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

how boring to be human

i am glad that,
as it turns out

i live a life
bedazzled by mystery….

•

sometimes
walking the beach
my imagination swirls out
over diamond-touched
waves….

sometimes
tangerine
miniature roses
outside my front door
seem to give me three tiny smiles
as i walk by….

and i love them so for blooming….

is this not normal?

•

i am one of many….

one part of a vast web of feelers….
people who anchor love onto the earth
and can’t stop themselves doing it….

•

i am glad
that someone else’s suffering can keep me awake at night….
glad to care –

glad to try to learn....

these are the things that make me pray in the black night:
love,
love,
and love….

•

and whatever else
these whispered blessings do –

you can at least know,
on the next night that you turn and toss
with your human worries,

that somewhere
people are sending out good wishes –
even though it’s three a.m.,
and most likely they wish they were asleep…..

•••

even if i appear crazed,
even if i sob and can’t see myself through another moment,
because i’ve had to say goodbye to some goodness
or other….

even if suffering threatens to pound me into
a thin veil of myself,

i am glad….

because somehow
this makes me see
more deeply
into the great mystery that i live –

•

i admit, i can’t understand
what causes a child to be born….

or a seed to sprout forth a tiny rootling….

even science hasn’t found those exact neuro-bio-chemicals….

yet i know that science and i at last
must stop measuring –

must resort to metaphor
to explain the inexplicable….

•

really, nothing is completely, neatly explainable,
fun as it is to try….

seeing this, i can revel in the miracle
that suffuses and comprises this world….

even if that miracle is death….
or freewill….
or other things that hurt me….

•

because,
in the end,

each moment connects me to the greatness that is you,
my friend….

as we lie here
completely exposed to the universe….

•

on quiet evenings
i can hear the world
turning underneath its bustle –

its sweet music quivers faintly
through windows thrown open
to warm autumn air….

on evenings
when it seems
like anguish
may etch itself into my face forever….

i remember the thousand miracles,
and i am glad to see the mystery --

how boring, otherwise,
to miss all of this grandness….

________________
©2010
Beth Anne Boardman

the great conversation

yes, oh yes….
i know there is great magic in the world….

call it god,
call it science….

there are a thousand names for
this force….

and a thousand ways to deny it….

so many ways we become smaller than we need to be,
so many ways to muffle our talents and gifts….

in a thousand ways
we throw our gifts back
in the face of god….
of the world….

•••

sometimes, i need a meadow,
it is true…..

a place to lie down in the green grass
and renew myself….

a place to look up at the sky
while lying on the earth
and only be
a connection….

a place where the conversation goes on….
between god and earth,
sky and gaia,
magic and science….

•••

i am not hiding
that i am a crazy
frightened planet-walker…..

but i cannot hide
that i am crazed with love as well
for life in this
huge black void
through which we spin….

•••

at night, in my meadow, counting stars in
the sparkling black sky,
i tell myself the story of my success:

today,
i got up….

•••

let me be the place, god…..
where your conversation grows….

the place where great love lives,
reveals itself in every leaf and storm….

let me be the living result of this great
science experiment
you have set up here on earth….

let me find the way between the living and the dead,
between ardor and heartache,
courage and surrender….

let me follow in the footsteps of
saints and students
lovers and thinkers….

of those who got up each day
in the face of their own nightmares

and ran across chasms
with only faith underneath them….

beside my fear,
let me walk into the gap between the known and
the unknown…..

let me stay a part of
your great conversation....

________
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman

silver mysteries

sometimes the moon
runs its silver fingers through my hair
as i sleep

bathed
in its light

unknowing….

and sometimes i wake up
and catch her
or him

and feel unreasonably loved

because here i’ve been
lying face up,
arms thrown wherever….
head turned towards the window….

and somehow the moon
found its way in
through curtains
mostly closed….

but not enough….

and so i wake up
gently surprised
with silver in my eyes
and on my face

and i look down at my body
my sheets
my arms
all showered in silver
as though
moon-bathing….

and i feel touched
by the soul of the world

here in my secret sleep –

loved –

burrowed down in
a nest
so comfortable i can’t/won’t move….

during these quiet times
i wonder --
what dream did i wake out of
or into –

i wonder –

if i hold very very still
silvered in this magic light

will i find the answer
to that which mystifies me….

if i try not to change a thing,
not my breathing
or my posture
if i try not to even think….

can i keep this silence within me
forever?
this peace, this connection?

so i lay
in between the worlds….

in between breaths
and thoughts….

quietly soaking in
whatever the
silvery filaments
release
around and through me….

love

mystery

magic

sweetness

peace

loneliness

grief

silence

god

or sometimes—

sometimes when i’m awakened
by those silver fingers
in my hair

moving softly over my face

i wake up,
hold still,
and know myself

as part of the great net of
miracles
that encircles this earth –

fed by love
and gratitude
and secret joys

celebrated
in silent silver moments

alone
with all that is…..


____________
© 2010
Beth Anne Boardman