood could write such a fantastical warning of one gaining their angel wings.

Maiah was almost 19… but really she was 18. I have thought about why it is I so want her to be 19 and maybe it is all the times I heard her predict she would die by the time she was 18 if her path could not be bent, changed — and how I took all my life force and will and bent it … as did she … and indeed it changed … and yet, still, she was 18 and the spinning wheel needle in which she was destined to prick her finger was waiting. And so, she left us happily engaged to the future and amazing possibilities, after scaling sheer cliffs of desperation to arrive … only to learn to fly instead. 

She left us on March 3rd… sometime around 10 pm … away at her first semester of college, just out with friends enjoying the night sky … her lack of true comprehension of her own mortality — just when she finally embraced life — finally completed long the proof I had saved her from before she was one … people can’t fly, or they can, but they have to leave their shell behind.  

I’ve been told she was trying to cheer up a friend, who had been having panic attacks all day because this friend had a premonition at 4am that before the end of that day, one of them would die. And so, I’ve been told, Maiah hoisted herself out the car window — that she was “screaming happy” — and she grabbed onto the roof rack of the Jeep that was not even going 25 mph… and the rack came off, it came off the car and Maiah flew … and then she landed … and then she really learned to fly.


Great Smokey Mountains National Park —Foothills Parkway

This was all in Tennessee, Maiah was away at her first semester of college, so happy, so expecting of the future … and then that future and all its possibilities was over. 

And now the hard work. Making sense of it. Or not. And living with meaning and purpose now that the colors of the world are gone… because Maiah was a 128-crayon Crayola pack with bonus colors … and the world was her palette. And I am a little lost as the understudy to her star performance … and not quite sure where to find the script. 

So thank you. Thank you for being there to understand. To allow me to feel heard. That seems the hardest thing of all … living in a world that really is uncomfortable being an audience to what must be felt and experienced now that the star of our show is gone.

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*******

INSTANTLY

2020

September  22

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INSTANTLY

They told me my Maiah died “instantly” —

the time of death and circumstances so tragic 

and vague I could construct my own home movie 

with the brush strokes … 

As more details arrived in the news and mail box, 

trickling in like Chinese water torture, 

drips spaced just far enough apart I forgot 

to expect them … 

Finally —

a piece of paper arrived through the air 

with an official stamp that my fingers could 

not feel and declared “Minutes” —

as in the time of death from impact … 

Not so “instantly” …. 

But by then all the B-tape on my cutting room floor 

had been pasted into the final cut masterpiece 

of my perceived reality. 

Seven months of interviews and puzzle-piece fitting, 

reconstruction and early morning dreaming … 

and in the “Story of Your Death”, Maiah —  

still you died “instantly”. 

Or —

you stopped knowing life and pain “instantly”.


Because in that version I can forgive myself for

not being there to hold your hand, cover you 

like the magic blanket I always believed myself to be, 

with just enough pixie dust on my wings that I always

had the power to take ALL the pain and fear away,

no matter the terror — 

Or so I always chose to believe.

You were gone “instantly“ … 

And —

I will never know

why I did not know 

you were gone — 

Instantly.

*********

Return to Index

LETTER TO LENAThe Compassionate Friends

2020

December 31

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December 31, 2020

Letter to Lena

The Compassionate Friends

Dear Lena,

Today marks the one year anniversary of Maiah’s departure from Maine incarnate forever, though at the time we could not have known this …. I find I cannot sleep or rest. Instead, I woke at 3am — as I did on this day 1 year ago — and was filled with what I could not name or express. Then, I woke to milk the goats in time to make a bus. Now, I am woken by the ripeness, fullness of the hindsight perceptions. Out tumbled these words …..

Sending Love,

Lisa

Maiah’s mom

******

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NEW YEAR’S EVE

2020

December 31

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NEW YEAR’S EVE

3 am

I am running,

the minutes are moving,

sliding

colliding with the next

cold, crisp.

The bus is not there yet —

it is waiting and I

am running, moving, counting,

counting minutes, counting seconds, counting —

counting.

Breath crisp, fog rising, snow crunching

3 am

5 am

we are running,

packed inside a future we cannot see yet

we are moving, reaching, fear-laced yearning

the bus is not there, yet —

it is waiting and we

are running,

knuckles white, breath crisp,

hurtling through the dark,

the snow, sliding in the white

5 am

7 am

you are running, just barely

time to catch —

the bus is there, yet,

it is waiting, impatient waiting

knuckles white, I grip tighter,

watch you smile, wave, board,

pull, thin threads pull, tear,

absorb the waiting

washing over and away

from you onto me

in the dark and snow.

Cold.

Empty.

Echoes are waiting

7 am

What is in a moment?

A year.

A daydream. A heartbeat.

A word.

Least of all — a word.

60 seconds more

60 seconds more and

we would have missed it.

We were grateful. Blessed

our relief, laughter exhaling ripples

across the frosty pavement.

The bus was there, yet —

you could have missed it.

We could have missed it and …

you

would

be

here

waiting.

3 am

The bus is not there yet —

it is waiting.

The snow is falling, packed inside

hurtling me, us, we, you to a future …

I

cannot

see

Yet I am moving.

And Waiting.

The bus is not there, yet,

it is waiting.

3 am

New Year’s Eve.

******

Return to Index

BROKEN SYMPHONYMovement One

2021

February 4

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BROKEN SYMPHONY

Movement One

There was a scream, but I did not hear it. I only know there was one because Margaret told me later. And that it was mine.  

What could I feel? Nothing. Nothing at all. Only heartbreak. And relief. Such a strange mix, and — yet —  I am so familiar with holding this juxtaposition. 

I think it was cold. My feet were bare, which they never are in our cold farmhouse. And mostly I wanted to wake up, while my brain simultaneously started searching for solutions. I am a fixer, you know that. I can fix anything. Not your normal leaky sills and busted pipes, but fix “situations” — retrieving escaped horses, pigs, dogs and goats; sorting through possible futures and honing in on the next one to visualize; searching for missing daughters; massaging college essays; arranging life flights at 2am; finding silver-linings.  

A huge uniformed man stood clumsily over me in the half light of nothingness.  I wondered dully if he had been here before. Some other distant middle-of-the-night occasion. Perhaps. And my brain sprung into action: 

Quick, what is the silver-lining?  How do we fix this? How is this good news?  GO!

But this was not a situation that I could fix in the ordinary sense. No. There was a finality to the words shocking the cold and blackness of 2:30 am.

“I have some bad news. Your daughter…”

That was the moment. That was when there was a scream I did not hear or feel or witness. The law of gravity brought me to the ground and all that was for sure was the floor.

**********

Return to Index

BE A TREE

2021

March 21

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BE A TREE

Be a Tree — says the mother of seven, resting gently in my office chair.

Slipping hints of patient irony, her eyes smile — See, a Tree.

Very simple really, elementary and, yet, not at all,

for roots grasping rocks along the shore, this Sea Tree…

Punishing tides, frigid winds, blistering sun and small pause

for branches fractured, splintered — leaning strong– little Dream Tree.

Some must fall, laying dormant and unsettled, moss creeping,

seaweed clinging — Earth does not hold or plead with these Trees.

Maybe they would fly or float would they could,  or leave their fruit 

and seed to sprout — so desperately, achingly they want to be Free Trees.

For me, though, I think I will never quite know how to sit so still, 

waiting, beating, holding, breathing — and patiently. Sad to yearn to be a Tree. 

*****

Return to Index

COZY CORNER

2021

March 30

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COZY CORNER

Life is a collection of stories we tell ourselves 

to get through the days. Sometimes the last 

moments and goodbyes don’t happen 

by a hospital bed; yet the memories linger,

a map tracing newly-found wisdom.

Like when we sat in the Cozy Corner — 

you, me and Marmee – and you said 

it was “selfish for people to want to keep 

people here who 

were in pain.”

Our last months were, I think now, 

a long set of goodbyes.

Would I rather they happened 

         with you in pain?

Struggling for each breath?

      Or angry at the World?

            Or not knowing where 

                  you were?

Would I rather you went slowly,

         painfully

               or dragged over years

                      just so I wasn’t robbed 

                                    of your company?

Would you hate me if I said — 

             “Yes”?

******

Return to Index

RETURN FLIGHT

2021

April 3

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RETURN FLIGHT

Face-painted butterflies

flutter from snapshots.

Where do they fly?

Far from here?

They soar home.

Through sun, storm, no matter —

their wings whisper,

Let’s find our way

HOME.

*******

Return to Index

COBALT BLUES

2021

October 27

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COBALT BLUES

Blue Jay jeers and soars swift to sea,

cobalt streaks high.  And far below,

Farmer starts, stares, “What does it mean — 

Blue Jay jeers … and soars swift to sea?”

Sky Girl awaits Jay in the breeze!

Where she goes, her azure follows

Blue Jay jeers and — soars swift to sea;

Cobalt streaks high and far below.

******

Return to Index

CAN YOU SEE YOU IN ME

2021

November 3

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CAN YOU SEE YOU IN ME

(Bell, Bell)

Can you see? 

Shadow-lit sky weaves

life in the flattest mud,

Stardust breathes deep

you in me…

Tonight it rains.

(Bell, bell)

******

Return to Index

MY FRIEND MELLIE


Photo of Mellie — photographer unknown

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MY FRIEND MELLIE

There are a handful or two of people I owe my life to following Maiah’s unexpected leavetaking to the Otherside — but perhaps the greatest credit goes to my remaining children Margaret Mae and Ella, for whom I found reason to live; and my dear friend Mellie, who knew the mysterious art of “showing up” for others with consistency and equanimity,  and who helped me learn through her presence how to show up for myself. 

Mellie has been my deepest friend since 2003.  I cannot say I was the same to her, only that I tried the best I could with what I had.  She continues in that capacity today although she left this world as I know it on January 21, 2022, one day shy  of her 53 birthday. 

Mellie showed up in my driveway with a book for me under her arm one week after Maiah’s transition  following a sizable absence from my life — she returned every Thursday and most Sundays  after that — never needing a thing from me, which was good because I was barely able to breathe for over a year. She kept showing up until  her own health struggles made that impossible. Yet she still gave freely of her presence by phone, text, whatever she was able — and gradually I learned through her example to do the same. I am grateful for every minute her light shines upon me, which is still tangibly with me in the here and now. As am I for her.

This next poem was written on the afternoon of her passing. I walked into Maiah’s Nature Sanctuary, that Mellie  helped me create, and had just taken this photo — overwhelmed by the glittering beauty on the snow and in the air in the cold — when the call came.  She had transitioned surrounded by her beloveds at 5:30 that morning.

I sat down in the red Adirondack chair where we had shared so many Sunday conversations and wrote these lines.

******

Return to Index

GLITTER FOR THE SKY ~ for Mellie, my Love 

2022

January 21

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GLITTER FOR THE SKY

~ for Mellie, my Love

And on this day, at this hour

the hand on the clock faltered, stood still, failed.

All the arrows and fingers pointed to

the bright comet tracing a line in the sky,

but they could not follow the destination,

only glimpse her silver footsteps as her bright light 

faded, transitioned —, and imagine 

where they might lead.

The time for that knowing waits, yet to unfold,

whispering with the wind.

************

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HOW WE CAN KNOW ~ for Margaret Mae

2022

January 27

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HOW WE CAN KNOW

~ for Margaret Mae

My blue, now gradually pinkening, 

daughter is handed to me,

now rests on my bare breast

still attached by our cord,

half submerged in water, 

as a mermaid; 

Or like a spring crocus, where from 

Mother Earth’s winter she has sprung, 

flowered into existence from 

my now emptying womb.

How can we know the mundane magic 

moments that will weave us again, 

like our start, into one?

Snow ice cream shared until we shiver

from a February new snowfall;

Lyrics made up and sung, while dancing, laughing 

together in our cozy well-worn farm kitchen;

Your homemade Mothers’ Day Cookie as big 

as my face strewn with dandelions 

and visited in our greening clover-filled 

pasture by buzzing bees;

Late night OJ, hot chocolate and fresh-baked

cookies consumed in the dark with forced cheer, 

colliding with exhaustion between hospital vigils

      for your sister –  

                   then you –  

as modern-day imperiled paupers 

seeking grace, refuge, shelter in the shiny 

communal kitchen of our shared home 

away from home.

How can we know the shatterings 

that will bond us beyond all?

How can we know?

We can’t.

*******

Return to Index

STORM DAMAGE

2022

January 27

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STORM DAMAGE

I am fascinated by the Trees.

Green trees, brown trees, and most

especially the long, gray sprouting 

Red Maple Trees. Their tenacity,

even when sawed close to the ground,

to recover and come yet again, sprouts 

shooting from their severed trunk. Puzzling.

Entrancing even … and even more, I am fascinated

by the tall and rough black-barked elders of these kind, 

reaching seventy feet high, (maybe more?) stretching

festive limbs filled with delicately-fingered branches 

reaching to heaven — only to have them heavy and strong 

seemingly torn from their sockets, leaving fresh orange 

and brown sap-laden rough holes after one solid storm. 

And was it the wind (that tore off the limb)? 

Or was the limb only waiting 

for the wind to arrive so it could fall? 

Was she biding her time while still 

reaching for the sun? Letting go a little 

here, a little there, only noticed if 

you listened carefully for her creaking 

on bitter black February nights?

And what of the Mother tree left so marred,

gaping widely and slack-mouthed 

from her splintered wound?  Her two left leaders 

stretch still to the heavens, and soon Spring sap 

will fill her and them out in festive red seed wings 

trimmed with green-hued unfurling leaves.

Surely, she still feels the pain, the absence, 

looking down, (her fallen self) her daughter 

heavy at her feet — her child who, even now, 

through some God-bestowed drive, like a death spiral,

unfurls green leaves from herself, as if her last breath — 

her final offering to still hungry fawns who have, 

in the wombs of their starving mothers, 

this Winter overcome.

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HOW TO GRIEVE ON TUESDAYS WITH FLARE

2022

March 3

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HOW TO GRIEVE ON TUESDAYS WITH FLARE

Cry in your cheerios –

make sure the milk gets

extra salty.

Listen to all her favorite songs until

you can sing them acapella,

all six hundred and ten;

Burn all the junk mail and recyclables

outside, be sure to bring the marshmallows

just because she would;

Watch “Merlin” by the campfire pretending

the tiki torches are from Camelot

and that Puff the Magic Dragon is

just around the bend.

Cry in your cheerios –

take care the milk gets

extra salty.

Sit on her favorite ocean rock at dusk and stare out until

you are sure every star in the cosmos is lit;

Squeal with delight and wonder for each “new”

memory her friends share;

Hang a pinata from a tree in the woods filled with party

favor bubbles, punch balloons and Reese’s peanut butter cups –

Hit it really, really hard

like she would.

Cry in your cheerios –

even if the milk gets

super salty.

Paint her chair blue and sprinkle it with glitter

because life is more magical with glitter;

Dance at midnight in the kitchen to “Dancing Queen”

with absolutely no one at all just because she would;

Bury tulip bulbs in October so you will remember

that flowers playing dead

come back to life in the Spring.

Cry in your cheerios –

make sure the milk gets

good and salty.

Play her pennywhistle every night

even though you don’t know how;

Collect the last apples from her apple tree

on Halloween standing on the trampoline, jump

to get the high ones;

Watch “Coco” in the firelit dark

to make your candle collection look

not quite so over the top;

Make up a new Holiday and name it

after her insisting

everyone celebrate.

Cry in your cheerios –

think about how the milk might taste

without so much salt.

Hang a fairy wind chime in the maple by the sea

so you can hear her sing;

Write poems to find the pieces you are missing

and give those pieces flavor and depth;

Put on your favorite play just to find out

where she went between the lines;

Register for college classes even though

you are over fifty

just so you can finish what she started;

Invite her to dinner and smile because you know

it makes her smile just to watch you eat;

Read “Runaway Bunny” to her at night so

you might find her at the end.

Cry in your cheerios –

be careful the milk doesn’t get

too salty.

Hide easter eggs pretending you are her and then

go find them pretending to be you;

Feed the birds in her park only on Tuesdays

so they are sure to make a special trip;

Take a stuffed sloth with you everywhere,

just because she took a stuffed sloth with her

everywhere;

Go to her college chapel service

every Tuesday knowing

you will find her in the air;

Sing out and loud and slightly off key –

just because she did;

Make her favorite lemon squares and eat them

remembering to smile because

she might be watching.

Cry in your cheerios –

salt the milk

lightly with love.

Put together the jigsaw puzzle

with missing pieces because

maybe the pieces will be found;

Paint your nails a baby blue that is so her

you can feel her in your fingertips;

Play all her favorite songs extra loud

on road trips, just because she did;

Share all your favorite pictures, and the ones

you never took, painting them

into life with words;

Discover a new religion and consider

running away and becoming a nun;

Join the circus –

just kidding.

Cry in your cheerios –

but eat them before

they get too soggy.

Travel by train cross country

so you can catch

time going backwards

behind the glass –

It might even stop.

Live like

there is no tomorrow

because there isn’t.

Love like

your life depends on it

because it does.

Feel her

in your fingertips.

Eat your cheerios

just as they are –

the milk tastes better

unsalted.

Remember to dance

with the stuffed sloth especially

at midnight –

Dancing in the kitchen, at the sea,

in the car, around the fire and

just because –

She would.

******
Return to Index

BROWN BREAD AND JELLY BEANS ~ for Mellie, my Love

2022

March 10

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BROWN BREAD AND JELLY BEANS

~ for Mellie, my Love

I really want to make your special brown bread 

muffins, the ones with the whole wheat flour 

and organic molasses that you brought me each 

Sunday morning and that we ate by the sea 

in our vibrant Adirondack chairs smiling up 

at the waving poplar leaves with salt 

air scenting our nostrils. But I keep buying 

and eating fake colored Easter jelly beans instead.

I know better. I know. Your eyes tell me so.  

Forgiveness and acceptance speaking 

louder than imagined reproach.

If “why” were your question 

my answer would be, “Silence.”

The world is so silent — 

Why doesn’t it make a sound? 

Where is the sound?

Since as long as I can remember, from frozen 

vinyl backseat nights of toddlerhood, hurtling 

through the darkness of night to the quiet of now, 

my most unwelcome companion has been silence 

and in its vacuum disapproval speaks louder than 

the words I long to hear or the ears I clamor to be heard. 

Not the silence of nature and birdsong and hearing 

myself think. Those friends I greet warmly. No, 

the silence of absence, of removal, of stepping 

away, setting apart, disconnecting. This is the silence 

knocking on my every door of now.

If I were a piece of glass, when I hit 

the floor I would bounce because of its 

absence, like I forgot it was my nature 

to break, there is that much absence of sound.

And I find myself shouting in each jammed

direction, like an off-kilter compass’

zigzagging search to find home.

But home left with the geese in the fall, 

and my faith it will return with them 

in the spring doesn’t even have enough 

breath to fill a dime-store faded balloon, 

let alone make it float.

If sound is home and home is you 

it’s just too silent to know

where to go to find you. 

Or me.

You were always listening. 

I accepted this, expecting it. Except 

when you were gone. And those 

were the loneliest times of all. 

I grew so sure of your listening, when 

you left, I forgot how to talk.

I tucked my chatter into a locker 

for the “lost and found” and locked it 

with a silver key because that’s what 

I had left in my pocket at the time. 

And then I threw my silver key into the sea 

praying it would float. But I’m sure it sank. 

Into the mud. Flat and sound.

And years from now some small girl 

child with flaming red curls will be wading 

in the salty mud, pudgy sturdy legs guiding her 

through our childhood of growing up and growing old, 

and she will hear the echoes of my sadness, of my 

missing you, and of the World’s answering silence. 

And she will reach down, listening for my key, 

the silver travel trailer of our heart, hearing it 

hum with her muddy fingers made smooth 

by the salty water of forever. 

And when her soft child fingers finally reach it, 

our corroded relic hanging out cozy 

next to the blood worms and clams 

and crustaceans of before, she’ll pull it 

from its warm hiding bed of time, 

like the diamond at the center 

of every Princesses’ crown. It will shine. 

And at that moment, that very moment 

of wide-eyed freckled sunlit delight,  

all the apple blossoms on the waiting shore will burst 

open in soft whites and pinks, like the breaking 

of all our hearts and the centuries of held breath, 

and the chatter released from their waiting 

will be a symphony of glee that flies like the geese 

up into the sky and home will be you 

and you will be sound and I —

I will be free. And broken.

Finally broken, I will again 

be able to be whole. 

And the little girl child standing ankle deep 

in the low-tide mudflats of our pondering, 

our recollecting, our revisioning, she will giggle 

outloud, crinkle her freckled nose and clear 

eyes and give us a full “missing her front-teeth” 

grin, knowing just how beautiful it is 

to be home. And saying so.

And you and I. We will most certainly 

from our granite sea-worn ledge, like two 

gulls nesting in love, gaze forward through 

time, touching shoulders and knees, 

and radiate her knowing back. And in listening, 

we will say so, a picnic of brown bread muffins 

and colorful jelly beans by our side.

*****

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SPRING SOON SPRANG

2022

May 15

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SPRING SOON SPRANG

Blue Jay and Sky Girl perch on branches thin,

waves green and brackish reach for rock strewn shores 

below. They watch Lady Jay from treetops as

she tends her rest, expects arrival soon, 

new babes will have her nest soon full — blue skies, 

tommorows, loud voices and beaks will pierce,

telling of stomachs aching for brought food

by Blue Jay surely Lady, his love, knows.

Today’s for waiting, telling tales on thin 

branches, Sky Girl’s sweet laughter fills Blue Jay’s 

ears and Father Sun glints warm on Auntie Stone. 

Time for tomorrow’s cares long after Sister Moon’s 

shine and Cousin Star’s shimmer dusts the air  —

red tulips, branches green with leaves will have sprung.

******

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STIRRING SLEEPING BEAUTY(An Incantation)

2023

February 23

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STIRRING SLEEPING BEAUTY 

(An Incantation)

You predicted, 

preplanned, 

premeditated  

death ‘til the end. 

Like a dance or a game 

courting ghosts 

wrapped in flame 

‘til you burned. 


Here we stand, holding air 

like your breath, pray to dusk 

that it counts

like your heartbeat

once stopped. 

Your heartbeat 

now stopped.

You flirted with flames 

one moment too long.

And not even God 

starts your heart 

once breath stops. 

Stop.

Don’t stop.

Beat. 

Breathe. 

Believe.

Live — Don’t stop.

Babes crawl to walk,

dance tightropes with ghosts.

(Pray gently)

Crawl gently, walk gently,

dance gently my Loves,

lest you fall.

Don’t Fall.

Live.

Don’t. Stop.

Don’t Sleep.

Don’t Die.

Wake Up…

******

Return to Index

HOW MANY, SAY HOW

2023

April 3

******

HOW MANY, SAY HOW

I sit in the doctor’s office, or

it could be the train, or even 

the store, the park, the plane.

She casually asks, without looking up

her clipboard littered, characters

spilled across. She peers through them

and scribes, her holy grail of 9 to 5,

struggling to decipher,  to impart, but not taste.

“How many children do you have?” she asks,

tight curls ringing her yet innocent face.

Time stills as I ponder, it’s freezing, 

all frozen as I step outside of now 

and then and into tomorrow. I consider.

How shall I answer? Say how. 

I must think, predict, choose with care 

or not, the next gate will open, ledges 

stretching through and out.

Will an avalanche begin?

Will I be buried alive?

Is it too precious to say?

Or imperative that I sign? 

Who is she (that she needs know)?

And, when I do answer (somehow I must), 

will the winds blow me over 

into torrential sea or will there just

be light and breeze that caresses 

my tired hands, and worn knees?

When I answer, and I do — and must —

and say “three”, have I told the truth? 

Aren’t there some left behind? Some I forgot?

Ahhh, but that story is too long, not to be

told this day. Time is quickening again, 

impatience vibrating visibly in her pen 

before I can think more, I count.

“Three,” I say, deciding to focus 

on the living even if dead. For what

is death but something we 

don’t yet understand? 

If even that at all.

“Three,” I say, knowing the storm 

gathers — for her only banter and politeness,

for me, the next gate and cliff —

“Oh, How lovely! Do they live nearby?”

Ahh, do they live nearby… yes, indeed they do.

In my bent spine, my mending heart, in my voice,

my step, doesn’t that say enough?

“Yes”, I say. And then expound — 

for in me the pressure to explain, 

speaks up, with voice, to name 

that which I cannot

yet know as deeply 

as my breath.

“One,” I say, “is only an hour away 

by fast car, but is the furthest 

from reach; one I clutch to my bosom 

every night before the death that is 

called sleep; and the last, who is also 

the middle and the first, dwells 

in my heartbeat, lives in this air 

we now breathe. Do you sense her now, 

coming through your startled eyes? 

Do you see her swimming through

the chasms of your dreams? Yes, 

she lives closest of all if we but 

have eyes to see. She is me, 

and also you and we, and we, 

well now, we 

are also 

she.”

******

Return to Index

COME SIT AND REST (Ode on All Souls’ Day)

2023

November 2

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COME SIT AND REST

(Ode on All Souls’ Day)

This last storm there was just wind

and rain; It barely made a dent.

I laugh out loud in the swirling and the wet —

“At least it isn’t snow! I don’t have to shovel!”

It took some days for the heaviness

to take over my feeling of good fortune.

It took passing Great Grandma Maple,

or more circling her three limbs now sprawled

in deep prayer around her, one still dangerously

suspended in the sky by Sister Spruce, caught

in her arms, as in heartbreak, mid fall.

Passing by was no longer possible.

Circling was all that was left.

Once they held up my heavens and defined

every waking sky from my bedroom window.

Harbingers of Spring; Stark companions through Winter.

Now, like deflated lawn ornaments, they are heavy,

no longer buoyant, and block my daily way

on rounds to field, barns, raspberries overgrown.


Yet still there is the old oak swing on her

remaining narrow branch, vaulted starkly upwards,

dressing herself in remnants of Autumn treasures,

somewhat apologetic now and insecure it seems

without her sisters filling her out against the sky.

Great Grandma Maple, still giving in her sorrow

all she can, whispers —

“Here,” she beckons, “Come sit and rest awhile

Dear Child as in old days. Rest here on Cousin Swing.

We can hold you still my Child, bear your weight

and worries. Swing on my arm as before while you rest.

You are weary from this day like us all.

Come rest.”


And I do.

Grateful for her embrace

on this day and so many

befores.

******
Return to Index

FINDING YOU, FINDING ME, HOLDING WE

2023

November 7

******

FINDING YOU, FINDING ME, HOLDING WE

Wherever you are, I will find you.

Even when that takes turning hard

away from where you last went.

Or spinning ‘round and ‘round ‘til I fall, 

tasting you finally in the salt scent of my pores.

Or loving me more than I ever loved you, 

even though we know I loved you, always, best.

For where are you if not in me, and how 

would I find you but in finding myself?

My Love looks into me, dives deep, piercing

through her eyes, rivers through time. 

She thinks me mad, surely insane  —

“What are you trying to do??” 

Find You.

“How are you going to do that??”

I don’t know. 

   But, 

       I will.

My teacher says, “The Way Out is In.”

And the Universe whispers the same —

Without words, and more true.

So I draw spirals inward, go backwards to go forward, 

digging deep into the warm, dark recesses of what. 

Where I will find you is in me, where you started, 

(was there start?) your first home (or end?)

My womb waits softly, deeply, darkly, 

for all to unfold again.

And how I can know you best is to learn 

this kernel of truth, I embrace it.

If truly there is no beginning, no end, then 

we have always been one, shape shifting. 

Seeking warmth and shelter from, for each other; 

now a breeze, next a touch; now the moon, 

next the sea. Yes, to find you, I must only 

come Home to me. And through that journey

I behold You, behold Me — and hold us all, We.

And in the center of our womb,

of our love, of our is-ness,

there will We all be, 

as We always were.

Held.  And as one.

You, Me, We.

*******

Return to Index

WE ARE ONE

Composed by Br. Phap Linh

Plum Village

******

WE ARE ONE

We are One

One with the Earth

One with Grief

One with Joy

(Bell, Bell, Bell)

(bell)