Finally, resolution

You are at home tonight on a far West

coast with lemonade and tentative

buds calling for Spring

Here the rapid railcars will soon be

crossing, our windows busy with defrost

The year

will end chilly for us inland, southwest

as we idle in forgettable pauses

attempting to resurrect

promises we failed to keep in the passing

Next time I will hitch instead of drive

next time as

poems arrive in fitful dreams.

Pilgrimage: Day 52: The Last Day

the day before
the last day
of the year
the aisles of the grocery
store
the sidewalks of the city
streets
are crowded
there is a slight movement
toward sunlight
toward soft furry buds
on trees
toward camellias
and magnolias
bursting into pink and white
fervor
toward
hope

of the Season

Outside it's the slip of tires

against streets as the snow

is visible as streetlights blink on

as the train crosses the intersection

and the evening promises a star

As the silences find a way in

and the piano is tuned for

the coming of the sound of humans

praying and a cup of tea

steeping, fork against plate

Pilgramage: 51: Coffee

#49 Climb

We are the season's silhouettes

We climb the coastline or mountain

to pray for the light that slips inside

when we string the tree in red or

light the tea candles that flicker

in sacks on the walk in the evening

We visit those we love the most

as day shortens, carrying poinsettias

and cameras, as promise arrives

wrapped in a box that whispers

surprise when we shake it

Pilgrimage: #50: Late Afternoon

it is later than you think
the sun deceives as it hovers
gold and pink above
Mad River
the air is cold not warm
and the light fades swiftly
the week before Solstice
it is later than you think
it I always later than you think

Pilgrimage: #49: Brew

some beer is bitter
some full of yeast as good bread
Guiness is for ice cream
or a trip to an English pub

Pilgrimage: 48 Days: Language

the language of the Mass
has changed
it tracks the ancient Roman speech
and proclaims that we are all men
again
I try to accept this light blow
this small paper cut
and simply listen
from the margin
again
if it were only a call to listen
to pay strict attention
to the word I say
I would not feel this pain
again

Losing Count. 46, 47, 48.

The bank wrote today.

Santa will be in their lobby

next week for photos.

'Tis the season.

Am I too old to sit

on the old man's

lap. What would

baby Jesus think?

Continuing to make Art

Still coloring childlike inside

the lines until madness takes over

or lack of sleep and then the angel

appears on the wall, blonde

reincarnate with charcoal

eyes that holler scribble

whisper poems, whisper sanity

scrawl perfectly imperfect art

Pilgrimage: Day #47: Walking On Walls

when I was a little girl
I walked easily on the edge
of fences I walked fearlessly 
looked into backyards
teased the dogs that couldn't quite reach
saw the green tips of asparagus in Spring
and the frost on furrows as Fall fell
into Winter
I still balance precariously
as I move along the edge of fences
that I raised in dreams in words
in lines hidden
in the clouds

Pilgrimage: #46: Bedrooms

shared or solitary
a bed
quiet or passionate
a little house for dreams
there we can ride each other
or turn and rest

#45 Whittling for Faith

beneath the skin, the tributary art. Beneath the teeth,

the skull. Inside the sap of resin, regal breath is

captured, stilled; arterial traffic slows,

your skull, weary, rests on its pillow. Daydream seeks

the gritty bite. Head's ache reveals bird crane flight

into the river's heart. Ancient bark, tree art,

skin too thick for feeling, or too thin when peeled

like onion, the memories, a triple layer cake, meringue

of prayer, whipped art. A handsome lightning strike

reveals what faith carves with God's root balls,

and then, sculptures pressed together complete

the puzzle we've been puzzling all these years.

Pilgrimage: 45 Days: Letters

the mailbox large and blue
stands empty
I thrust a few bills
nothing personal
into the maw
nothing of my self
no thought feeling impulse
sent forth in paper
save money to keep
the wolf from the door

#44 Rays of Paper

All light, any light.

Hunters harvesting

what remains before

there is no longer thaw.

Pilgrimage: 44 Days: 11.11.11

numbers align
it is November
the cold we held at arms length
with roses and sunshine
flees before slight rain
dark clouds
days suddenly shortened
the blinding white of the Hunter's Moon
we know Winter is coming
but we believe
words written or breathed
will save us

#43 Work Day

A ring of six women sit laughing together

to stave off exhaustion in the conference room.

Kettle of fish. Barrel of monkeys.

We carry in our blue lunch pails the tales

of the cross over from home into work life

and vice versa.

My daughter has lost her voice but she rises

every morning at 7:16 to dress again.

I dream a murky river. Not cold at dawn when I dash in.

Pilgrimage: #43: Rite

cafés and bars
and tables covered with paper
the gaze inward
the gaze into space
the gaze in search
she is seeking perfection
the right word will free her
the right thought will enlighten her
the right emotion will save her
she is at a loss
for the precise sound
to open the world
and tame it
hearing only the clang of dishes in the sink
orders given
and steam escaping
like hope in the desert

#42 Los Ojos

Lean far enough out of the door

Of what remains and you can carve

Your initials into the infinite

Then your name will be fed with

The inevitable. Rain and straw and mud

That catches until the wind

Takes it higher toward tin, toward

Snow, toward dissolve and creature

Scurry, earthen joists and finger bones.

Pilgrimage: 42 Weeks: Embrace

looking at this rose
full open red ripe
I know that in a day
or two the petals will droop
dry then fall leaving the hip
behind to be eaten by birds
or to drop to the ground unseen
this rose imperfect
models spirituality
I embrace
imperfect hesitant brave approximate
I know that in a day
or two I will change
consider then fall leaving the bone
behind to be eaten by birds
or to drop to the ground unseen

Call and Response: Having Lost Count

Why must the

cameras rush

so at

the demise

We bow our

heads

to think

We do not know

we are being

photo

graphed

The sky is

rolling

its eyes

Pilgrimage: 41 Footsteps: Window

golden light adorns
the Café walls
fragrant coffee with toast and jam
lovers unable to refrain from touching
the student staring out the window
you and I listening to the words
war is over
war is over
at last
and again

#40 Filling Station

No one stopping any longer

for service at this station

Only the four remaining letters

hint at staying for a fill-up

Chain link fence marking boundary

for this, museum of cracked concrete

and thirteen red bricks imbedded

in the headless neck of its roof

Pilgrimage: #40: October Afternoon

Waking so late the afternoon
becomes morning
the crowd demanding
espresso has waned followed
by the relaxed unemployed
who sit at small metal tables
resting from the early search
We share pastry and drink coffee
from white paper cups
the black lids hiding the rich brew
while the Bay fog slowly rolls in

Pilgrimage: #39: Coffee

late afternoon on a rainy day
pumpkins roses
and caffés lattés
if we measure our lives
with spoons
surely they will taste of
chocolate

#38 As pilgrims we

encounter our mothers who are healing

and the work underway for she who is

failing. We read the signs -

some foreign & some hard hitting &

clearly we are the new maternal

promise. End the war now. Paint

the path with cautionary heiroglyphics.

Pilgrimage: #37: Plumb Line

One tool to grip

and one more to measure

I learn (again) how agile

the patient, practiced hands

Insulation against the scald

and a barrel to catch

broken pieces

Pilgrimage: 38 Days: Fighting The Waves

each mouthful of saltwater
almost delicious
redolent of dying weeds
and city runoff
weighs me down a little more
never a strong swimmer
and the shore is receding
I'm tiring with the effort
to bring myself safely home

Pilgrimage: Thirty-Seven Days: What The Eye

what the eye sees
the mind turns into
thought
measure
line
what the eye sees

Pilgrimage: Could It Be 36?: Café Society

here on the left coast
we sit outside in crystal afternoons
dark espresso in paper cups
green enameled tables
cover

#36 Pilgrim Hearing

In this man's house

the poets gather.

Small bites on glass

plates for all.

Black olive dip with

garlic and lemon

tart wedges.

Once a prayerful

bell was rung.

The room swayed

as even non-believers

felt the sonnets of

the night nibble

at their ears

Pilgrimage #35: What We See in the Window

In the window the reminder

of simplicity, the accent on

wrist to palm to prayer

Trinkets of bead

and forehead of humility

We dined together this morning

We are sewn together

Pilgrimage: #35: Vermeer

He studied light
on pearls or the blue jacket
Mesmerized by the soft sheen on skin
or the concentration of a letter
He never walked through Santa Fe
in late Summer
Nor saw the clear blue light
that flows into adobe rooms
The light! The light that slowly
leaves a honeyed glow

thirty four: Pilgrimage through

To expose

is to know

the structures

that bind and

hold the motion

of the man who

wishes to reveal

his need for

walls and

to be exposed

is not the choice

of man yet

we knock our

hands against

what is solid

and feel our way

back through

Pilgrimage: Thirty Plus Four: Scaffold

Scaffold, a photo by vajra on Flickr.

what we hold
what we hold up
what we hold on to
where we rest
where we build up
where we build on to
bones
earth
steel
grass and bamboo
who we hold
who we hold up
who we hold on to

Pilgrimage: Industry (#33)

There are times

the work rises

from the land

as sculpture

made of

many hands

We cannot

carry it

anywhere

but into

happy

industry

left behind

Pilgrimage: #33: Official

wherever we go
we take our work
and worries with us
in the café we stare endlessly
at screens and papers
in our beds we lie
restlessly
our phones beside us
we follow orders
or await them
in the office which goes
wherever we go

Pilgrimage #32

Bloom of art

I conjure you

Blood heart

stretched taut

One ideal line

of poetry at a

time finding

Blue breath

at the wrist

and in the

green throat

Bloom find

Spare me

nothing but

the stretch

Loom of art

catch fire.

Pilgrimage: Day 32: Roses

a summer with more cool days
more fog
more clouds
more breezes
roses don't have to wilt
under blistering heat
or fade
beneath an unforgiving sun
drinking in the cool gray mist
they bloom
they bloom
they bloom

Pilgrimage #31 Not a Dream

No separation between woman

and man, the cage

Oh to rest as the dancers

in their hoops pound the stage

Lo the blur and their bare feet,

their capable hands cupping

my unwilling breath

that sustains so

no separation

Pilgrimage: Pilgrimage 31: Morning

After the restless night
The battle with covers and pillows
The effort to breathe one deep breath
Morning arrives luminescent and gray
Like the center of a pearl

Sunflower

if I spin and spin
under the afternoon sky
I see Van Gogh's heart

#30 Husking/Carrying

Fathers carry sons, and

wives hoist their

husband's hearts into

their harvest arms -

the crux of an

elbow/cradle. I am

hidden behind this

picture but

I am right there

with you

1130 miles is nothing

California to

New Mexico with you

lifting every husk

carrying every one.

Pilgrimage: Week 30: Café Society

here on the left coast
we sit outside in crystal afternoons
dark espresso in paper cups
green enameled tables
covered with newspapers or cameras
dogs wait patiently
small children cling to their fathers
a leaf falls
there is nothing to do
no other place to be
except here
now

Sent from my iPhone

Pilgrimage: Another Day: Week 29: When Do We Say It's Over

there is nowhere else to go
there are no pages left to turn
all the breaths have been taken
all the bridges burned
only cul-de-sacs remaining
every voice has grown still
every leaf that grew has fallen
nothing left not even will
when this poem has been forgotten
and hearts are filled with doubt,
only ash will line the mountains
all the fires will have burnt out

Pilgrimage #29: Up in Smoke

Each sooty bottle, a mouth

Each prayer poured in, a flicker

of hope and gratitude.

To mother, for mother;

lover, and a stranger

at the side of the road.

Up in smoke the pearly issue -

stamina, forgiveness,

willingness.

Each mouth mouthing;

all pleading eyes

in a crowd.

Pilgrimage #28: Open Mind

No more waiting. We have reached

this place. Only foot traffic and

free thinking allowed.

Pilgrimage: Week 28: Waiting

for the bus
for our order
for Godot
for the mail
for the light
for a parking space
for recess
for the next stall
for admission
for the next shoe to drop
for the page to turn
and for Summer to reach its peak
and the fall

Pilgrimage #27: To the Source

There is a ship they call the Due Return

built into the high ceilinged room.

Named after another ship, it is made of the shiny

things otherwise left forever in the drawer.

There is a cave there where a teenage girl the ushers say

is a hologram that plays guitar; she sings songs of the water

and the memories of former sailors held captive on this

ship of shiny things. All things return or remain

in bottles for scatter later. Touch the star shaped

knob. Take care not to look directly into the light.

Pilgrimage: #27: Taxicab

another perfect day
Joni Mitchell should be playing
in the background
yellow taxicabs and roller-skates
rubies and parking lots
I dreamed of barbecue last night
but I still woke up hungry
for iced tea
for grilled meat
for you