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Columbia River Gorge

Exult Road is here to uplift and celebrate life, and you. 

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The Short Way Home - a poetry blog


Jill Cooper

Blink, we are here.

Blink, we are there. I am

but a star, of a star, becoming a star.


Intent is the shooting star,

who remembers itself

on the way to the next glory


A seagull's diction is both

of this world and of it's origin

the seagull is emanating


always his translucence, density both

part of the many stories we weave around

our oxford commas, our goals, our nows


So many nows

So many stories

So many overlapping stories


Tell them through the cells and electrons,

tell them well, because they will live forever,

they already lived forever


you are off the clock!

because there are not minutes

Rest, like you got off work and

there is no more to do


except to live, because

you are still here, being

emanating, dancing your mimes


sweeping bread crumbs

for the dying rooster

with joy in your heart,

with tears in your blood


remembering your origins

takes the focus of a disciplined monk

or, the delight of a kicked off shoe


the strength of deep pools of

eyes, so long waiting

or, the raunch of neglecting a pet


and then it comes and the

emanating is a petitioned thing

you are not afraid to dance about


You are brave enough to say

that your fighting had it's purpose

which was to end your fighting,

to find


ever lost, your favorite toy,

your other sock, your man or woman

your ego, your watch, your wings,


the wings that live in your electrons

like tips that skim lightly

on the whole affair


and break it out into

days, month, and ages,

first boyfriends, first jobs


first hate, first drilling down

deep into your paper brains

with a jackhammer at church


or in the lines of a book before

the thrumming of truth

came to you on the back


of a golden beetle

of a long love letter

of a coffee filter

of your love's  hand


that wasn't still enough.

because how can truth be enough

when it leaves you standing

there with your streets of


gold and mansions awaiting

and praises in chorale

permaculture heaven?


There is not then and there,

and later and tomorrow, and

yesterday, though you walk through


 time's foggy fun and games,

the curtains drawn for

your personal string quartet


the dying rooster, the skip skip

of a wheel and the rotation

in your mind, in the circling


satellite of minds grandest

plans and ideas and screams

from moms who are giving up


way too soon, and even her

giving up is a holy offering

like the contents


found in a little boy's pockets

plastic, living, dead, replicas,

shine, fluff and grime


all glory in that as when

the time it seems to take

 to break the cast of attitude


and wing it

wing it better than last time

or worse and dive in again


Be with the seagulls fighting

and say that's just what seagulls do

we can choose that till


that lonely, moment when you

can't choose that and your tea suddenly

tastes like benediction


and fulcrum and everything

crumbled into a forever lasting

now, call it joy if you can still


use that word through the

tingling bliss of it all

through the freedom and sadness


of watching your jealousies

pile up together on one corner of the

room like dust bunnies


attracted by the real way out of

here, so fragile and easy

to ignore, or let them go


all molecules and messages

from your clothes and the other sock

just vibrating with a fuzzy plexus


of your most important stories

Stories make the world

or do they?


Stories are not your definition

your outline, your launch pad,

your recipe, not even your teachers


Let them vanish for one day, and feel


the inside of your skull and tongue and

glands and cells and deep deep deep to

the blood without end to the real edges of you


that stars that are watching through your blood

and loving the way you choose to find

everything out


to begin your slow-dance with god

to begin to sparkle with fearlessness

and to keep asking all the while

What is this?


still loving the way he walks, your satellite

of hearts and carbons and gardens, you snoop

around the multiverse now, finally and watch


It all gather into fires, and flies and clocks that

fluff up gray and light into some corner

of the grand room and you squeal


with delight up and out from your vast

throttle,  like a seagull feels, momentarily

limitlessness, when it seizes height and dies


and doesn't die because it was never

born but intended itself into flock

and practice and bodiliness.


Let this star ring through you.

Let your tardiness aver  fresh

let your shaking tears not feel


so good they scare you away from

the sacred hot, dry, desert joy

where you find the door to finally


come on in. Invited. As you are.

always, with that bird on your shoulder,

with that lack of focus, with that

beautiful painting in your messenger bag


with that diary written on feathers,

with that waiting keeping you

broken down, refining your points

making you, carving you, loving you


come in with all that clutter and mess

and story and dance, and heart

split right open


What if it never ends?

No rest at the end?

What if you are of a long everlasting

dream? What will you make then?


What if everything is allowed.

What if you feel your soft landing

return into the morning body

(the one in which you currently tenant)


What if, like blood being a moment, you

feel your moments being love, you

feel your love being food, stars, ink


Feel your love being dance

feel your dance on the banks

where your freedom laps around


your precious ankles and cools your feet

shakes out what's broken

(nothings every broken)


 What if you feel your emanation

from origin and where you

are going and where you have always been.


Okay, now come on.

Bring this story around to orchards

and the ball sinking into the basket and awe

at the coral wall under water, the orgasmic gasp,

and the scream of the baby when


she emerges from between mama

thighs in blood and stars and into the

plane of tiny things like clocks

mountains.  just for scale


let's bring it around in circles to

guitar strings and olives and

penises and vaginas,


cute outfits, and good harvest years,

ungiving partners, sorry cable companies,

unpainted masterpieces, malls


let's go in there together

and untie it, unleash it, unchain it all

will use a little magic too


finally, till your blood

in these circles knows how to quiver

in its work and be bone-still in its playing

and exhausted to the core by its boundless bliss


and know that you were free

all along


--Jill Cooper

©Exult Road