Pilgrimage: Last Steps

how lovely the narcissus
against the tree trunk
celebrating the turning of seasons
glorious mounds of flowers
here and there a lily
while Winter has just begun
the final steps of its pilgrimage
into tomorrow

Endings:Pilgrimage

the world did not end today
though the last child went to
his silent grave
though evil spoke of
other people's madness
though the politicians went home
after accomplishing nothing
though the rain fell in cold
bursts of intensity
though the good remained powerless
in their houses
the world did not end today

Pilgrimage: Darkness

we know that we are walking into darkness
we know that the road winds toward endings
that there may be no tomorrow
but when we adjust their backpacks
and ask if they have their lunch
we do think the light will go out so swiftly

Pilgrimage: Changing

the pink camellia bursts
open its ruffled petticoat
petals enticed by days of rain
layers of layers of perfect
pink

Pilgrimage: Praying For Rain

in thoughtful stutters the rain
falls to earth
I loosen the oxalis
laying a bunch on the low brick wall
tomorrow if the day is dry
I will pull some more
gather and place it in the compost bin
later we will drive to say goodbye
to the friend who died

Pilgrimage:

the child stands awestruck
before the old man
the inside of the old car
spacious tall and dark
could hold a king and his crown
or a boy and his dreams

Chill

sidewalks wet from last
night's shower and the continuing mist
not warm enough to take my jacket off
but warm enough that the unexpected
cool coffee only disappointed
my day along a single ragged edge
like the gray cloud beside
the patch of blue

Pilgrimage: Music and Coffee

the café windows steamed
from so many espressos
John Prine sings about Paradise
and we talk softly about last night
and tomorrow

Hint at Weather. 40.

There was rain though
it only lasted a week.
And yesterday, a little snow.

What spills now is but a hint
of galaxies offset. All the red leaves 
fallen from the false cherry tree.

Pilgrimage: Early Morning Rain

at two in the morning the rain
insistent as birds claiming territory
woke me as washed clean air
slipped through the cracked window
the beat of splash and fall
quieted me until my heart slows
and my cheek sinks into the down pillow

Bananas

the voters
are made to stand in line
their birth their being
questioned answers lost
questioned again if you want to
vote in the State
of
Florida

Goblin (#39)

Thumbprints wash off.
One saint is still humming
in girlhood, in kitchens.
In the evening I would pray
washing up to the elbows.
If we were really good —
trout cooked in yellow cornmeal.
Thumbs gritty with last bites

Pilgrimage: 38 Days: An Exquisite Purity

your kisses left thumbprints on my heart
visible only to those who know where to look
the visible scarification of the words in your letters
a conversation of pain as we tried to breathe
life into moments as delicate as fronds
inscribed with a language known only to saints
we knew what it was to sin
not pride or lust but idolatry
the placing of certain glances precise embraces
above the gods
we believed only in each other and shadows
lengthening in the cold October

Corner Café

no bicycles or strollers
today it's too cold
or looks like it may be cold
they don't want to risk it
we can choose any table and do
sipping lattés that are not
quite hot enough

How Many Miles?

I drove almost four thousand miles
back and forth over the alkali flats
of the Mojave the scrub pine
hills of Tierra Amarilla up and down
La Bajada over rivers
precious minutes spent as the
sun bleached the car tanned my skin
and melted the tight coil of my spine

Giving Name to

unwavering poems marked by flirtation, 
anger, praise and 
forgiveness poured into vases of roses 
encircling an icon, 
blessed with The Shape of Caught Water

How many weeks?

we count back to vacations
forward to the next holiday
or the coming election
we wonder if there is enough time
and why the afternoon drags on
and where the evening has flown
when will the night begin
so we can close our eyes
and forget the Clock

Fear Not to Tread

Roll the tricycle wheel barrel
into the garden. Fear not
to tread on green grass.
Stumble into the harvest,
diamonds of turnip and
tall men's arms of rhubarb.
Hold open the welcome gate.
Feast with your dewy eyes.

Pearls

Fog rolls out its soft moist filter
Gold leaves gleam
Wet sidewalks glow
Silver white cars release faint streams
I walk slowly
Afraid to shatter a pearl of a day

Last Week

the days stretch and fold
like fans against dry heat
my body yearns for fog
and drops of rain that fall relentlessly
for hours
the drops that fall here are too sparse to wash the dust from flowers

Into the Core: Many Pilgrims Here

Hand turning the lathe of the poem
in the furnace. Feeling the heat.

License to burn away the irrelevant.
Permission to breathe life into the core.

Dark

At times the dark
is self imposed.
The argument,
a summer storm;
lightning as you 
sit alone inside 
your car.

Horizon is but distance.
Windshield as armor.
Lightning that will hit
or miss. Sometimes 
the dark is 
self imposed.

Requiem

we say remember
remember but soon forget
stillness repose thought
escape into evening
fade into dream
no time for memory in morning

Enduring Vertigo

In your right ear, Mother, impacted lymphatic fluid
roars, sings to you the familiar strains of Carousel
and the carnival barker 
absent until the end when
he comes back to earth to bring his daughter a star.

Pilgrimage: Mid-July:Bliss

sitting at Jericho Beach
the last apricot clouds fade
to pink then slate
while the sun chases itself
into the Bay
listening to Lucinda Williams
singing her heart out

it doesn't get much better than this

Effervescence

she will not return
that light in the evening when
music melted onto
and you melted into
and we will not return
to passion as salty as champagne
and bubbles disappearing
on the tongue
the taste of you
or your smile
and you will not return
I do not wish for today's return
only that perfect yesterday
that will not return

Garden

the earth turned over
to encircle the peonies
no need for anything but dirt and root
add a hope for sunshine
and the strength to battle
wicked morning glories

Pilgrimage: Mid-Summer: Bloom

the roses open so wide
the petals fall like bits of paper
against the bark
dust motes sparkle
day stars
while sunlight warms
the edge of the table

the coffee takes a long while to cool

this is the song of morning in gratitude this is the picture of the wooden church at the bottom of the hill here is the psalm of a change in the wind and four small strawberries in a ceramic pot just outside the door this is the avenue of vacation this is the gratitude painting no photograph but what you hear when you read these words

Pilgrimage: Churches

the hearse in front of the church
awaits it's passenger
for the last short ride
no one on the street seems to notice
or care
there are more funerals than christenings
more funerals than weddings
only the dead are faithful
these days

Pilgrimage: Mid-June: Trappists

this alley silent
in the late afternoon
bricks warm as cognac
sipped slowly in the piazza
leads to mystery
and Belgian beer
cold on tap and clear

Pilgrimage: Knowledge & Beauty Week #23

Many ways to prepare:
with study, applying 
blush to the cheekbones 
& heart. Knowledge 
advises that there are 
the cameras we see 
aimed at us &
those that we don't.
We are the recipients 
of any & all attention.
It isn't always easy
to learn. But the light
will find a way in.

Pilgrimage: End of Spring: Finals

studying for finals
notebook only partially deciphered
while the coffee mug steams on the table
this is an exercise in hope
turning toward tomorrow
and the remote possibility that
the sun will rise

Pilgrimage: Some Week: Speed

the red Ducati built for speed
sits in the bright sun
only needs a girl in a sundress
and shades to scream
perfection

Pilgrim and Roof: #22

Above our immediate gaze
the second story windows narrow
like startled eyes painted blue
painted white. No fright in climbing
the stairs if even slowly. 
No apology in simply resting.

Pilgrimage

he grows tired of waking
he sleeps more hours of the Day
he gives in
he does not fight
he thinks only of closing his eyes
he struggles up the stairs
he struggles to bend over
he used the word
disability
for
the first
time

Pilgrimage: Week 21: Small Town

Blue Lake is small
and though it is growing
every year it gets smaller
the school like the river
is shrinking
here and there a house settles
then lurches into the damp earth
leaning crazily against the clothesline
the brewery is busy
and the Dell' Arte School of Physical
Theater sends its clowns and actors
to sidewalks In Delhi and schools in Sweden
no matter how many people come in
others go out
Blue Lake is small

Whisper

Skin so pale she nearly wasn't
there. As I crossed the green
grass. Only the bubbles she blew
knew her poisonous lips apple. 
Moth blush eyelids. One thousand
deaths embroidered on her chest.
Vest of China on the green ship
crossing the plaza this apple
evening I wanted to dance us 
back to life. Wanted to die again 
with her whispering innocently 
from the red womb. Sister of nails.
Third eye gem. Face whisper.

Satin

in France it's called
peau de soie or skin of silk
the soft sheen of blushes

Showers of Flowers

every few yards
a glorious rose
appears like Gabriel
announcing good news
Spring has come
in gay profusion
the plum blossoms fall
on the walkways
as we in bliss
walk on

Grope: The Pilgrim Falters but Gets Up Again

Odes & Offerings: Santa Fe 

Stiff and holding, blind heads
Hands up for armor as we
battle moths and dry skies; allergies 
to love and one leg in the corner of critical
recall which will prevail I have 
no doubt now as I blindly head
deep into the rosy center with moth
wings for legs and a crib to curb
my childish sight. 
The art is in; the winner is 
anyone who reads 
this, groping.

Pilgrimage: Roses

as I returned from the cemetery
I saw rose after rose
in April profusion
I then walked into the petal
centered with sweet musk
and went to sleep

Companion Pilgrim. No longer counting.

Stone eyes open to thought and the book that is chipped as companion Who would have thought we could begin again like this The prayer beads of marble The petals of the Spring gather like pods of marriage rekindling The robe of rough cloth giving way to the nakedness of the eyes open to the companion the chipped petals gathering like beads.

Pilgrim of A Blind Eye

Vase of the body. Rose of
the walk. Smiling with
eyes closed. Find your
self reflected in the raised
braille of the body, the 
generic graffiti of an arm. 
Hands on waist.

Pilgrimage: Shopping

we are walking
toward the meadows
where tulips and peonies sprawl
in profusion from tall French
galvanized metal vases
we are walking
past La Farine and apple fig tartes
waft their butter-soaked fragrance
toward the door
we are walking
from Cole Coffee
after sipping creamy lattes rich and strong
we wear sexual smiles

this is not a mall

The Pilgrimage of The Myrhhbearers

Tomorrow, Easter again,
for Greek, Antiochian,
Orthodox. Next, Bright
Week, when those who 
pass past candles last, their 
breath captured in glass, 
will fly straightaway to 
Paradise. No passing Go, no 
admission tickets requested,


instead a one way concert of 
chanting in close alcoves
for even the non religious 
family left standing
at the soft pink casket 
where the lilies
reach


toward the adopted ones and
the short & tall grand
sons. Door standing 
open. This past week, 
three women, two I knew
and one I didn't, tiptoed
without aid of chair or tubes
into roles of three 


like Marys reincarnate
running down the hill
with no one to tell.
Their quiet misunderstood;


Heaven.

Pilgrimage: Array

every inch covered
glitter wood paper
waits for the eye to rest
and wallet to open
there are treasures here
I imagine I
just don't know where to
look

Fwd: Haiga

Sent from my iPhone

Begin forwarded message:

From: Evangeline Brown <cestegal@att.net>
Date: April 9, 2012 3:38:35 PM MDT
To: Evangeline Brown <cestegal@att.net>
Subject: Haiga

let there be little
houses and blue indigo skies
white clouds and cool winds

Sent from my iPhone

Pilgrimage; Good Friday

the pilgrims have made their way
to the sanctuary
an imitation of the halting
painful stumbles
of a Jewish revolutionary
you are more important than the rules
you are more beautiful than the flowers
where you are right now is heaven
he died for that

Maundy Thursday from a Different House

Spray these walls
with politic,
young man.
Lines drawn 
at the table.
Here's a stair-
well, I stop
long enough
to hear 
the sounds
of innocence
approaching
like weather 
or dinner as
poetic history 
is resurrected.

Pilgrimage: Plum Butter

the hopeful bees cluster and buzz
the elegant butterfly rests in the branch
her wings scarcely move
In the early afternoon sun
everything seems possible
including plums