Words to a member of the FLDS*

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I have felt it too. The need to be part of something bigger than myself, a family, a community, an organization, a 'people' - to be chosen. To feel in my aching heart that there are others who care about me. Like you, I fear being abandoned and alone: Cast out into the wilderness, like a biblical Israelite. Slavery is a price I have also been willing to pay for a regular meal and some shelter. So I get it. There is strength in numbers, and satisfaction in wearing a uniform. My uniform is a ragged grey garment. There are times I envy your belief in being saved. But I possess no such confidence in Divine plans, no faith in commandments, in priests or prophets and their visions. No belief in saints or sinners, good and evil, the deeds of men. If I have any faith at all, it is in stories and songs about heartache. And in spirits we may conjure around an open fire that we build past the edge of town, where the streetlights end. An American town with a biblical name. On a cold starry desert night like this one, we can collect stones of various shapes and colour from the foot of the red cliffs, place them in a circle, gather dry sticks and set them aflame to warm our chilly bones. I have no explanation for the things that matter most. For why we are here, or for where we are going. The cry of the coyote contains all I have ever understood about love and suffering. What I have for you is a bit of time and attention. Today is a day for strangers from different tribes to meet to share a meal and drink, and to exchange words. You can tell me about your faith and I will tell you about mine. Together we may get somewhere. Call it a promised land.

[*FLDS: Fundamentalist Church of Latter Day Saints, a sect of the Mormonism practicing plural marriage, based in northern Arizona and southern Utah.] 

The meaning of Pi

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In life's many circles 

the calendars and seasons

ashes to ashes 

cradle to cradle

(read: grave) the ends always meet

and it's plain to see every day

on every street

how the intolerant far right

meets the intolerant far left,

how being homeless

is not much different from having too many houses,

or the way information overload

generates ignorance - 

from the centre  

to the margins

the ratio never changes

so don't be fooled by bullseye

metaphors;

there are no extra points 

for good aim.

I leave my place 

head west

(or east take your pick) 

and keep going

until I arrive at my starting point

the ocean is clouds is rain is ocean 

is clouds is rain

in quieter moments 

I sit with myself

to return to myself 

by sending out a prayer

to someone else

and it goes: Lord, 

please forgive me 

for wasting time

the words

sink inward in depth 

and outward in sound waves 

like dropped stones

in a pond

or like an echo

between mountains

I can't hear

an undeniable part of me

refusing to accept 

that it all makes 

perfect sense.

Keeping track of slippers

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Shoe-like,

an indoor version

not suitable for rough pavement,

weather generally,

too soft for the outside world

they keep a low profile

like a pair of house-cats.

When I happen upon them

it never fails to surprise -

as if it wasn’t me

who’d left them

by the front door

at the foot of the bed

in the kitchen or den

crouched by the wall,

am I slipping? 

have I lost my mind?

or is it more a matter of heart

the habit of forgetting

become my go-to,

my comfort zone,

prefer to think 

the plushness

that warms my toes

and soothes my soles

has a life of its own;

when I come upon them 

unexpectedly

their previous wanderings

is their private business,

like sad strangers

sitting on a street corner

looking forlorn

the ovals of their beggar mouths  

empty and dark,

and I think I might offer 

some temporary relief

by the mere act

of stepping inside them,

I can lift their spirits

with human touch, a brief 

journey accompanied.

I pause

at the end of a workday 

and ask myself

whence my humanity

where has it gone

and where will it go?

I need to go away sometimes

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I need to go away sometimes

not too far 

but just far enough

away

from you

and the others

the ones I love 

and the ones I don’t even like

sometimes you feel too close

so I need to go away

and where I am going

doesn't matter 

as long as it's not here

because here 

is a room

with a filing cabinet

where I put my papers

in drawers, my records,

the paid bills and receipts,

the certificates and policies,

proofs of purchase,

here my name is stamped

and sometimes what I don't want

is to see my name -

where I need to go

is somewhere

unmapped

where I can fold 

into the contoured landscape 

as formless colour

from a desert sun 

where I can heat  

radiant sand 

or melt snow

and isn't that what love is 

another word for returning home

like chlorophyll

making flowers flower

making ant food, snake food

eyelids opening like petals

seeing again

for the first time

longing no more 

for a place 

of your own

knowing 

you belong.

Light

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A few measly times

then shoved in a dark drawer

never again to see the light of day 

most poems

will hardly be read 

but we write them anyway:

It's a heartening thought

that we do what we do

not for acknowledgement

or even by choice

but because we are driven 

by some inner impulse

that sings through our bodies 

with the same heart-pumping force 

as has always existed 

from the very beginning of time

the force 

that set it all in motion

and dispersed throughout the universe

in the energy of stars  

the force we express

in uttered syllables

"Let there be light"

which was the first poem

and is the meaning

of every poem

ever written

since.

A well-made bed

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Dirt in my hands

Cash in my pocket

Seeds in the sand

A plug in the socket.

Water in its banks

The runner in his race

The ship that once sank

Is still in its place.

The grief-stricken moon

That will never leave

The unforgotten tune 

The trick up my sleeve.

There's a place for me

Another for you

A place for somebody

A place for the Jew.

A question has a choice 

A thought has a head

The sound of my voice

Like a well-made bed.

A night ends and starts 

A day starts and ends

The whole has its parts

And we say Amen.

An idea that takes getting used to

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An idea that takes getting used to:

Your firstborn daughter 

gets married.

She flashes the gold ring

and suddenly the tiny hand

you clutched so tightly at the park

as she slid down the slide

or swung on the swing

no longer looks familiar.

You stood by 

as she went from hardly making decisions 

to making most decisions,

some good, some bad,

some with more head than heart

and vice versa

and you always felt part 

of that back and forth

like a clock's pendulum

as her days ticked forward

there were decisions 

you scrutinized 

looking for signs of character

or lack of it, 

decisions you judged 

in your head, tongue held,

and others you couldn't hold back on

but not this one,

the only one that truly matters, 

with a gravity

that will make it stick

hopefully 

the choice of a lifelong partner. 

Now you're on the sidelines

a bystander

and it occurs to you 

for the first time 

she's always been her own person,

she never belonged to you,

all you ever really had

were memories, expectations 

and hopes;

One line follows the next

with an end rhyme

or without one,

there's a rhythm to it

a sense 

you're trying to catch

and you feel alone 

you don't get it 

like one

who learned in school

how to hate poetry.