Saturday, June 20, 2009

Dilemma II

Dilemma II

When I last opened the door
We just stood there,
Looking at each other
Over the threshhold.
I asked her in.
She declined, mumbling
Something about having
Been alone too long.

So I shut the door.
(Well, truth be known,
I just nudged it barely to...)

Of course, I kept my eye on her
Through the peephole. I felt
A bit like Alice...
And she looked back
Over her shoulder at me.

And here we are again.
She’s there again on the step.
I have opened the door a crack more.
“Keep your head.”
“Slow down your heart.”

I would like to step out,
Take her hand, and stroll down
Through the garden gate to
Wherever it leads.

Even if it led nowhere,
we would have gone there together.


Autumn Rush

Leaves begin to turn and fall,
Pile against the fence,
Scatter against the wall.
I think of you this time of year..
August in my heart,
September in my ear.
This winter will be cold--
Trees stripped, without cheer,
And I am growing old
Without you here.
© Anne 2008

Sunday, June 14, 2009



In my mind
Love is waiting at my doorstep.
The porch light is on.
Shall I leave the safety chain on?
Or just throw the door open
And say, “Come in.”

Perhaps just knowing someone
Is there...
By the lilies
By the rosemary
By the hibiscus
Flowering in the heat
Is enough...

© Anne 2009

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Tarot Confession

Tarot Confession

Deep down inside, past the masks, 

far beneath the brave exterior,

I still believe in magic.

I see the Magician, 

standing before his altar table,

calling my lover to me.

I can see the Knight of Swords, 

in full armor, charging in with sword drawn,

to insure that my dreams come true.

I can see the Ace of Cups,

and the chalice in the outstretched hand

is always meant for me.

And I stay poised, on the edge,

looking blithely into the sky,

Ever and always The Fool.

© Anne 2009

Karmic Lament

This poem is based on the archetype of the Wounded Healer.

Karmic Lament

I have opened so many doors

For others to walk through;

I have loved so often and well;

I have forgiven so many times

That the leafy shreds I use

To bind my wounds are worn as well and

Sigh for my deliverance.

Love, deliver me so that

I may be enveloped in your comfort;

Hold me in your lap.

This time, open the door for me;

Welcome me to surrender.

Welcome me to the care

Of a loving trust, for I cry,

Kneeling, bruised, weeping from

Wounds that seep so slowly

My breath is but a sutured sob.

And know, Love, that I cannot do

Again what I know I must.

© 2007 Anne

And I didn't. I pulled the arrow out and my wound is healing. Adios to that archetype.

25 May 2010 For my Mother

My Mother passed away 6 years ago today. She was 86. She was an All-American Leo, born 19 August 1918. Mom was popular AND kind. She was head cheerleader in high school, something I didn’t learn until she was 80; a woman came up to her in a restaurant and thanked her for being so nice to her in high school. The woman said she lived on a farm out of town and that Mom was the only girl who would talk with her. Mom attended Texas Tech in 1936, when there was only a men’s dorm and a women’s dorm--and a tunnel between the two, but the Dust Bowl drove her out of Lubbock. She married my Dad in 1939 and I was born in May of 1941. Six months later, Dad went overseas, ended up in Africa with malaria, and didn’t return until 1945. We lived during those years with my great-grandmother, Martha Washington Pouncey Post, at 1205 East Main Street in Gatesville, Texas. I used to sit in the swing on the side porch while my Mom curled my long blonde hair into long ringlets. But I also remember sitting in the window seat and watching the convoys of soldiers stream down Main in endless ribbons of khaki.
Mom’s sisters and her brother lived a few blocks down with my grandmother, as their husbands were also overseas; my uncle was still in junior high. We were truly a society of women--Southern women--who held it all together during those tough times
Mother was a lover of poetry, so part of my fondness for poetry stems from having heard her all my life reciting various passages of poetry as she went about her daily routine. Her favorite poem was “Maude Muller.” She knew The Bible and was readily equipped with a verse for any occasion. She was also an accomplished pianist, and as part of my reward for dusting the piano each Saturday morning--besides my 50-cent-a-week allowance--she would sit down and play my favorite Chopin or Beethoven. While Mother could read music and took lessons for many years, she could also play by ear and played all of the standards from the War Years as well as a mean boogie-woogie. She also loved the music we were growing up with--Elvis, Santana, Led Zeppelin. Her first concert was a Santana extravaganza. My Mother’s love and support for me--in the midst of my triumphs or defeats, joy or despair--never flagged. She never judged...She simply observed. Not a day passes that I don’t miss her, but she seems to know when things get tough, and she makes her presence known in some way. She was and is the Best Mother in the world.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

The Rock

The Rock

I was just thinking
How strange it was
To have loved a rock in the garden…
To have stared at it, examined it,
Studied its eccentricities,
To have felt that I knew it
Sitting in its place for so long…
And then one unexpected day
To have stumbled over it,
Knocked it askew,
Hurt my toe, and
To have discovered the soil
Clinging to its underside,
The mould,
The beetles scurrying underneath,
Finally exposed.
The dark underside.
© Anne 2008

The Magnificent Inconvenience of Love

The Magnificent Inconvenience of Love

Well, here you are. Everything has worked out the way you planned it. Life has a certain comfortable flow to it, and you are feeling quite engaged and self-satisfied. You have managed your relationships or the lack of one so that you are comfortable and they are convenient. Your career is just where you want it and the timing is perfect. You are quite sure that you can see down the road just far enough to feel secure.


Love walks in. And what on earth are you going to do with Her? She is messily inconvenient, She disrupts schedules, She arouses feelings you had compartmentalized quite nicely, and She is persistent. You manage to push Her down in one spot and damned if She doesn't pop up in six others. Your priorities change, your thoughts become tattered,  you are half-way angry at yourself for being so pleased with yourself. And there She stands, smiling at your confusion, delighting in Her talent for disruption, taking all the credit for your glowing appearance, and, to make matters worse, She smirks. "Thought you were done with me?" She asks. "Well, I'm not done with you."

Just trust. Time is the test of true love....  

Copoyright Anne 2007

Love-Sick or Love-Well?

Paul talked  about the difference between John-the-Baptist consciousness and Christ-consciousness, making the case that John was operating from his head and Jesus from his heart. Paul's point was that one's intellect can only get one so far; intellect might open the door, but the heart must walk through it. This is all borne out in a later metaphor when John loses his head. Jesus, of course, gives his life. Well, that set me thinking about the difference between being "love-sick" and "love-well." The second term I think I invented. To be "love- sick," I think, is to be in love in the head: to obsess on the other person, to wonder what that person is going to do next, to make choices on what the other person might think of one. Psychologically, to be other-directed. To be "love-well" is to want to be able to give one's self to the lover, to trust that the other person is okay, to make healthy choices based on one's own individuality. Psychologically, to be inner-directed. The intellect and the heart are in a constant dance with one taking the lead and then the other. I hope that the heart has the last dance...



This child of the moon,

this dweller in the woods,

flashed into my sphere,

knocked me off course,

reeling into another part of the sky.

This child of the moon,

this dweller in the woods,

broke me open, bare,

drank me up,

leaving me with love’s long, spent sigh.

This child of the moon,

this dweller in the woods,

waxes, wanes,

hides, reveals.

Bliss and pain mingle in her woods,

lit by her moon, fueled by her tears.

And I am here,

bare, open, frightened by her light and her dark.

But here--

transformed by her moon

lost in her woods.

copyright 2000 Anne

If I Could

"Deep inside, we know that there is often nothing we can do to ease another’s pain, and we don’t know how to live with this knowledge."

The Invitation, p. 39

If I could, I would hold you gently in my arms,

Then tightly and securely.

If I could, I would brush your forehead with my lips,

Then your lips with mine.

If I could I would turn your hand and kiss your palm,

Then hold it next to my cheek.

If I could, I would dab away your tears,

Then kiss your eyes dry.

If I could…

If I could…

If I could…

If you would let me, I would take away the fear,

Then show you it’s a sham.

If you would let me, I would jump with you,

Then watch the abyss disappear.

If you would let me, I would tell you how I love you,

Then show you how that feels.

If you would let me…

If you would let me…

If you would let me…

© Anne 2008

Sleeping With You

I awakened this morning to find my eyes still moist:

I wondered, "What happened?"

Then I remembered

Reaching for you once again…

Tapping the space next to me…

Feeling the pillow where your head should be.

Sleep is more intimate than sex:

Sleep demands trust, openness, vulnerability but

In a different dimension.

Lying beside someone,

Dreams open,

Truths revealed unwillfully,

Breathing in another's scent as familiar as

One's own,

Comforted unaware.

How I long to reach across that

Long, uncharted space and

Find you there.



I saw the rose in you:

Armed, deep-rooted, but

Capable of such fragile beauty

Even God must have nodded approval.

© Anne 2008

When This Ends

When this ends

Will I know what happened? 
Will I still be in the bin marked
"Lost and Found"? 
Will the images have disappeared? 
Will your voice hum softly? 
Will I still ask, "Why?" 
Will I wonder, "When?" 

Will I still be in the bin 
With women rummaging through me? 

Where will I be if this begins?

copyright 2008 Anne


she can take care of herself.

she is stubborn and independent.

she is smart and intuitive.


she does not realize that

putting her head on my shoulder

lets her take care of me.

Each Breath I Take

Each Breath I Take

In my dreams last night

I heard her voice…

I had been shedding my skin

To grow new defenses, but

She found me vulnerable,

Visceral, open, undefended.

Now I will never grow a skin

Thick enough to keep her out…

She seeped into me,

Took over my breathing,

Heated my blood.

She is in me now.

Each breath I take

She tells me that.

© Anne 2008

An Instant

The week was long without you.

There is always this tension

Like watching a bird teeter back and forth

On a line above the garden.

I wonder to myself but I don't say it:

Will she stay?

Will she fall?

Will she fly away?

If I held out my hand, might she fly to me,

Perch for an instant on my finger,

Hesitate or linger... 

Even if she lit and flew away

I would have that instant



© Anne 2008....

In the Mist

In the Mist

My lover used to come to me

In my dreams and

Wrap herself around me

Like the mist curls around the cattails

On the edge of a pond.

She would lift me and

We would float together

On our dreams,

Entwining as lovers do,

Lifted above the worlds of impossibility.

My lover used to come to me

In my dreams and

Lay her head on my shoulder

Like a bird settling into

Her nest of twine and twigs.

I would hold her and

We would settle in more deeply,

Daring the serpents of the world

To invade our space of dreams.

My lover used to come to me

Through the mist

In my dreams…
copyright Anne 2008

Archipelago Series

copyright Anne 2008


Archipelago II

The islands of the Aegean Archipelago

Were scattered like the islands of

Her memory of Helen.

The largest was the landscape of love,

Shared, then lost, the most populated with memories.

Then on to the most craggy of the lot:

Rough spots, cliff-hangers, if you will--

Some that had left them dangling by a fraying rope,

Some whose views from the top had been mesmerizing.

After that, the smaller islands:

One, merely a glance;

Another, a longer look across a table;

The next, a tear that left a trail of black down her cheek;

Finally, the smallest but dearest--her voice.

The islands fade now, but her voice

Is the chime of memory

Each time the wind blows.





Archipelago III

Islands keep appearing.

Some slowly,

Some jutting up abruptly,

Some playing Hide and Seek

Like my dream lover.

She appears, she disappears,

She is angry, hurt,

Sometimes consoling,

But always indignant,

Justified, always right, and


Alone is the largest island:

Safe, a fortress against feeling,

Like Jonah in the Whale.

The islands that jut up in this

Sea of Consciousness are

Small but potent:

The most rugged islands are

Pain that others caused and

Memory that refuses to forgive.

"Lean into the sharp edges,"

Helen Keller said. She bled but

She could see for the first time

A world that had denied itself to her.

And there are other islands,

One for business,

One for the impersonal voice,

I get to visit often—like going to the mall.

Like reading the daily paper—

Mundane, pedestrian, ordinary,

Yet still compartmentalized—

Shall I go to this store? Or that?

Shall I read the sports section?

But once I saw that private island,

The one where my lover lives,

The one that is vulnerable,



My ship keeps steering there-

Calypso II—

And I want to be her captive.







Archipelago IV

These islands are my own and

They are uncharted as yet.

The first crude maps gave only

An imperfect representation,

Like an old sheet of Polaroid film

Whose development had stopped

Somewhere in the process,

Leaving only a suggestion of

What was there.

The later maps got the distances correct:

4,776 miles to London;

4,508 miles to Glasgow.

But from which island?

The largest which offered the most

To its inhabitants?

The one that had been cultivated

To provide the nourishment?

The one with the volcano

That seeped its sorrows?

The one that had been bombed

To test the weapons?

The cartographers had a field day.

How far was it from nourishment to

Seeping sorrows, for example?

Did the tides of a Full Moon

Hide more shoreline?

Where the hell were these islands?

Why did distance matter?

They finally gave up. So did I.

The changing landscape provided

Nothing solid from which to gauge

The distance between each island:

Only the mainland remained a fixed point.

Simple Things

Simple Things

I want to know how your hand-writing looks,

How you cross your t's and make your g's.

I want to know what is on your bedside table

And if you dream of me and talk in your sleep.

I want to know how your hair feels

how it smells and

if it falls off your forehead.

I want to see your toothbrush and

Watch you brush your teeth.

I want to know how you like your coffee,

if you leave lipstick on the rim.

I want to see you dress in the morning.

What do you slip into first?

I want to zip your little black dress.

I want to know your routine.

I want to know if you sleep naked.

I want to see your ears, if they lie close

To your head. If you like them kissed.

I want to see the hair on your neck and

Bury my head in it.

I want to see your nipples. Are they pink? Brown?

What do they look like when they stand up?

How do they feel in my mouth?

I want to see your navel. Is it ticklish?

Is it in or out?

I want to trace the line to your wetness,

I want to smell you,

Feel your wetness in my fingers,

Taste it with my tongue.

I want you in my bed.

I want you in my life.

© Anne 2008

Each Breath

Each Breath I Take

In my dreams last night

I heard her voice…

I had been shedding my skin

To grow new defenses, but

She found me vulnerable,

Visceral, open, undefended.

Now I will never grow a skin

Thick enough to keep her out…

She seeped into my pores,

Took over my breathing,

Heated my blood.

She is in me now.

Each breath I take

She tells me that.

© Anne 2008


Her friend says,

"I hope you find a love that lasts forever."

I found it in her voice, her words,

Her fortress of feelings

Barely showing the first breech.

Battering rams won't work with her;

I tried scaling the wall—cut myself with glass.

Then I shot flaming arrows

Into the courtyard…

They burned themselves out;

She stomped the embers.

But she missed one and

That ember will glow far into her nights.

I am waiting for the breech to widen,

Burst open,


Cover me with the hard stones of her heart

So that I can pick up each one and

Wash it in the stream of my love.

I am waiting.

I am patient.

I am in love.

© Anne 2008