The plunge

You must not test it

with a timid toe

the icy emptiness

will only shock you

into withdrawal

and you will never start

at all

you will stand on the edge

frozen in indecision

listening to the voices

shouting from the shore

telling you that you are crazy

begging you not to go in

those hecklers

warm and cozy in their parkas

will warn you that you

could die

and it is true -- some have

the ones that tried

to walk on the water

with sheer will alone

not realizing you must

be baptized first

full body immersion

into the deep

the cannonball technique

is best

because there's no way

to keep your hair dry

when you are holding

your knees so close

that you have become

a circle

no beginning, no end

which is as it should be

with the plunge

come freedom

clocks can not keep time

under water

and it may be necessary

to forget that you have

an appointment at three

to forget the meaning

of three

and in fact it is best

when you do not even remember

your name

The vine

His love like Honeysuckle

grows fervently and unpredictable

taking over the garden of my life

that I have so carefully cultivated

The fragrant vines wind around

the perfectly pruned trees

of my piousness

reducing them to unruly

clumps of growth

And I am so terrified

that the climbing ropes

will obscure the pretty path

I have created for myself

that I hack at them desperately with shears --

wrestling the tendrils reaching for me

until I am left panting and sweating

exhausted by my efforts

to tame what can never be tamed

And there is nothing left to do

but to lie back and rest

in the wild beauty

of his unrelenting love

Me and Mary

I sit alone on Christmas Eve

a blanket over my knees

plain bread stick in my hand

the nausea set in

before we even left for the restaurant

an hour more on the hump

in the backseat didn't help

I stand in the bathroom

patting my face with cold water

begging my body to give me a break

it's Christmas Eve for heaven's sake

and my husband and his family

have all been sat at a table

near the window

for a celebratory meal

before anyone can order

I excuse myself to the car

fighting the putrid waves in my stomach

and the tears in my throat

the anxiety creeping in

doesn't know it's not welcome

especially not on holidays

but as I sit in the sedan

nibbling Italian bread

I notice the lights

on the old fashioned lampposts

they are rooting for me

and the glowing star

atop a tree near the stop sign

winks at me

everyone has off days

the storefronts assure me

no matter how many "special" signs

you post in the window

sometimes people just aren't buying

and sometimes the body

just wants a day off

from the Christmas spirit

I suppose Mary must've felt

pretty darn overwhelmed

with all of those people

cramming the streets and hotels

I imagine her waking along this main street

pointing out the mattress store to Joseph

maybe we can sleep here

it's closed but the beds look so inviting

I want to tell her she can sit

in the bucket seat beside me

I have some extra bread

and even an old blanket in the trunk

my Papa always said you never know

when you might need

an extra blanket in the car

I smile right now, finally reaping

the reward of his wisdom

Me and Mary

away from the crowd

just a couple of girls

far from home

hoping Christmas will come soon

Lost Boys

The snow blankets

the oscillating twinkle lights

strewn across the hedge

making it look like a wild

fairy party is going on

behind the glistening white curtain

and I imagine thimbles of champagne

and wee people dancing on the ceiling

as their wings flutter in time

with the banshee band

I am mesmerized by the magic

until an old school bus drives by

that has been painted a bold cobalt blue

and stenciled with the words

Barry County Corrections

across the side

beneath the shadowed faces pressed

against cold window panes

I wonder if they notice

the twittering Tinks

beneath the snowy bush

waving to their lost boys

Lost at sea

Harsh the ocean rocks me

tossed upon the turbulent sea

floating flying falling free

on a ledge too high and dizzying

cloudy skies frown angrily

limbs hanging limp beside the tree

heavy trunk thick icy freeze

whirling wind bullies the breeze

oh wake me from this frenzied dream

Cartwheels at Stonhenge

I can not help but turn cartwheels

in front of the ancient pillars

of The Great Stone Henge

the magic of the place

raises the hairs on the back of my hand

and I must express the thrill somehow

so I leap and twirl and press my hands

onto the sacred turf

while the sheep bleat in a nearby field

as they have for generations

I find that the wind is different here

alive and spritely

making sure with a flicker of mischief

that your hair will not lie flat for pictures

no matter how many tries you take

I breathe in the smell of

moss and rock weathered by

innumerable raindrops

as the earth and grass is trampled beneath

great snakes of humanity

in multicolored windbreakers

winding round and round

each having their own experience

on this once communal ground

what would happen if we put down our cameras

and black plastic audio wands

what if we joined hands as was intended

in the beginning

what if we noticed one another

maybe then we would understand the mystery

that the sheep already know