works in progress...

anesthesia.

I wake up every morning
looking for a reason to stay here.
I go to bed every night
empty-handed.

My living isn’t worth my breathing;
I don’t have days that make
the rest worthwhile.

I’m tired of lying to the doctors,
what makes their anesthesia
better than mine?
I’m tired of waiting to slip under,
won’t you please just give me a push…

Fill my soul with whisky
in the hope that I might drown.
Yes, I think if I keep pushing,
I can get further down.

All the tell-tale signs are here,
but no one’s looking…

I’m tired of lying to the doctors,
what makes their anesthesia
better than mine?
I’m tired of waiting to slip under,
won’t you please
just
give me a push…


-|03/04/2003|-

chapter 2.

The dawn cracks
a new day open.
The first sound,
the peace
of your sleeping breath.

This is not the way
things are supposed to work.
This is the stuff
of fairy tales and make believe,
not textbooks.

Chapter 2 opens,
a page, unexpected,
unfurls.

Suspend disbelief.
And dip pen into ink.
There is nothing
that cannot be written
on these pages
so new,
they’ve not yet dried.

I take you in,
like that breath of air
so desperately needed
as the mouth
breaks the surface
of the water.

Grief transformed into joy.


-|07/2003|-

EPILOGUE

I danced with the Devil
—fast and furious—
to the mighty whip of the fiddle.

My footwork was fine,
there was a glisten in his eye:
“Fairy tales are for fairies,” he snarled,
“And you my girl, are just that.”

The music stopped.
The room went black.
And I discovered that
the dance I thought the contest
was all illusion
to occupy me,
whilst he killed you
between the reels.

-|04/04/2004|-

works in progress...

Now is.

This is the afterword

for a book that has been burned.

This is the stone

moved on the third day.

This is time stolen

while the Reaper wasn’t looking.

Sometimes the fairy tale

slides off the page.

Tell me the laws of physics
were written for someone else…
and I’ll believe you.

Play this song in a tuning
that doesn’t exist.
Write me a new tune
for a new life.

Rewrite your heart,
rewire your brain,
take a walk on the water,
make me your wife.

-|09/01/03|-

Catch me.

I fell free into

your arms,

needing you

to catch me

against gravity's law,

pulling me down.

You tossed me back

into the sky,

so that I might see

with the vision

I needed.

I descend again

toward earth

needing you

again

always.

-|09/22/03|-

works in progress...

attraction.

Just the thought of kissing her
makes my breath stop_____short


I take communion with a whiskey glass
and learn what it means to love from afar


each step I take with a breath of patience
each breath I take I taste the thirst for her thighs


I carve a place out of my soul
to make room
to think of her


I push her as far as I can from my thought,
but she always reappears - flooding my senses,


sucking the air out of the room




-|12/23/01|-


I find it annoying that I do not know how to make extra spaces between words.

The Mad Farmer Manifesto

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front
wendell berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,

vacation with pay. Want more

of everything ready-made. Be afraid

to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

THE MAD FARMER MANIFESTO:
THE FIRST AMENDMENT
wendell berry

…it is not too soon to provide by every
possible means that as few as possible shall be
without a little portion of oland. The small
landholders are the most precious part of a state.
Thomas Jefferson, to Reverend James Madison, October 28, 1785

1.
That is the glimmering vein
of our sanity, dividing from us
from the start: land under us
to steady us when we stood,
free men in the great communion
of the free. The vision keeps
lighting in my mind, a window
on the horizon in the dark.

2.
To be sane in a mad time
is bad for the brain, worse
for the heart. The world
is a holy vision, had we clarity
to see it—a clarity men
depend on men to make.

3.
It is ignorant money I declare
myself free from, money fat
and dreaming in its sums, driving
us into the streets of absence,
stranding the pasture trees
in the deserted language of banks.

4.
And I declare myself free
from ignorant love. You easy lovers
and forgivers of mankind, stand back!
I will love you at a distance,
and not because you deserve it.
My love must be discriminate
or fail to bear its weight.

works in progress...

summertime.

The blossoms of summer
are many varied:
blondes, brunettes,
red-headed curls;
straight, short, tall
and curvy
(yes, everywhere).

Close-wrapped
fluid expanses of skin
glowing in the sun.
Prim, low-cut,
and low-rider;
limbs liberated from
winter's covering oppression
swaying in the wind.

-| 06/2007|-

slow burn.

I am the slow burn—
the unassuming ember
in the back of your mind
I'm not a flashy firework
nor a 5 alarm fire
I don't SNAP CRACKLE,
POP
or whiz-bang.

I am the heat of the coals
that lingers long into the night.

-| 06/18/2007|-

defying gravity.

switch switched,
mind unhitched,
careens on the
glorious joyride

when the rocks
are lifted,
when the shivs
are pulled,
the body seeks flight

taste of air, airborne
time weightless in ascent;
prayers to the gods
of inertia
never to succumb to gravity.

-| 07/02/2007|-

ahimsa.

ahimsa

Indeed, violence starts at home—in the soul, where we cut ourselves most deeply. This is where we must begin if we are to find peace.

I am the most violent with myself, the most unforgiving. I dislike criticism, not because I cannot accept that I have done something poorly, but rather because I already KNOW that I did, and, frankly, I’ve probably excoriated myself much more thoroughly than anyone else can.

ahimsa
the principle of non-violence.

It begins with the self.

It begins with accepting where you really are, not who or what or where you want to be, but where you really, truly are.

It begins with being gentle with yourself and forgiving yourself for being where you are. You didn’t begin by jumping into a race, but rather with a few tentative steps as you learned to keep your balance and walk.

I live in a broken body; a body that limits both my physical and mental movement, so it is probably of little surprise that my spiritual practice also begins in my body.

I have been doing yoga for several years now, and I have learned how to stand, to walk, to let go and find strength. I’ve learned to find grace, balance, beauty, and relief. I have learned to begin—in my bones, in my muscles, in my exhaustion…and accept my body where it is, even if only for an hour at a time.

I have learned to forgive it for being there—for being in insufferable knots, for being stiff and heavy, for the exhaustion that feels like it goes into the marrow of my bones.

...and then to find compassion for myself.

The world is often a hostile place—so many things hurt or make the hurt worse. And my suffering is invisible.

So young! So healthy! What do you know about pain!?

…I know that I’d like to take the next person who says that to me and put his/her head through a wall--

but....
ahimsa

The principle of non-violence begins at home—in the soul…with acceptance of the truth of reality, with letting go of the harbored anger, and with compassionate movement toward something better.

My teeth still grind between my clenched jaw with anger that my life is work and trying to survive work.

Hatred and depression arise when I am filled with certainty that no one will want to spend her life with someone as broken and lame as I.

Hatred that I have no discipline.

Hatred of the slowness.

Acceptance
of
reality.

ahimsa

“Be not afraid of growing slowly, be only afraid of standing still.” (Chinese proverb)

Easier said than done.

Two hours of yoga and stretching only to be able to stiffly shuffle about, and I still feel like there is a golden eagle riding on my shoulders. It’s hard to not get depressed and resentful. It’s hard to come home and have to do it all alone (except for the kitty, who certainly helps my cause a-plenty).

ahimsa

The gentle returning of oneself home to oneself.

-|08/25/2007|-

works in progress...

Hook between
the 10th and 11th rib--
the part of you
that is a part of me
inextricable
bone.

My soul finds yours
across the great Atman--
that part of god
that is part of you,
a part of me--
inextricable.

-|11/27/2007|-

Freedom and fear,
so inextricably linked.
The uncaged bird flies free--
liberated wings
beating the air beneath,
and so he rises;
free to meet death
on his own terms.

-|09/10/2007|-


I knew a boy
whose dream it was
to be an echo,
and now his dream
realized,
I can no longer speak.

-|09/04/2007|-

works in progress...

continental divide.

I can't get this continent
out of my way
dividing me from you.

There was a time when,
I couldn't get myself
out of my way,

and now

I swirl in swooning vertigo
staring down the abyss
of the darkened past.


-|06/02/2008|-

fault lines.

The continental plates
moved,
making the wound
between them
fresh again.


-|06/02/2008|-

works in progress...

orthopaedic surgery.

when bones
shattered & broken
heal themselves
twisted
they must be
cracked again
to be set right.


07/10/2008 -- I have just been informed that this poem has been accepted for publication in the forthcoming inaugural issue of Weave, a new literary journal based in Pittsburgh. The fledgling editors, Laura and Margaret, are aiming to get the first issue out in October 2008.

works in progress...

My soul tears
bearing the weight
of your secrets.

Pulling blanket
of darkness up
over my head;
morning music
my salvation
without solace.

03/31/2009

WAGE PEACE by Judyth Hill.

Wage peace with your breath.

Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of redwing blackbirds.

Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields.

Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.

Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact.

Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud.

Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.

Make soup.

Play music, learn the word for thank you in three languages.

Learn to knit, and make a hat.

Think of chaos as dancing raspberries, imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish.

Swim for the other side.

Wage peace.

Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious.

Have a cup of tea and rejoice.

Act as if armistice has already arrived.

Don't wait another minute.

~ written Sept. 2001, New Mexico for Poets Against War web site.

Welcome to Rough Branch.

THE MAD FARMER, FLYING THE FLAG OF ROUGH BRANCH, SECEDES FROM THE UNION
—Wendell Berry

From the union of power money,
from the union of power and secrecy,
from the union of government and science,
from the union of government and art,
from the union of science and money,
from the union of ambition and ignorance,
from the union of genius and war,
from the union of outer space and inner vacuity,
the Mad Farmer walks quietly away.

There is only one of him, but he goes.
He returns to small country he calls home,
his own nation small enough to walk across.
He goes shadowy into the local woods,
and brightly into the local meadows and croplands.
He goes to the care of neighbors,
he goes into the care of neighbors.
He goes to the potluck supper, a dish
from each house for the hunger of every house.
He goes into the quiet of early mornings
of days when he is not going anywhere.

Calling his neighbors together into the sanctity
of their lives separate and together
in the one life of their commonwealth and home,
in their own nation small enough for a story
or song to travel across in an hour, he cries:

Come all ye conservatives and liberals
who want to conserve the good things and be free,
come away from the merchants of big answers,
whose hands are metalled with power;
from the union of anywhere and everywhere
by the purchase of everything from everybody at the lowest price
and sale of anything to anybody at the highest price;
from the union of work and debt, work and despair;
from the wage-slavery of helplessly well-employed.
From the union of self-gratification and self-annihilation,
secede into care for one another
and for the good gifts of Heaven and Earth.

Come into the life of the body, the one body
granted to you in all the history of time.
Come into the body’s economy, its daily work,
and its replenishment at meal times and at night.
Come into the body’s thanksgiving, when it knows
and acknowledges itself a living soul.
Come into the dance of the community, joined
in a circle, hand in hand, the dance of the eternal
love of women and men for one another
and neighbors and friends for one another.

Always disappearing, always returning,
calling his neighbors to return, to think again
of the care of flocks and herds, of gardens
and fields, of woodlots and forests and the uncut groves,
calling them separately and together, calling and calling,
he goes forever toward the long restful evening
and the croak of the night heron over the river and dark.