the path at the edge of the sea

there is a path

at the edge

of the sea

on the southwestern shore....

it leads not over the tawny hills

burnished with golden crackling grass

and dotted with cockle burrs....

it doesn't wander the sandy dunes

flirting and playful, chasing

the inconstant breeze....

or seek for shade under the eaves of

crumbled greying bluffs....

and it's not always there....

it shifts and moves --

it rides the tides,

lifting and falling

through crystal night

on sparkling silver waves.....

when the planet aligns

so that moon and fog and earth and sea

are all in agreement....

and with no fanfare --

this rolling fountain of diamonds appears....

to any who come to the shore

and brave their inner silence....

free enchantment....

riches....

secrets revealed....

to those who look....

•

often the moon lies hidden for months on end....

muffled under wooly layers of

marine fog....

wandering the beach,

longing for your appearance....

i wonder....

when my gaze will find

your magic

your glimmering promise....

•

we stand here

all alone,

we think....

encapsulated in our skin....

our thoughts....

yet filled with

whirling energy....

electrons and protons zinging

constantly through our charged bodies....

we glow with hidden life....

we teem with what we cannot see....

like the waters....

the grasslands....

the secret standing woods....

all, even the air

is replete with life

watching us

heads tilted

curious....

but indifferent....

the merest rocky outcropping

propels a thousand lives along their days....

and every moment,

a million possibilities

swirl in our direction....

and still --

there is

longing....

•

have you once looked on

that shifting silver path?

those white-hot sparks

leaping and grouping,

dancing on the cold black liquid below?

have you never pined for it?

and for at least a moment imagined

walking out upon it....

to some undreamt-of future?

standing in the between

of earth and sea and sky....

do you never catch your breath

with the sudden knowledge

that we are as alone

as this glimmering path?

....and as full of dancing sparks....

______________

© 2010

Beth Anne Boardman

(image courtesy andrew.gd)

leaving/the riptide

each leaving
resurrects
all separations….

secret
painful
twinges riffle
our dancing spirits….

coming apart,
we know fear
and we know doubt….

with exactly the intensity
of the sweet whispers we shared….

it’s as though, sometimes,
a riptide
carries us farther and
farther apart….

and though we swim and swim for shore….
we lose sight of one another….

and so
we must float….

we must turn
and swim parallel,
softly….

•

it’s been months since you were here….

but i feel you in your absence….

mostly in the darkest hours
when the silence is touchable
and a great horned owl calls
only to me….

i feel the great love of the universe
waiting just outside my walls
waiting to rush in,
fill me where
it used to fill me….

i’ve been playing with it,
like the tide –
chasing it,
then running away….

it’s waiting for that sigh it knows so well,
that sigh of surrender,
of ‘yes’
of ‘yes and yes’….

•

right now,
floating in this gentle
undertow,
sun warming my face….

i know
that breathing
and swimming
i will find my way
to my own shore again….

•

life crashes over me
with a terrible kind of beauty….

i live and love this present….

but sometimes pictures
of our last soft morning
drift into my mind....

like gauzy curtains,
blowing on a breeze –
flickering
across my memory –

taking my breath away
with their innocent unformed promise….

igniting in me a tiny soft glow:

i am vital, alive,
i am living the mystery….

•

and so i swim softly,
breathing,
grateful,

humming a tune of love—
to this great ocean that birthed me….

finding my way to yes....

____

©2010
Beth Anne Boardman

amazement is a choice

amazement is a choice….

green leaves are not….

here are the things that amaze me:
everything.

but only if i sit still and stop worrying….

mary oliver says that there is singing in a leaf….
i believe her….

i’m pretty sure i’ve heard them singing to me….
or at least whisper….

i remember once
hearing great sheaves of palm fronds whispering over me
as i napped
in the middle of a sundrenched june,
cradling the jumping daughter inside me….

i remember hearing the soft voice of my husband
murmuring to our little son
on the patio outside our bedroom window --
and my son’s lilting voice,
asking the most adorable questions about bugs….

all these long years of happiness and disaster later,
these memories still bring sweet tears to my eyes….

and those palm fronds are still whispering….

i’m convinced
what they whisper
are blessings….

and now i know the secret to amazement --

even amid chaos
even in noisy bars
or midtown traffic….

if i can just remember to touch it….
silence flows everywhere….

it’s how the old wise ones have developed such deep laugh lines
around their eyes and mouths….

practicing their buddha smiles….

they’ve been finding amazement
in the dirt
in love
in despair and tragedy….
in rain and mud and starvation and dancing….

in shattered last breaths....

some call it magic
some call it god

and some miss it altogether
racing around in their twirling dramas…..

and that –

that, my lovely friend,

that is amazing too…..

_______________
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman


[mary oliver's poem
'what can i say'
appears in
swan: poems and prose poems
boston: beacon, 2010]

washing my father's feet

[for my sister, on the eve of all soul's day]


descending through the night,
i see the new moon cradle its shrinking shadow….

it hangs suspended in the crystal black sky

above city lights
watercolored
by the first drifting wisps of marine layer….

the lights look soft and smudgy,
whiskering their pastel colors across vast empty parking lots,
and impromptu fields and wetlands….

i follow them with my eye,
their softness easing my homecoming….
like landing into a bed of cotton,
not the harsh cold real asphalt of life….

we sink and sink, coming down from
the crazy liminality of space and time and dreams and grief,

and pictures of you flitter around the edges of my
blackness….

i see your burly shoulders,
with just a little hair on them,
which used to scare me…

i see your white muscle shirt, your bermuda shorts,
your brown dress socks and old loafers
and the shock of your extremely white legs
mowing the lawn on a warm summer evening….

all the kids loved our lawn best, it was soft….
and dark, dark green….
we could tumble ourselves silly and lay on it forever
and watch the clouds
and never get itchy….

i see a white stetson hat,
a salt-and-pepper mustache,
and a sometimes silly grin
atop a grey suit
or your blue church one….
the one i asked you to wear to my wedding,
and you did….

i see your shiny brown pointy-toed cowboy boots,
and i can still smell your aqua velva…..

i see you carrying an axe in your strong
leather-gloved hands,
stomping through the snow ahead of us,
laughing, actually, amazingly,
as we children raced around running and screaming
through the trees,
completely wrecking the mountain stillness
in our excitement to choose a
christmas tree for you to chop down….

i see you angry after work,
swinging a sledge hammer with intensity,
splitting wood
like maybe you were splitting heads….

i see you powerful,
scary,
the judge, the jury, the jail….

and

i see you gather up

your rambunctious, rebellious, willful, noisy,
half crazy, half wild,
not indoor not girly daughter….

pick her up, with her bloody foot,

back from her tricycle adventure
through a construction site,
exploring piles of lumber….
and dirt clods bristling
with rusty nails….

you held me so softly
in those strong scary hairy arms
and murmured all the fatherly things i always wanted to hear….
as you washed my feet in the sink….

and i see myself,
a lifetime later

sitting on the floor

washing your feet…

you, a smaller man,
bent, and wrinkled….
still able, though,
to both twinkle and be angry….

i see our lives coursing through my blood
and my memories
as i lather and rinse and dry….

i see you still holding the power to bless me
as i gently place your feet on a soft, clean, white towel….

and say to you that i hope, in my life,
i’ve made you proud….

‘oh yes!’ you say,
in answer to my girlish question….

i see you wiggle your toes at me
and smile as i rub them with lotion….

and i wonder what miracle on earth
brought me to this moment
in my life….

that i should sit here
at the end of yours
in silence
and trust
and love….

washing my father’s feet….


________
©2010
Beth Anne Boardman

2 June 2010

photo courtesy brian boardman

dark wings

i sensed the dark wings gathering….

through the ethers things happen that we can’t control –
even through prayer,
even through supplication, or the wild twistings of grief,
even through temper tantrums and contrite pleading…

the mystery moves in its own way,
so far beyond our own ken….
which is so good….
for how often we muddle things up when we have our way!

look at the perfection that can be arranged for you if you let go
and release your grip on rightness…. on safety…. on predictability…..

a brother can turn up at his mother’s grave after eighteen years
and meet all his siblings….
and they can have ice cream and plan their secession from the city,
and laugh
and cry
and be utterly, irrevocably amazed….

and healing can flow through and around each of them
absolutely without their control….
only because they all gave in to the mystery,
and followed the promptings of the dark wings….

became quiet enough, and humble enough,
and allowed enough love into their beings,
to feel the directions,
and follow their hearts
to each other….

and all is not wild honey or thornless roses or eternal butterflies….

but the limitless magic in letting go made itself known,
and wrapped itself around them like a cloud,
like a mist made partly of tears, and partly of the sighs of a mother….

and we felt her giggled blessings,

and allowed each other’s imperfections to find a loving spot within us….

this is the great blessing
of the dark wings:

love
wild and sad
soft and flexible
accepting of imperfections
acknowledging of pain and need

and one another….

laughter
funny stories

and parting with the truth of a sharp knife…
painful
quick
forgiving….

the dark wings quietly wreak their magic
and rain down blessings on those that give in to them….
those who agree to live in love and pain….

with a side of surprise and delight….

_______
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman

4 May 2010

(photo courtesy kyle harrington)

unaccountable love

there’s really no great reason i should feel this glowing,
this swelling in my chest….

there’s no reason other than that it’s a sunny day,
cold, but sunny,
and my daughter left the house with a smile….
and my son was here yesterday and made me laugh….
and the hills are growing greener, like emeralds, every day….

and there is wonderful music in my ears,
songs about romeo and juliet, and
unaccountable love,
and arriving together….

and once i loved a man….

and though we couldn’t see ourselves together,
it was beautiful and rare….

so love is here, nevertheless….
it’s a place of strength for me,
and weakness….

to close my heart would be weaker though….
staying open, i am free to love everything….
and i do….

i love everything,
even tears….

even stars on a lonely night….
even other lovers, entwined, walking,
even the empty place in my bed,
where love should be,
was….

it’s all good,
it is….
love love love is never wrong….
it’s the path of courage and pain,
it’s the path of beauty and triumph –
it’s the only choice, really….

to love takes me deeper into life,
into pain,
and thus into joy….
because i can’t know joy without this pain….

so i love

and i get busy with the business of living,
going around with this secret glow
in my chest….

this unaccountable love….

____
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman

feeding frenzy

like piranhas
we gather
around those who have
what we want….

so ready to jump –
ready to feed….
ah!

•

females,
glittering and giggling,
jiggle and sway,
lean and pose
exhibiting….

offering….

a lure?
or a trueblooded mina?

in exchange….
for what?

a padded life
a cell….

infinity….

•

will these lean and shining men
to whom they ply their wears
seal them into
ziplock bags
safe
against all
threats
to their unborn children?

ah, life encased in plastic….
safe….

plastic inside them….

safety….
ah!

•

guts-y males
aswell with bravado,
and what they think is humor,

proffer wallets stuffed with power….

or with gleaming chests
and slickened hair
speak
eloquent
pheromone….

magnetic,
resplendent in their desire….

because in you, my dear….
i see my youth,
my children,
my eternity,
my future

infinity….

yes, yes, you complete me….

•

oh
how comically
we scrabble
to outwit
that
which
never
loses
sight
of us….

how long and far will we run
on these
shaking legs?

why outrun
the owl and the snake?

only the old ones know
if we should even try….

•

oh, we offer nothing, nothing
when roped endlessly into this mating trance….

we circle,
and prey….

we dance
the dance of the centuries
inside these sparkling, dream-dazzled rooms….

outside
the world whirls on….

soldiers spilling blood
for our

right to ignorance….

children
watching them

•

somewhere travellers
wonder onward

seeing feeling falling….

circling in a different dance….
gaining intelligence
and beauty
and love

while we wait in smoky, crowded darkness,
for someone to cure us
of death….

________________
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman