You sleep downstairs
the edge of the lake lapping small waves
to the edge of your dream.
It could be me, licking your heart,
caressing the breast of your being.
I watch those waters ripple.

All the way from two stories up,
I feel your hands softly holding my heart.
This is how it has been for us.
Today, it's a cool breeze.
No eagle. No hawk.

Our hearts sail over the water
as if they'd known forever
that this day would come.
There is blue sky and there are white birds.
And I hear the constant drumming
of the one heart that loves me.

Anthony Signorelli

How could I not be happy?
Today you come toward me,
zipping along over the miles,
a hummingbird returning
from another home, to my side
where you belong.
My heart bursts at the thought.

Your picture melts something inside,
and although they don't say it,
sailors who see me ask:
What's up with him?
The answer is: I have a secret.
It makes me smile.
The honey in my heart
is the divine sweetness of you.

This morning I wake
and extend my arm
to where you would be,
but aren't, today.
My heart sinks,
a stone drifting
down through the water
to the bottom of the lake.
That's a cold, lonely place—
no place for a heart,
really, but there I am.

And then the smile comes...
I remember our lips touching,
and the smile grows;
our dance, your hand in mine,
and the smile grows.
Snuggling away the hot night,
my lips part, the smile widens,
this smile is taking up my face!

This must be what
one needs to get a stone
up from the bottom of a lake.
Shh! It's a secret!
And I intend to tell
the whole world!

My list is written. My house clean.
The laundry folded, ready to pack.
I have an inflatable bed;
it fits next to my bike in the van.
Why do I tell you this?
I am leaving on an adventure.
A journey to the center of my universe.
It's a place where my mom lives--
her spirit wandering among the peaks
and the sands of the high desert.
It's her world, not mine. Yet,
my center lives there because she does.
For me, a holy place. I'll bring
awareness. I'll bring reverence.
I'll bring love and hope to catch a glimpse--
a glimpse I never had--of the spirit
of Helen--the mother of my soul.

What would happen if I call to you
across this great valley? What if
my smoke signals rose beautifully—
would you see my heart?
Could you see in the smoke
of my fire, a phallus,
the male god in me
seeking to love the goddess in you?

And if you could, would you
meet me in that fertile valley?
Let me join you
in the deepest place known to man?

We would find God in that valley.
As he connects to mother Earth,
so we connect to each other—
in bodily spirit and divine joy.

Here's the deal: I'm calling you.
That smoke is there. The god
and the goddess are ready.
Come here. Let's go together
...and enter the temple prepared for us.

Peewee bird calls in the pine woods.
A distant jay caws.
Squirrel chatters overhead
as if to scold an impetuous child.
I sit in the silent, still air.
Freshness fills my nostrils
as joy for you pervades everything.

As the critters live their lives this morning,
you are present—your shining smile,
the beaming light within you,
the intensity of your love for me.
I have never been loved this way.
Your heart must channel it from the Earth.
Your being mixes the power of the moon.
You make no comparisons; we do not compete.
You have no need for me; only continuing desire.

I am gifted with your love
as it settles in this still air,
as it reaches me on the song of birds.
I am open. I accept the gift you offer.
I cherish that gift for all that it is.
And as I do, the sun smiles,
the moon nods her enduring approval;
Squirrel, jay, and the peewee bird
sound out their view that now
everything is right with the world.

In an apartment in St. Paul,
a man stands in the window,
looking east. Red rays
and dawn's rosy fingers
spread across a sky
whose message is nothing
...but possibility.

Black birds swirl in unison
as if the undulating air
were two lovers on which
they rode; up and down,
on and off... One can only see
the pure joy of instinct
as the birds obey an unseen
force—the one
that makes even God blush.

That man soothes his heart
in the knowledge the blackbirds
confer. Their story signals
something we cannot know.
There isn't an idea that can
cause that experience; only
the inexplicable joy of the divine
instinct when the right man
and the right woman join.

Presence is everything.
Longing is something.
Absence, a sin to endure.
And here he is, standing alone.

The sun rises and says all these
things, yet he stands alone.
He thanks the sun. He thanks
the blackbirds. He dreams
of her with the saddest
joy-filled heart on Earth.

I walk through life
searching for my mother’s hand,
the hand that never held me,
the beating hand torn from my heart
the day I was born.

*

A boat sailing out on water
returns to the protected harbor
where its riggings clank peacefully
in the South wind.

But I could never find the harbor!
And took tow instead
behind some other ship
that never made it out to sea.

*

And my mother’s hand rests
floating on ocean swells,
waiting, waiting all these years
for a small boat lost in the wind.

Anthony Signorelli

Sometimes
when the moon is full bright
you can stay up all night
and watch the forest.
If it is autumn, you’ll see
a leaf fall if there’s no wind—
many leaves if there is—
or you can hear the owl,
the coyote, or the soft feet
of a critter you can’t quite make out.
Despite the moon, after all,
it is night.

Have you ever stayed up
to watch this night time parade?
To hear the forest’s music?
It’s not always comfortable
but it can take you to the edge
of the hole in your soul.
You can peer over
and into that depth.

At a certain point,
it is too deep
even for that light of the moon.
One wise man looks
and backs away.
The other peers in,
his being fills with wonder,
and before you know it
he leaps and he is gone.

But is he? Is he really gone?
That piece of him
we always knew, was unfinished.
But hasn’t something replaced it?
The man who backs away
is different for having seen,
but he appears to us as the same.
The one who stepped in?
We’ll never see the old one again. 
But his being comes out
on the other side, and with him
we will sing our way to heaven.

The truth is, I’m not sure
about any of this.
But I have stood on that edge
and peered into the darkness—
wondering, curious,
almost hopeful.

…I’ve stood for years.
And more years.
And still to this day,
the moon shadows are still.
All the animals are silent.
I stand on the edge…
I admit in my own shame,
I haven’t the courage to move.

And yet, somehow (this is
the mystery) I am a new man.

Anthony Signorelli

Do you feel it?
That bad, bad feeling in your gut?
Your heart?
The pit of your belly?

Are your arms tense with emotion? 
Do you rub your hands to let the tension go…
maybe without even realizing it?

I do. My brain freezes up too.
Makes it hard to write. 
Makes it hard to think.
Makes it hard to feel.

Because something is so wrong.
Something is so messed up.

We’ve done a U-turn on climate change.
Masked goons are taking our neighbors from our communities.
AI looms dangerously in a way we can’t see.

And always, always… the nuclear weapons.

How do I find my soul in this?
How do you find your soul?

*

It is always tempting to fly away.
To become a free bird
destined for nowhere
or anywhere.

Tension.

How can this be happening?
We know so much. 
We can see it all.
The end game seems so familiar…
Nihilism.
Nothing.
Death.
Of everything.
Perhaps, the end of birth.

*

But does it have to be?
Is there a path back to the abundance
that this world can be?

Perhaps…
Only if we can trust it.
But how do we trust now?

*

I think to know
we need the Earth.
Just as to live
we need the air,
the water,
the sun.

Ah, but there is no sun.
The water is frozen.
You cannot breathe the putrid air.
This is our predicament.

I know you feel it.
We all feel it.

*

Hate is our common bondage.
We want so much to be free!
Freedom does not live in hate;
it lives in love.

But that is too easy to say.

We bathe each day in hate.

*

There must be a way to drain the hate.
There must be a way to meditate
so our fear goes back to its source.
There must be a way to rise.

Where is that free bird again?

*

I wish—
oh, how I wish—
I had the answer.

To let this feeling go.
To let the earth drain the agony.

*

All we have now is determination.
Determination to endure
until these strange times end.
To endure all that comes at us.

For from this disintegration
a firebird will arise
a freebird will arise—
of that we can be sure
even if we cannot know how far away it is
or how long it will take.

We swim in determination.
We live in tenacity.
To operate in our own sphere,
to mold and shape our community,
to protect our neighbors,
to heal the land,
to change all that we can,
to say no even if it isn’t heard.

*

With our feet on the ground
we must dream of the freebird.
We must know that this tyranny
will not last.
We must hold to liberty
and community
and each other
and soul.

It is as if the world depends on it…

and it does.

May the boat of this marriage carry you
to the corners of your souls
where you can fulfill your dreams
and the promises of your lives.
May it take you safely together
across vast oceans of wonder,
those oceans that you love
and have always seen
in each other’s eyes.
May this marriage boat sail you
through every storm, every calm
every soggy, drippy day of duty,
moving on the wind inevitably
toward your destiny.
And may this beautiful boat
lead you to know
that you took care of each other,
that you did well
by that garden that was entrusted to you,
and finally, that you lived fully
this one wild and precious life
with and through each other.

Anthony Signorelli

I’m not really sure how I got here.
Maybe a squirrel carried and dropped me,
or a bird. Once I landed, it was clear:
“This’ll do,” I said, and put down a root.

When you are a tree, certain possibilities fall away.
It’s hard to move, for example. 
Your roots branch out, deeper into the earth.
A sprout goes up; it’s that part of you
that says: “Hey! What’s going on?
I want to stand up and look around!”
And so you do. But the thing is, you can’t move.
A browsing deer is an existential threat.
Same with certain lethal insects.
And that woodpecker? He’ll eat your heart out.

If you survive all this, you grow.
You grow in one place, deepening your roots
every day. Throwing out branches,
giving lazy leaves the sunshine needed
as if laying around the sides of a pool.
Then, these beautiful colors, and soon a very long
winter’s sleep. Again and again.
And then again.

I don’t know how the story ends exactly.
But I know that each year, the roots
get deeper, the branches widen, the leaves
grow larger than each previous year.
That happens to a tree; it also happens to me.

We grow like this, don’t we?
It’s rich and beautiful, isn’t it?
Can’t we all say that this—this
rooting and staying, growing into our beauty—
is exactly why we live in Cable?
Isn’t this why we live and put down roots
wherever we live?

All I know is that I’m glad that squirrel—
who really is a god, you know—
dropped me here. It’s a good place
to become all I was meant to be.

Anthony Signorelli

If I could love quietly
it would be in the small moments,
an appreciation of your hands
as they stack the dishes
or clean the brushes used on your canvas.
I would love you quietly
in the soft way your body leans into mine,
in the way you feel safe, protected,
knowing that all of you is welcome
including your loud love
but without any need to make it loud.

If I could love you quietly,
you’d see it in my sparkling eyes
watching you carry plants in at night
to protect them from the cold,
or dance gently to the music
turning in my arms,
or carefully hang your artwork
or finish the woodwork you created.
It’s not what you do.
It’s the sparkle in my eye,
the sparkle that would love you quietly.

Don’t get me wrong—
Loving you quietly could be
a very loud affair!
I might shout my love 
from the top of Mount Telemark.
I might send it to the gods
while sailing Lake Superior.
I might read a poem about you
at an open mic in Cable.
Or, I might sing my love softly
into your ear—not so loud
but plenty loud enough.
There’ll be no question:
You are well loved!

I have in this dream
just one little problem:
Where are you? 
Who are you?
I stand in this field, right here,
waiting for Cupid’s arrow.
I call on Eros to fly over,
to bless me, to open my eyes
so I can find you. 
I’ve been here for days.
Nay, weeks. No, for years.
Yet, I cannot see Cupid,
and I’ve been hit by no arrows.

Once in a dream,
I stood at the edge of a lake.
Two eagles picked me up by the shoulders,
lifted me high into the air
and dropped me into the water.
I sank to the very bottom of the lake.
I fell through the bottom
as I traveled to another world,
a world where this love lived.

It was quiet in that other world.
It is where I found this gift.
Here, my love. Take this.
It is my quiet heart.
It is my quiet soul.
Wherever you are.
Whoever you are.
I will give my quiet love to you. 

Anthony Signorelli

I opened the bottle
and poured the wine.
Sitting in his kitchen,
the normal thing to do.
Yet not. He’s dead. But… 

His swirling soul stirred
each glass, each word—the smiles
we served each other
on salami and bread.
I saw him making braggiole.
How does a dead man
continue living this way?

No one was there.
I sat at the table—my usual spot.
The wine tasted like him.	
I opened the glass
and saw my reflection.
Then… what was that?
His face, reflected in the window
as if he were inside…
I looked… nothing.
That thin visage was outside,
then disappeared.

As I touched my wine glass to drink,
an invisible hand wrapped
over mine. Neither critical,
nor reassuring; neither warm
nor cold: just there.
I miss the old man,
Yet when I left,
I was never happier to be gone.

Anthony Signorelli

The last time a tear welled
behind your eye, it fell
from another world;
another love you wept for
as I praised our freedom,
and now I toast our love,
and you weep again.

Am I to search for another world?
To ask of Mars and Aphrodite—
like the fool Hephaestus
so embarrassed?
Am I to find again
that you are Venus in another man’s world?
That the contraction of those loves,
not joy, opens the tear-doors
of your eyes?

Or do you weep for our love?
The spring of sensuality
streaming from the eyes and the Eye of God,
our beautiful rose, folding
and unfolding with the heat in our home?

Has a veil fallen
between our eyes?
Is your heart shrouded in
the black cloak of betrayal, 
or is it only the reflection of my own dark robe?

There is so much we cannot know.
Yet, the teardrop opens a path,
falls down the cheek toward the heart,
gives moistness to a brittle soul.
One can get lost in so many questions.

It takes courage to love.
If I find a two-faced Janus standing
at the temple door, shall I salute
and recognize he lives in all of us?
Or shall I deny Janus and prefer 
the pure oneness of everything?

Or, better yet, shall I recognize all truth,
hold it dear, and love you anyway?
Yes, I think that one.
Fill my glass with the wine of love:
“To love in spite of history!”
We each raise our glass,
the glasses go empty, we look
into each other’s eyes,
Mars and Venus and Janus
look away—the eyes tell all.
And now, the whole world… weeping.

-Anthony Signorelli

Sometimes,
I walk down to the water’s edge
and there you are!
My two daughters,
coming across the water to me.
You are moving, I think,
and joy springs into my heart.
Until, that is, you pass by,
almost through me
as if one of us were a ghost.
As you disappear,
intent on some other destination,
my father’s heart cries out
and I weep endless tears
that fall into the lake.

This is the agonizing legacy
of my actions, long ago,
designed to save my soul
but which you didn’t understand.

*

It has been this way for years.
This experience, not unlike the dreams
where your mother comes back,
ends always in this agony
that has become the legacy of my life.
For there has never been a love
as the one I have for you.
It is full. It is constant.
It is eternal. This father’s love
will not end. This father’s tears
will not end. This father’s joy
at seeing your smiling faces
will never end.

Grief is the shared experience
we never shared.

Grief binds our hearts;
it is the abyss we fear
and see in each other’s eyes.
Perhaps that is why
it’s easier to come across the water
like ghosts—by seeing through
we stay out of each other’s abyss.

And yet, I am not out of that abyss.
I love you and I miss you
and I grieve the loss
of your presence and love.
I want so much to welcome you
as you come across that water.
I want so much to embrace you,
hold you, comfort you,
be with you as only your father can;
I get so excited,
and then… you vanish.
As you must. As you should.

But, my empty arms…

They take hugfuls of nothing--
and my heart drops out of my chest
and becomes the water.
I dissolve as I fall
dreaming of you,
praying for you,
singing to you
as if to call out
the beautiful, healed you
I know that you will be.
Whether I see you or not;
whether I hold you or not,
whether we laugh together or not;
that prayer shines like a beacon
on that water.
I hold it there for you
in case you need it,
and I will hold it there 
forever.
For this is the light of your soul
that was given to my keeping.
This is the light of your spirit
I was asked to hold.
This is the light of your being,
the one you touch
and the one you always
return to.
No matter what has happened.
No matter what you thought.
No matter the conflict,
problems, or twisted sticks of life,
I stand here holding
this lamp for each of you.
I will hold it forever, as well as I can,
as only a father’s love can endure.
Please know and believe…
Your father loves you.
Your father loves you.
You father…
	loves…
		you.

Once I saw a white horse
bounding down the hillside.
It carried a woman
who came too close,
swept me off my feet.
In joy I arched my back,
In thrill I flew with her
as the horse ascended
into the air, the clouds, the sky.

Ah, but horses don’t really fly
and despite the thrill
I was trapped.
I had no horse.
I could not fly.
There was no way down.

And so, I ignored the ground.
I hung on for the joy.
The woman and I
made love in the clouds
and I soon dreamed
there was nothing in this world 
but clouds.
I suggested we marry on one
and she said yes.
She insisted on bringing the horse.

That should have been a sign.
But I discovered a funny thing:
You can’t build a house on a cloud.
She wanted to try.
I thought earth was a better idea.
But with her on earth,
the thrill was gone.
The joy left us.
The true story was that we rode
her horse, not mine;
that we flew though we cannot;
that a fairyland can be forever…
all that fell away.
I looked at her
and I did not like what I saw.

After a good fight
she’d disappear
and later ride by on that white horse.
Sometimes I got on it.
Other times I waved in appreciation.
It was, after all, a beautiful horse.
Today, I see the trap—
It is a horse of her world, not mine.
It is a horse of adoration, not love.
And it carried no feeling.

And so when she comes by now,
I wave. 
I wave with no longing,
no want, no desire.
I do not wave to her to beckon,
I wave her on. 
I wave to bless her journey.
I wave to watch her pass.
Her white shirt blows
as I watch her back
and her white horse
disappear into the forest.
I imagine they will head
back up that hill
and go over the top.
I expect
I will never see them again.

There comes a time in a man’s life
when the woman he loves 
is not in the world.
She’s in him. He sings to her, 
feeds her. His joy radiates 
in this creative spirit
of his own soul. 
Who knew how this could go?

I thought I saw her once
in a real woman,
but that was unfair.
Then, I looked for her in moods,
but they are the result of her,
not the cause.
Now I know—she lives 
in the core of my being.

What I’d like to know
is that her shining face,
her golden light,
will be with me always.
But she is fickle,
needs comfort,
wants to know she is welcome.

So, I built an inner chamber, 
a magnificent room for her,
here in the castle of my soul.
Come here sweet princess. Be at ease.
For I am a creative man
and you are the source of all joy.

Anthony Signorelli