Some prisons have no walls — Looking out, looking in— — I see stem missing bloom, fruit absent seed, trees standing: rootless Hands close enough to feel movement-breeze but never touching; lips kissing only air, feet shod in ponderous boots: toes longing to curl in earth Although outwardly free, within is solitary confinement — — a…

touch and smell blend into connection — She anointed me with oil of frankincense, blended ㅤㅤㅤinto shea butter Spread on my skin, her loving hands, healing hands, hands ㅤㅤㅤin their absence I sense — still Push-pull to heal pain in my back, that circle of suffering, hip to ㅤㅤㅤhip, a stony vice Please please also work my…

a poem of age and blessings — Tell me what it’s like to have so many years — — asked the younger woman I will tell you, spoke the older woman: see my wedding bouquet, now brown — dry — crumbling it’s like that — ㅤㅤㅤBut it’s not It’s blue veins in shrunken hands, hard standing and fall fearing, long afternoon…

Move Me Poetry Battle word: Love — Two white-bearded grammarians argued over one word — ㅤㅤㅤ — Love With angry-shaking-hands the first man trilled: “it is and must be Verb” as action, service, feeding hungry, washing feet, ㅤㅤㅤprayer With disciplined-clenched hands the other droned “Oh I see your point, plausible but untrue: it is and must be Noun” as affection…

with this teacher, let me be student — Disrespectful, I know: to sit on this gravestone but I needed deeper to feel death to know death before my body dies Sitting among the tombs Death opened a dialog promising truth un-guilded: her grave gift to me — — I am bone, grinding to dust, yet that is merely my momentary body…

even scant can bloom — and I saw earth parched putty-gray, charcoal cracks where water was but isn’t ㅤㅤㅤㅤanymore cracks within cracks edges scooping skyward like hands pleading for ㅤㅤㅤㅤrain a single seed in a single crack through labor pains was born into ㅤㅤㅤㅤliving a single desert daisy yellow-skirted stem arching towards destiny, belly filled with seed and ㅤㅤㅤㅤanticipation Writer’s notes: The spiritual journey, at least does mine, feels like walking more through desert than forest, in parched-ness not flowering meadow. My eyes long for forest and meadow, but what is this? Even in dryness can be bloom. And wait! Rains come!

on being bedside as best you can — Behold! said the hospital doctor inspecting my father’s sleeping hands, big hands, strong hands — — before the cancer came to remain as unbidden guest In White Coat he pointed to my father’s right hand: See that place nestled between thumb and first finger? See mine? Full and fleshy See his…

can I listen? — Does your voice sound as cello, perhaps viola ㅤㅤholding a single note longer ㅤㅤthan I can hold a single breath? Then another note — another — ㅤㅤflowing into chords Can I listen as I would: ㅤㅤa plaintive strand of music ㅤㅤeach note — each change— To you as you sing ㅤㅤyour life’s song? Writer’s notes: This second little poem also waterfalled during the same session of “Opening the Mystic Heart through Poetry” as did “When the Other Listens.” It was an evening of open hearts and tears, poems of lost loved ones, of listening and being fully heard. It is precious liquidness to me.

Touch shouldn’t be this difficult — “I’m not sure I would have married you had I known.” My wife said this to me one night. We were talking about our relationship in a rare expression of deep honesty and an almost as rare discussion of my recently diagnosed autism. I have always struggled with touch: the…