all the dying reach
into the unknowable,
a blooming song born

all the dying reach
into the unknowable,
a blooming song born

all the answers washed away
swirling in the undertow,
the work of tides beyond me
circling, engulfing my feet
fully covering every inch
and stitch (undone)
pulled for wily moon’s musing.
and all that remains, the earth
tides, and sighs,
new wrinkles and aches
the ancient quake rumbles
but shakes this form less wildly.
do I have my sea legs, finally?
or am I becoming the woman
white haired
at the shop on the seashore
open-air fabric market
ocean behind me, encroaching
as the bolt of fabric
mocks my bloomers?
or am I the husband hiding?
seemingly afraid?
or the woman standing
reeling there with feet wet,
the shock of life melt
disintegrating in the shoreline
of all that has been
and is still becoming the mystery?
does it matter?
we are, I am
all of this…

Any doubts as to one core Ruth-truth can be vaporized by this song. It’s the essence of who I am when I’m uninhibited by the crushing program of patriarchal bullshit that ushered me into adulthood. It’s the flag I fly in the face of the moral insanity and misogyny still thriving in that same culture today and spewing out of those who claim love but know nothing of it as they tie their fave scapegoat to the stake.
Yes, I am this, and most definitely NOT a princess:
We used to dance and hug there on the dance floor
and through fields
and by rivers
and lakes
and
a dance made real by the body of our bond
the inevitable creation of souls in unity
and many, many times I fought hard
to ignore the hatchet thwhacking at
the legs, arms of our shared body
I forgave when the first arm hit the dance floor
I really did. I promise.
(and when you berated me for my lack of forgiveness
whenever I mentioned you were actually swinging the hatchet at we
I forgave that too but I can’t do that anymore)
And again, when a leg…
see, crutches can be worked into a dance of sorts
but you can be sure that dance is, well,
it’s a unique dance.
Even someone in a wheelchair can get it to move
and groove to a rhythm made real
by the arms that steer and well
so, when there are no arms, no limbs left
and no medics around to stem the spill
and stop the inevitable chilled corpse
from being exactly that
chilled corpse
there’s no dance, no matter how much you forgive
and there’s a bit of the ptsd response in the presence
of those who wield hatchets in the name of love
see, when you grow up in the presence of such
it takes a while to realize how often
those hatchets accompanied statements of “love”
and how often your own projection of your own love
distorted what was really going on
and you stand there, seeing the carnage
and the bits strewn about
as you read, listen, hear those here and there
waxing on about forgiveness
and how it is so important
and you want to take the bits and parts
the arms, the legs, the blood all over
everywhere
and just shove it in their faces, smear it on their expert cheeks
and ask them to take a huge bite out of the forgiveness cure
see if maybe they can dance with it.
Careful, the floor can get very
very slippery,
depending on who your shared body
comes from…
Don’t mind me. I just have this problem
with pretending
and forgiveness can be such a pill,
that great big high for filling up the holes.
But it doesn’t re-grow the body.
No.
No.
Look up. See the ceiling?
All it represents?
Run fast, run far.
Forgiveness is not the only
sustenance needed to keep a we alive
thriving, nourishing.
Sunshine, let the sun shine.
Love that refuses bullshit
is
more
important than that roof
you beg to keep over your head.
Let me be clear: Especially that roof.
Even and especially God(dess) doesn’t fit there.
Even and especially s/he will not be mocked
though the blood of Christ be tossed
all over the reaping.

my betters stand century, regarding every inch of me below them and i sigh…
the relief of their preeminence, their everything better than me,
always being faithful, seeing without accusation, knowing without words,
rendering without movement except for the sway sighs occasional,
a hymn of ages linking cords of light and dirt,
the above and below granting us all the grace to keep going…
i stand in awe of such company, and the sweetest one, boldly human,
lingering long enough to look up, partake and share.

and these lines lay me down deep inside
in that place where all the untamed bits fret,
caged by the dis-ease of a civilized refinement
and some notions of felling faerie spirits for the greater good.
so i stand here in awe, aware of the coming home
as all that stands guard against the onslaught of chains
bows slightly to the season’s turning
singing golden whispers to carpet earth’s redress.
deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths…
nature won’t be bought or otherwise programmed to forget

maybe these trails lead
somewhere deep within love’s soul
where a lil girl leaps
and heart plays freely
skipping along her power
and the trees sing sight
faeries’ smiles light paths
as eternal youth blossoms
from within time’s keep
and a woman’s face
turns to decades trailing life
her roots finding gold
for in these woods, we’re never old

relentless roil of thunder
reverberating through every layer,
every sigh and song of loss
reaching past and gently tumbling
all these walls fretting against fear.
weary feet follow the deep drumming
and hope’s heart skips beats all the while wondering,
all the while summoning some ancient reckoning.
love and courage beckon beyond the edge,
a plunge for those whose languishing days
are over…

Words fail today for many reasons but mostly because our beloved Naji passed after 19 years on this planet. He has anchored and nourished our family in as much time. And we are grateful. It has been particularly challenging since he decided to sprint towards the finish line as soon as I left town. He knew. This is what the dying do. They wait until you can’t cling another second because you’re otherwise preoccupied. And they leave. We had to assist his passing and it was attended beautifully by Naji’s beloved Marion, eldest of our family. She held him and held herself together while he quietly and peacefully slept his last.
Naji is felt more powerfully today than I’ve felt him in a couple of years. He’s coming through as happy, relieved, grateful. He will forever anchor us as we hold to all that he gave.




gentle turning within
disrupting, kindly disintegrating
all the walls surrounding precious seed
now spilling elixir, filling the soil of soul’s untamed bounty.
an unnamed fullness unfolds.
wholeness insists outside old stories…
and the fall, the loss grows richness where we land…
