For Mom

For Mom

I always remember
Your ink-black hair
Blown into waves,
Rolling away from your face.

Your face: eyes, doe-like innocence,

With midnight kohl liner: a paradox.
And the bittersweet blush you called “rouge”
In a terra cotta jar always shimmering with loose dust.
Once the cork spilled it in your purse
And you just smiled at me.

You used to arrive late before

Every important event.
I would sit impatiently beside you
In the dark car, wanting to go,
Both of us partially lit by the roof light
As you applied your makeup.

Your sharp-squarish face

Has always been a model’s.
Your beauty and confident attitude
Has always been tempered with softness.
A halo of vulnerability circles you.

Though you tried to seem strong

Your humanity always seems to bleed through
Like snow melts and seeps into a sweater.
In the cold I remember you stood in a doorway.
Was the light blue a memory or a photograph?

My mind snaps pictures of you

Your smell is of fireplaces and autumn leaves
I recall smoke in your hair and cold clinging
To a form-fitting wool jacket.
These memories warm me
As I am away from you,
Wishing I hadn’t been so impatient to go.

1
 poems aren’t written for guns

poems aren’t written for guns

We are our weapons: numb machines, dumb machines;

vast sin does exist, persist. Lead leads to wounds, looms.
It is not loaves of bread or blood. Love bleeds, leaves.
The fall. The force: a round fired, freed. Sirens around,
So who heard the sound? Saw blood bleed? The deed is done, the doom –
a windy wintry evening -- centrifugal force. Of course,
frost on the windows, fingers frozen, fear: will it? Bullet
travels in the city, velocity, foreign: a forgotten failure
in math, chemistry, calculus, one of men’s measures of worth
finding values, variables in a world of vengeance, vortexes.

X and y, the only expressions that count. Count: one million.

Matter matters in men’s minds, medicine, malfunctions,
meals, all biology, all dust; mere ash. Solid to liquid to gas.
X and y: graph or last names, chromosomes, genes, growth, groans.
The difference in a face, face value. Do faces have values?
Does a gun have a face? Does memory erase? Where is it?
What? The trigger: Trigonometry, trig, trip, triples
tipping theorems, tripping them. Then men.
Man, hand, gun. Go, gone, got God.

Not gone, but weighing against the hole in our hearts,

the whole of our heart in our chest, our final rest.
Not the feel of a barrel, some weighty substance,
something unnatural, unneeded, unheeded, unhealthy,
wealthy, unwise, unworthy. Industrial lines, their fines, their fury.
He is not the hot sound of bullets piercing silence, sounds of violence.
Not the unforgiving, unforgiven, what was given?
The answer was given, the equation is a question.
Invader. Envision: there will be a quiz on this, this list, this wish.

What is worse? What about force: applied, formula, for what?

Force: face forward, forward march, for April, for spring,
for the ring of a phone, all alone for Easter, for his rising from the dead
for us all, all for us, us all. We all fall. Fail. Awful winter fell.
Hint: her, he, it, hit her...But sir, but sun, the Son. One.
A gun is not a toy, but dread is real, a deed, a dream is dead.
do these things matter? matter again. is it all in the head? I said.
I say again, a gain, a gin, a sin: sine, insane, cosine, ‘cause I’m fine.
I dream of science, of scents, or sins, or – something.
I dream of dying, of flying, of flesh, and fish, and fins and -- listen please --
Don’t leave.

2
 Chef

Chef

He kneads the dough and

His hands bury themselves
As he smoothes and twists the mixture.
His powdery, flour-coated arms
Are white dove’s wings fluttering
In the metallic din of the kitchen.

His weary figure stands

For hours in a bustling room
Filled with clamor and chaos
Does he long to know these souls
That hurry in to see him, these rushing faces
Of tortured lives, full of folds and lines of sadness,
Eyes telling tales of regret and loss.

Has he ever glimpsed downcast eyes

Studying an order pad marked with scribbles,
Mindlessly fiddling with the pen in her hand,
And wished he would find love?

The comforting rapture of love might feel to him

Like the drowsy smell of yeast rising from the oven:
A fresh batch of bread baking, its aroma so familiar.
The women come and go, dreams on their sleeves,
Their lives falling in all around them until
Their final decisions are made.

Women, like stalks of wheat under the summer sun

Need to be handled with tender care
So as not to spoil their essence.
The gatherer collects and handles the wheat,
Being careful not to grasp it too strongly
And breaks the thick, tough chaff.
Inside the cell sits an essential grain waiting to be found.

But wheat grain is nothing without the chef’s hands

To mold it into something useful and necessary.
His hands ply the flour mixture until it is soft and usable.
His hands drop to the board with a rhythm,
Fingers working the dough to smoothness
As the knocking of wrists against wood keeps time.

3
 Partly Black

Partly Black

A mouth’s corner twist

and squint of long-lashed eyes
caught in laughter -
carefree, spirited flip of hair,
black ink in Chinese wash paintings:

finality of ink
contrasts with water
washing over its body,
thinning its edges,
cutting it, bleeding
its life across the page.

Ink fades out to the corners -

black dilutes to gray
dilutes to smoke
until near clear.

Life seems so strong, solid, substantial -

but nothing is ever wholly black.

Voids imprinted in our hearts

contrast with the love around us:
guiding us, helping us,
encouraging us to walk on
until we meet the path of truth
when we meet our lost loves,
where we see the entirety of the light
unclouded by inky darkness.

4
 Marigolds

Marigolds

Days disappear, like those armfuls of flowers

once wrapped in tight newsprint bundles.
Ink stained our fingers then,
and we left gray, blurry smudges
on clean car windows.

Those first spring bouquets are a memory:

other flowers fathered other families -
time has since circled several times over.
In October, the market’s few flowers
are mostly marigolds, loneliest of all.

Marigolds silently sing “Ave Maria”

with their blessed heads bowed.
Some say a path of marigolds leads lost souls home.
Caught between both planes, the flowers weep:
each petal that falls burns the earth.
Heavy with questions, sweet scents
of faraway fire logs and mysterious spices,
the autumn wind scatters the tears across the ground.

Some say tears make souls’ steps slippery.

Dark clouds seem stormy, but no rain falls:
Paths marked with marigolds shouldn’t be muddy.
Whatever the weather brings, there’s always wind.
Is the wind the feathery edges of the worlds touching?

Listen: wind, spirits speaking in hushed voices.

You whisper words to me that I believe -
say “everything will be alright,” and it becomes truth.
But why do my words become lost in the whirling winds?

Everything will be alright.

Our loved ones live in another world
when they fall away from us,
watching us, wondering why we sorrow for them.
They see our world, sadness settling over us.
Their souls stir as they see we sigh and cry;
they want us safe in their constant presence.
Believe that there is no end to love,
that love is like the generations of flowers,
merely changing shapes and faces over time.

5
 Night Rising

Night Rising

evening draws near,

its breath cool.
faint smoke rises from chimneys:
chipped, crooked teeth.

the shadow rises from the east -

its sinuous ellipse contracts,
like coils of a pit viper licking the wind.

darkness heightens sensations;

blind for centuries, we touch with our lips
and breathe the scents:

fear’s fragrance from a distance,

subtle perfume scarcely noticeable.
its faint scent rises and falls,
feathers in the breeze.

6
 Bounty

Bounty

You are the warm, familiar clay of earth

Baked hard beneath the conquering rays of the sun.
You are my solid ground, biblical firmament
The soil I am planted in which nourishes me.

I am here, my roots grow deep, tapping into your tunnels.

Once I plowed the fields and tilled the earth into rows
Turning up bleached bones and scattering dust, now settled.
A torn heart cannot be mended, fallen sheaves must lie unsewn.

But gentle waterings and routine care can bring forth fruit,
Groves of shady lemon trees and orange blossoms.
Your love is an abundant yield,
The crops of your heart can still grow strong.

I gather the fruits and flowers which have grown in season,

Pluck them from your branches where I live
While you feed me with your sweet, ripe love.

7
 Nature of Love

Nature of Love

My love for you can shatter wood –

Split it down the center with a crack,
Heave it open to flash its white vulnerability.
My powerful love is lightning searing the earth.

You are a man, strong as timber, but sometimes you fall.

I want to be here to catch you in my arms,
Hold you as branch, or a smooth, round stone to my breast.
How precious you are to me, a delicate whisper.

Your voice is nature: a low grotto I yearn to hide in,

To curl in the damp shade, dip my hands
Into the clear, cascading waters of your breath.
I want to drink of your sparkling fountain.

You are the crystal purity of nature:

How I long to dive in and swim,
Splashing in playful circles,
Kissing you until we drown
Under the cool canopy of leaves.

8
 Order All Around

Order All Around

order all around:

neat lines of molecules
intersect with the meandering river
incising the green pasture,
running parallel to the orderly stars
organized according to age.

all passes and all rejuvenates:

spring renews itself,
lost tree limbs are replaced
as people are created of dust.
dust forms a figure, a charcoal sketch
particles scattered at the edge
blending with the background.
an emerging body breathes the air
and all that lives within it: debris, dander,
fluttering floral pollen and pests.

these minute remains of other living worlds

embed themselves within us,
travel along networked veins,
inside the oxygenated blood,
circling in us, becoming us.

9
 Triangles

Triangles

There must be a reason

For our meeting here;
It is too strange to be coincidence.

Like the man who journeys

To the pyramids of Egypt
From a place far west.
He has never left his land
Yet he has known
These hieroglyphics before.

I have known you in dreams,

Seen your face in profile
Like the crescent moon,
And yet we’ve never spoken.

A moment in time refracts

As light moves through a prism
And bends into a spectrum
From any face on the crystal pyramid.

I have already been yours.

We’ve lived our lives together once
On another plane perhaps,
I know I’ve seen that spark
Light your eyes before
From deep inside your soul.

I don’t know why we’re here again together.

Like fragments of Greek figures
That once adorned peaks of temple pediments,
I can’t see how the completed picture should appear.

Time is caught between us.

We are ancient birds from Mesopotamia
Fleeing the farmlands in a “V”.
From above we watch the river
Sever sections of field into triangles.

We have met for a reason,

For our meeting is too strange
To be coincidence.

10
 Apology from Troilus to Criseyde, 1 of 2

Apology from Troilus to Criseyde

Pristine places lie in valleys, hidden between mountains and hills, beyond vision.
I dream that my mind can be like these stretches of land, patchwork pieces of heaven
Laid out in swatches, spread across the land like the Garden of Eden,
an undisturbed paradise.

But because I cannot rein in these thoughts that litter my mind,

I must apologize for the way I am, born with this mind and unable to change it.
I attempt to focus on other ideas, remember what my mother whispered
to me late at night
When fear crept into my skin, found me even as I cuddled to myself beneath the covers:
“Think happy thoughts,” she told me, as if I could shake nightmares from my mind
More like a fly caught in a web: the more I try to escape my thoughts,
the tighter they bind me.
Or like prey constricted by a serpent: my thoughts are like each breath
that struggles to escape
And causes the coils to reach further around me until I am suffocated completely.

You satisfy my every need, fulfill the darkest desires I recognize within my conscience,
I apologize for thinking this way - I am thrilled by this passion I feel, but also
frightened by it.
I do not want to think of anyone else.
I am a person wracked with a love of life, drawn to beauty,
Awakened by the talents of others, encouraged by the gifts that people
have unwillingly received.
My heart leaps at anyone who captures all the love I feel, the energy and vitality of life,
Anyone who has mastered some skill, honed the knife-edge of a gift
to a razor-sharp perfection.
I am so happy to be alive, to have the chance to meet these other people, to know
the unimaginable beauty
Of the intricacies of God’s wondrous creation.

But because of who I am, I must make apologies for misunderstandings,

Control the damage that I inadvertently incite.
My eyes want to meet a friend, my heart wants to find understanding.
I know my dark nature and count my limitations. I do not deserve blessings.
I sometimes cannot live with myself, knowing the beast within me.
Attention from others nurtures me and gives me a false strength that always ends in guilt.
I am never sure why others surround me, never certain that it is really me they like.
The temptation seems to be ever-present, and I am familiar with my weaknesses.
Yet my love to you is a bond that I will not break.
No moment of self-gratification is worth losing you,
For you are the one who has created a stronger me that continues to grow.
I am beginning to accept who I am, forgive myself for my imperfections
and recognize you

11
 Apology from Troilus to Criseyde, 2 of 2

As the other that met me in darkness before I was born to light.

Believe this, if you could look into my soul, you would find a polished image of yourself,
You are always in my heart, safely stored, my treasure unmarred and untarnished.
You are the only one who exists within me, the only person who has my heart.
If you listen to your heart and hear what you know to be true, you will know this.

Fleeting feelings fill an adventurous imagination; satisfy a wandering nature.

They are not real, they do not supersede my love for you.
Everything else is a mirror, a false image, a fraudulent impersonation.
I am acquainted with these thoughts, I have had them my entire life.
I know their empty value, I am accustomed to their passing nature.
These thoughts are puffs of vapor in the air, steam that rises, then evaporates to mist.
You are my rock, my immovable tree, the foundation on which I am built.
These thoughts are not real, not alive, they do not have anything to do with you.
They stalk me and always have. I do not know how to outgrow these thoughts,
These childish desires, these uncomfortable ideas. I have always been this way.
Please know: my feelings do not reflect on you. I do not chase apparitions.

12
 Haiku Sampler, 1 of 2

Haiku Sampler

Just the three of us:

Mom wears handprints like a scarf.
Drive to Florida
-----------------------------
Birds scatter away -
Ocean swelling angrily,
Suspended wave waits
-----------------------------
The master teachers
Make themselves unneeded, then
Vanish like smoke swirls
-----------------------------
Haiku: like beach shells
Lying open and broken;
Pick up the pieces
-----------------------------
Morning almost gone:
Captured by a frantic pen,
It tries to escape
-----------------------------
Crows like trapeze men:
Following high dips and arcs,
Doing what they love
-----------------------------
Crumpled papers lay -
Zen garden around trash can,
Pages of blank white
-----------------------------
Car gone from driveway:
Watching the oil spot sitting,
Clock ticking some more
-----------------------------
Lying down with the phone,
We talked until the moon rose.
Goodbye, dear brother
-----------------------------
Kids draw with crayons,
Their heads bent like flower tops
As wonder blossoms
-----------------------------
Bamboo shoots so tender:
The hope and promise of spring –
Love and peace renewed
-----------------------------

13
 Haiku Sampler, 2 of 2

Wanting miracles –
Watching the Mary statue,
Her hands so still
-----------------------------
No Japanese rose:
More enchanted by cherry
Blossoms or subtle plum trees
-----------------------------
Palm tree fronds slump down –
Weight of winter caught inside,
Sun pushing it through

14
 Men

Men

The edges of men were made rough

Like jagged corners of rocks, trucks
Hauling heavy loads of wood. Tough.

Men wrestle words; persuade, patrol,

Invade villages with conflict --
Create worlds of combat, control.

They pierce the wind with wings, arrows.

Their hard lines are concrete and Greek
Columns, beams; not songs of sparrows,

Not tender talk or nature’s spring

But climbing ladders, clamoring
Construction: sanding and sawing,

Busily digging deep ditches,

Drilling trenches diligently,
Humming and hammering hitches.

Men are made part flesh, part wire,

Two-ply twine, ground glass, rusted tin
Tempered strong above blacksmith’s fire.

15
 In Between Black and White

In Between Black and White

My fourth grade teacher Sister Claire

Told me we can save souls from purgatory
By praying for their release, begging beautiful
Mother Mary to intercede on their behalf.

What sin brought them there?

A line is not always obvious.
Two men argued loudly in a downtown bar
About “black and white.” One claimed there was no gray.
No gray? What about when the color seeps from stone-faced buildings,
Charcoal-tinted windows, the sad smoke color
That washes the pavement with desolation?
And what of the gray haggard faces of the elderly,
Tired of this life, burdened with struggle,
And the sick, ready to lay down their arms and surrender?

The gray that exists everywhere in the world

Shades the sky with melancholy clouds,
Though each mottled gray puff may contain linings of silver,
They still can rain heather gray upon us.
Our landscapes are painted with washes of shadow
As the light fades to the west, or light gray snowflakes dust our earth
In the solemn, yearning gray of all things in that grayest season of winter.
Indeed, our lives are dull, pale, matte, muted gray,
Our choices are gunmetal, our lives are tinted with ash.

So what shall become of us, languishing here,

Awaiting a sign, searching the night sky for a star.
We wait, unlooping our tapestries
Under the cover of night while peering out
At the distant ocean, listening for signals.
We live in light – and dark, and shadow too.
Lost between two worlds, we survey both, uncertain of our standing.
We are lost in the degrees: nothing is explicitly written.
Ask Persephone, relegated to hell
With the innate happiness of knowing
That spring awaits around the bend.
But even when we reside in spring,
We are haunted by the thought we will have to return
To the place of despair in only months.
Can we pray our own way out,
Or must we wait to be delivered
Upon the silver wings of someone who cares
Enough to plead for precious mercy upon us?

16
 Secret Seeds

Secret Seeds

Apple-moon, bright, held in the sky on silver threads,

Silky, downy, the warm-vanilla and cinnamon of a memory:
These are the secrets I hold in my heart, like pomegranate seeds.

And the scent of unwoven experiences must be fresh spring,

Blossoms and buds bursting forth from woody stems,
Or held tightly wrapped within the winter warmth, pulsing
Ready to peer out of the rigid cocoon.
Newly mown grass; rich, ripe young trees laden with fruit,
The colors of a western sunset, all warmth and light.

So many roads that were left untraveled,

Their foggy paths disappearing into the forbidden night.
To touch the past, hold it fast to my cheek, stroke it lightly,
Feel its texture soft in my fingers; now too late.

There are no walls in this garden, merely landscaped lines,

Boundaries of chalk-white rocks, arabesque ivy, scattered wood chips.
The mind creates walls, the mind can break walls if it knows it’s caught.

Vibrant morning alive with eager chattering of wrens and sparrows:

Their cheerful songs seem to awaken the rest of nature.
None of these birds would sit in the palm of my hand
And take their tiny beaks to a handful of birdseed.

These timid creatures, untrusting and nervous –

The thing is this: I can’t make them love me.
They are content to be free.
To live in a cage takes a certain amount of sacrifice,
Despite gilt and wrought scrollwork, it remains a cage,
There is a song sung all around, the life chorus of nature all in unison.

17
 Promise

Promise

Promise sleeps within unspoken words,

Dwelling between unwritten lines
Like a song lying in the composer’s soul
Awaiting sweet liberation.

Promise hides in the lock of eyes,

Quick retreat to familiar corners -
A stirring, soulful melody sitting unwritten,
The colors of a painting waiting for fruition.

Promise holds fast within the heart,

Tales not yet told, a seed burning in the breast.
Cold marble slabs awaiting a Michelangelo
To unleash the life chambered inside.

Promise climbs from a heavy sigh,

An undisclosed thought, unrecorded symphony.
Music lies within us, Bernstein said.
And yet how we sometimes fail to hear.

Promise nestles in the warmth of a smile,

Untapped natural springs flowing beneath hard earth;
Promise of newborn spring blossoms,
Even in the storming winds of winter.

There is promise when new thoughts spin in our minds,

When we know not of a situation that once seemed clear.
Even the sad prospect of temporary life brings hope,
For opportunities to flourish grow at every corner.

18
 Silent Sea, 1 of 2

Silent Sea

We are trying to hold

Water in our hands:
Days spill out before us,
We have no control
As the running, lapping surf
Washes through our lives.

Ocean depths
Reach deeper than expected.
The cycle of life leaves litter –
Broken bits of the past,
Half-buried treasures,
Silent sunken-ship graveyards
Beneath the ebbing beat of waves.

On the ebony expanse of the sea

Ever-expanding ovals are blown by the breeze
And circulate around abandoned boats.
In the distance, echoes of wind and waves,
Songs of tapping rain and ticking dinghy,
Patterns of the flickering beacon –
All in a constant, eternal circle.

Hear the constant cries –

Ladies pining lost lovers
And sailors saddened by being away;
All these sounds reach into the pulsing breakers
And disturb the peaceful rest of ages.
What stirs beneath the surface?
What are those spectral shadows,
Fog that floats from uncertain origin?

In the night, notice the caverns,

The cliffs, the jagged corners of rocks,
Cracked crab’s legs and sea-grass
Strewn across the rugged rocks,
And in between, anemones lilting
With the lapping wavelets.

How nearly unbearable,

The constant tug
Of future pulling past
Like a fisherman stretching
His cable sweater over his head.

19
 Silent Sea, 2 of 2

As navigators before us
Have kept their sights on stars, clouds and birds,
The patterns of migration, the westerly wind,
We look to the predictable circle of sun and moon
To lead us, seek direction to new routes,
Expecting at the end to find rest.

20
 Fruit Falling From a Tree

Fruit Falling From a Tree

Someone says, “That peach looks good.”

You are quick to say, “This is not a peach,
It is a gourmet white nectarine.”
Nobody says the fruit you eat seems overly luscious,
That its sweetness seems too ripe,
Nearly bitter like fermenting wine.

This is the way you speak of your life,

And people have learned not to comment about it:
The children you know, how they admire you –
Your life has a gaping wound that stretches to your soul.
As you spoke of your favorite girl, tears sprung to your eyes;
Unexpected to you, but the patterns of spring are set –
It always rains about this time.
You seemed shocked, but sorrow is a specialty.
There is an oracle of sadness, it can be sensed,
The presence of its fragrance smelled.

Your heart is heavy because you are at your ripeness.

In an instant you will have lived your life.
You will realize far too late that you should have done many things.
Soon you will understand that love is not a story, not a girl,
Not beauty, fruit, peaches, adventure, arguments or nectarines.
Your life will flash before you and you will find
That people admired you as you spoke,
That gazes were fixed on you from afar that you never noticed,
That you were weeping that day because you missed something.
And later, as someone somewhere eats a white nectarine
She will remember all the things she would’ve liked to have known about you.

21
 August Twelfth Meteor Shower

August Twelfth Meteor Shower

One can love a meteor shower,

Flickering in a showy display;
Admiring the burning, glowing show from afar,
Gazing at the bursting light
Streaking, flashing across the sky.
The beauty of such a shower is its transience:
It lasts briefly before the embers die out,
A smoldering farewell in a cloud of dust
Fleeting, dream-like, as if it never were.

The short life of a meteor shower

Is heightened by its fiery flashes
And bright burning bits emblazoning the sky,
Setting it alight with pulsing gleams of orange and red
And shimmering glimpses of gold.

I have held fantasies of such a view,

Longing to reach out with both hands
To an image of light and loveliness.
But even my dreams of such a display
Are permeated with the knowledge
That flashing displays require more energy
Than a single meteor can continue to exert.
Such displays are fated to end; slowly, sadly.

22
 She Could Have Been Yours

She Could Have Been Yours

She could have been yours

Like the day the swallows return
To Mision de San Juan Capistrano,
Miss that day and you miss them.

She was ready for you

Like Halley’s comet appears
Once in single lifetime.
Didn’t see it? Now it’s gone.

She wanted to leave

Her husband, abandon the children
And ride away with you,
Her knight on a white steed.

She was watching you

The way wolves watch chickens
I saw her lick her lips;
Her eyes moved over all of you.

She had the desire:

I saw it as she turned to find you
In a crowded room, in a conversation.
I sensed her anticipation of your smile.

She was ripe as September fruit

Hanging heavy on an autumn limb
Ready to be plucked from its habitat,
In her prime, to be consumed by you.

But the day has passed,

The window has closed
And shut her in to her old life.

23
 Moving in Circles

Moving in Circles

You and I, still here another year,

We’ve needed each other through so many nights,
With songs of nightingales swirling in the distance.

Eternity lives in the sorrowful song

Of the poetic nightingale.
Forever bleeds from all our teardrops

We are one in the song,

Its wing touches one of many circles:
Concentric spheres radiate from our centers,
Our souls, and stretch to the edges of the universe,
Encompassing all, taking in breaths and sighs.

These overlapping lines contain us,

Hold us with our cries and laughter.
Complex circles consume us all,
An interlocking creation
As endless and deep as it is distant and near,
The whole of opposing force and paradox.

You and I are still here, together

And yet the echo of solitude bellows out
A single song of a nightingale
Ruminates across the empty landscape,
Meeting only itself in the valleys.

Every spring the nightingales return.

Tracing around the wind with their wings,
They sing their eternal song.

Endless music washes over us.

Let us hold one another during these dark days
As sinuous circles continue and the cycle circulates,
Embracing us as it keeps us in its capture.

24
 In Honor of Charlotte Turner Smith

In Honor of Charlotte Turner Smith

We are sisters, our blood mingled together

In the violence of a man’s world.
The distant blasts of war echo in your words,
I fear that my home too will fall victim
To the fire and shells of a passing enemy.

We are sisters, our experiences similar –

Agony over the loss of spring, afraid
Of the full strength of the summer sun.
Why must our innocence fade, why
Should we waste our days away inside?

We are sisters, fathered by men

Who would not see our full worth,
Sisters who would stand by a man
Who would rather turn his back to our hearts
Than bother with the passion burning within.

We are sisters, bound by the fibers

Of the paper on which our words appear,
The light which shines into our lives
Releasing us from the bonds of men,
Widening the circle of our lives into the world.

We are sisters, our garden lives eternal:

For even after you have been laid to rest,
Those flowers you described still bloom –
Their full dresses spread out to catch the rain
And their faces turned towards heaven.

25
 My Father

My Father

I have put off writing this

For such a long time
That now the feelings have scattered
Like dandelion feathers at the end of August.

So now I write a poem for my father,

The man who turned my days dark.
My father made the sunshine cold,
And my soul shrink into a dead leaf
Blown by a winter wind.

Still, father, I try not to despise you.

I remember you, teaching me to paint,
Guiding my hand along the wet paper,
Opening the yellow gingham curtains
To show me what the moon looks like.

I thought you would pluck that moon

From the sky and hand it lovingly to me,
And I would have snatched it away,
Hid it in my heart and kept it there
So that no one could steal it away.

But, father, you were the thief that stole my heart away;
And you replaced it when you left a small stone
That tricks my body into thinking I am alive.

The moon I thought you were going to give me

Just hangs plain and listless in the night.
I see only what you showed me.

26
 Some Men and Sorrow

Some Men and Sorrow

Men and women hold the weight of sorrow within us,

A secret charm sewed into our hearts,
Intimate as blood and love letters.

Yet physical pain is nothing for some men.

Their bodies could crumple
From the load of their work upon them,
And they will bear the burden
With grins and gritted teeth.

Though men may accept bodily pain,

Many cannot cope with mental strife.
Men will sometimes hurt others
In vain attempts to overcome sadness,
Shooting arrows and darts in every direction
To avoid being shot themselves.

27
 Following the Stars

Following the Stars

There are miles between us.

The ticks of time are measured along snow-capped mountains
And airplanes roaring over the tiny towns tucked between them.
Time and distance are relative, do not interfere with love.
Nana said, “If you love someone, you always love them.
No matter what they do.” Or, I’ve learned, where they are.
The heart is an organ stronger than tragedy and sorrow,
And heartier than the miles, time and distance between us.

The twinkle in the sky which guided the wise men

Still sparkles outside my window lined with white lights.
The same star, bursting with the joy of heaven,
Brightens the sky outside your own window,
“Like a diamond in the sky,” a tiny treasure.

Time is spinning: not away, but to somewhere else.

As calendars track the circle of seasons,
The cycle of the years, we believe it is being lost.
Yet the stars stand firm as it is we who rotate,
This earth of ours spins, suspended in the universe
As gravity and nature all follow a predictable pattern.
Our love is woven into this sphere, living before us,
Surrounding us constantly and breathing even after us.

Tears are part of our nature, round in shape

Like our world: the way the stars appear to us,
The shape that snowflakes and sun assume to our eyes.
But even tears will disappear in the stretch of time.
We are not at the mercy of the plan, we are the plan.
This life we inhale is a perfect gift, and our thanks is love.
Our love is what we were meant for, this everlasting love
That overcomes all space, all measures of earthly things.

Our hearts, the stars, the heavens: all connected.

Holidays sometimes bring an unexpected tinge of sadness
That colors the tree, the chill in the wind, the glow of lights.
But don’t be sad because we are far away,
Love does not weaken with challenges.
Smile with the knowledge
That life is a grand mystery, wrapped like a gift
In colored paper and glinting with the shine of ribbons.

28
 Wait, Winter

Wait, Winter

Dim light of pallid winter,

Your rays weak as wine thinned with water,
You hold us in a trance.
We are held in a daze by your silvery shadows,
Your haze-blurred streets,
Your shuddering clouds that chill the trees
Already bared by your black magic.

We stare out the window at your soul,

Compelled by the circling sky blackening with night,
Darkening, shriveling like everything dead,
A blanket of cold that suffocates the earth,
Smothering it with an inescapable pressure,
Piling upon it with the building weight of the ash of years,
The pull of peaceful sleep and pressing resistance of gravity.

You look frail, like someone who has lived long,

The skin of your season hangs off you like ragged wallpaper.
Your days are coughing seizures, curses, and hazy spells.
Yet you are strong enough to silence us, your groaning winds
And angry rains soak our skin to the bone, beyond our souls.
You cause us to retreat to our fireplaces, to stare at the bones
Of the crackling fire logs that hiss away to ash and dust,
To pull the thick fabric we wear tighter around us,
Trying to tear our strength from us.

Winter wind, dark night chill and stormy hateful sky,

Can you not wait to batter us?
We cannot stand to see you follow us right now -
We are wrapped in the warmth of each other’s love.
We try to peel the layers of ourselves away like onion skin,
Each translucent lining another obstacle that we must remove.
Every time you stand near to us, we must reapply these selves.
We know you must come, but can’t you come later,
Allow us to hold our breath for enough years to love,
To give all the youth that blooms from our bodies,
Sharing life and music until our souls are tired and expect your call?

29
 Expedition

Expedition

To touch another’s soul

Is like scaling cliffs:
Risking steeply inclined crags,
Toeing softly around rocky precipices
And grasping, balanced with body weight
Onto a small ledge, pebbles pinging down,
Fingertips white with pressure,
Struggling to maintain a grip
On the shallow crevice.

Eyes search another’s:

Sometimes they are convinced
The gaze is being returned.
How could the stare be held
So long without looking away
If those thoughts were not the same?
A heart leaps within its shadowy cave,
Unstirred by warmth for so long.
It has lived too long in its hollow cell.
Eyes become unaccustomed to harsh light,
Skin becomes paled by years of sleep layered onto bone.
It’s safer to stay in the desert, painted flanks of mountains
Like ridged backs of sunning beasts.

But to risk the unexplored caverns of another’s past –

Study the sum of all nature distilled within us?
The surface of the range shifts
By the pressure of thrusting faults.
It has risen and fallen, crumpled and sheared,
Its layers were disturbed by the pulling force of fortune.
There is recognition in the conglomerate of the heart:
The striations are unmistakable – nobody else
Has been scraped across river beds:
The drag of melting glaciers and push of lava flows
Has shaped us uniquely.

We fall into consciousness,

Our polished edges contrasting with rough surfaces.
All of us share intimacy, living and breathing upon the same earth.
We have known the same habitat for years, drank of the same springs.
We do not recognize, but know each other.
The arching shell of our lost selves enclose us:
We were all cut from the same rugged composition.

30
 Universe Lays Inside, 1 of 2

Universe Lays Inside

Universe lays inside

Dark stretches of cosmos
Widen across the expanse
Black holes passages to your exterior

Universe is your soul

All of nature held within you
Light and dark all interplay
Colors and shadows
The sparkle of stars,
Songs of birds echoing eternal
Through the waves of time
Circling inside us, undulating
To the tune of wind, white noise,
Searing heat of sun, warmth of heart.

Universe folds backward upon itself

What appears external is not,
It lies within the body,
The gaps, the chasms, the voids
Are part of us all, sorrow
Missing swatches of time
Swallowed by vacuums
Layers of space, species
Overlap: organs, cells and tissue
Form the blood of life,
We share a connection.

Within the core of the planets, blood.

Each earth and solar system created
From our flesh, round globes of living rock
Formed from the ash of our bones.
All of nature lies within
The universe is balance, harmony,
Coexistence of life, our breaths
Rise and fall to the melody of seasons,
Light and dark balances throughout years,
Even time doubles back and passes itself.

There is no loss, all we are is love

The threads of all life weave together
Combine in a harmony called love.
Love travels through light, time, sorrow
Nothing disappears, simply moves

31
 Universe Lays Inside, 2 of 2

Shadows, breaths, souls caught

On a shooting star that burns
To the edge of eternity then travels back
But cannot be seen because light years passed,
It is all contained within you, all of life
Is yours: you are love, the universe, existence,
Eternity.

32
 Hero’s Welcome

Hero’s Welcome

The fire which ignites his eyes

Has lit the vision of great men before him.
In his gaze, the flames turn amber
And hint mahogany red
Deep like the warm glow of polished wood,
A strong and focused steadfast stare.

The dark smolder of his gaze

Reaches across distant fields
Like the sound of his distant laugh –
A pitch above the low crash of hurricane waves –
Stretches out, travels like wind
To awaiting ears, patiently listening for the sound:
Prisoners awaiting the guard’s key for release.

To live and to die:

A thousand dreams have flickered
Living brief lives, dying tortured deaths
Between the universe of glances.
His eyes, nearly innocent
But with the hint of danger,
Stop the beat of time.

Forget the rise and fall of years,

Centuries could pass unnoticed.
The troops are alight when he strides in –
His confidence is a bold torch, blazing fire,
Setting flame to all around.
Others are drawn to the heat of his passion,
The racing thrill of adventure
Pacing across the threshold of your smile.

He enters, secure in his strong walk –

Masculine and proud, but not vain,
As heroes are always tempered by modesty,
The purifying fire that burns off everything else.

33
 Blossoming

Blossoming

What would happen if you knew the way she felt,

The blood roses blooming in her heart:
Port-wine stains that darken the snowy sheets of her being.
She holds this mark within, like the rich soil holds seedlings
Before they sprout and become the full realization of their potential.

What would happen if you knew the way she felt,

Would the glass of your world-globe shatter
As if struck by the weight of a hammer, shatter
And shower the cold ground with shards
Would it sound like hard rain driving down --
Too strong for delicate petals? It would probably be
Too powerful to simply feed plants, and instead
Would drown them in their thirst, a blissful death.

What would happen if you knew the way she felt,

Curls of smoke rising from a dormant volcano
And making the crust of earth swell and sag, waver and puff
Some volcanoes appear extinct, their grassy slopes seem finished,
Yet the life spirit awakens within and everything changes:
We know not from where this essence bubbles,
But its boiling heat releases searing pressure
Like feelings yet untold, hidden within a heart

What would happen if you knew the way she felt,

Nothing at all. She has told you in so many ways,
The skies can tear open and drop the truth on us,
And we would still walk around oblivious.
Nothing changes, you and she are still the same.
You just shift your weight, utter a sigh and continue.
She is nothing: only a breath of smoke, a fallen leaf,
A hint of fragrance in the air, even the shadowy image
Of a once-fearsome hill, now overgrown with wildflowers.

34
 Leaves of Hope

Leaves of Hope

You, a woody stem

No bunches of flowers yet spring from your branches.
Your hardened, gnarled, knotty arms of bark
Do not yet hold a load of shimmering leaves,
Nor do they reach out to the sparrows and doves
That weave through the sky seeking rest.

Your stiff boughs are bare and empty,

They appear lifeless, broken and dark.
Yet a dream lies within your heart.
It stirs inside you, a caged lovebird rattling its bars
Fluttering its helpless wings in a hapless frenzy.

Your solid limbs are heavy and strong,

They bear the weight of your heartbreak.
The blossoms that sleep inside will awaken
To burst from their confines, to smile once again
At the airy light of day, the clear warmth of the sunshine.

Your dried and withered coat will open

To reveal a new garment of finery.
You will be cloaked in emerald leaves,
The breeze will whisper through your branches,
Tease out the shy buds until they are ready to unfold.
My desire is enduring as the spring, patient as the sun
Waiting for the natural death of old, cruel winter.

For now, I watch you stand firm, planted to the earth.

Your roots are hidden, buried in the cool black dirt.
But even there, drops of water are being absorbed into your veins.
You can’t help but be comforted and cared for.
All of nature struggles to support you, to bring life to you again.

Your clusters of blossoms will emerge once again

And your strength will be rewarded with sweet-singing nightingales
To bustle within your branches. They will rest their weary wings
As they call their song of ages to the balmy summer breeze.

35
 Servant Sparrow

Servant Sparrow

Just as gods traveled in golden chariots

Yoked with lovely sparrows,
I too, sit upon this studded throne you made for me

With loving hands and tilted head gazing at me

As protective ravens nip growing grass
And snag bowing branches, tangled twigs
To form a comfortable nest for their young.

The throne you made for me is jeweled,

Its gilded sides gleam with precious gold.
And just as you made me a home, you also dressed me:

Wrapped me with gifts of jewels upon my body –

Their gilt sparkles against my white wrists,
And their luster shines like moonlight on the Nile River
Against the recess of my swan-like throat.

Ancient Greeks offered incense to their goddesses,

Won their favors with gifts presented at temples,
Washed their hands in perfume, anointed their brows with oil
And fashioned wreaths to crown their statues.

Their hands, like yours, would work to create –

Forming wreaths from tender rosebuds and luxurious lavender,
Fresh-smelling mint and clusters of hydrangea

I am wearing all you’ve given me

And I live within the confines of the house you made for me -
Soft chains of love, the harness of desire.

A scarlet bit is pressed gently against my soft mouth:

You steer me with your thoughts,
Your hands pull me in the direction you wish
I am your eternal servant, a sparrow for you to drive.

36
 Conspiracy

Conspiracy

I told my shrink
I think someone is watching me,
And she said it is quite possible
If you think about it.
She said the cameras today
Are smaller than dimes,
And microphones can fit
Inside of a pen.
She told me it’s very easy
To monitor a person’s every move,
To track their actions,
To observe their habits.
My shrink also added
I could be poisoned any day:
Someone could slip something
Into my drink when I turn
For just a second
To look at my watch,
Or the doctor
Could implant a chip
In my mind
When I am sedated.
I thought I may have remembered something
I wanted to say, but it escaped me
For no reason…
I told her some people I knew
Were acting weird,
But she denied knowing
Anything about it.
I wanted to tell her my dreams
But they were missing
When I looked for them.
She sat there repeating everything,
Gazing at me, scribbling furiously.
She said there were people
Behind the two-way mirror
Watching us, evaluating us.
I asked her what she thought about that,
And she said
The government
Doesn’t pay her to think.

37
 Love Reaching Out to Eternity, 1 of 2

Love Reaching Out to Eternity

Amid sighs and shuffles

You touched needle to vinyl groove
And released Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne”.
You took me to her place by the river,
Where poetry flowed blue under bridges,
By Bonsai trees and towering temples,
A place I would always return to.

I was spared, I was saved,

Transported and set aflame
By your song-filled soul.
Blind eyes awakened, blinking
To the awe of flickering, twinkling stars
Winking white in the night sky.

All through the years that followed

This song soared inside of me,
Its calming chords moving me
Like the man moved by a solitary reaper:
“The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.”

The simple notes you introduced to me

Have combined to form a symphony,
I do not know just how they joined,
A mystery like the birth of the universe:
How does breath infuse with ash,
How do stars sparkle from gas,
How do flowers spring forth from seeds?

I do not know how those single notes

Have formed a song, fluid and flowing;
Or how words can unite in poetry,
Both wholes greater than their parts.

The song you taught to me

Now echoes in whispers from tree to tree.
And touches every living thing I see,
Become greater than you and I,
Like the nightingale’s cry beneath the black sky,
Its song circling through the ages,
Across the stretch of time.

38
 Love Reaching Out to Eternity, 2 of 2

You have swept the strings of my soul

And now this love seeps into everything I do –
As a single flower spreads its seed,
Bringing full fields to blossom in its image.
Love grows greater every minute,
A burning wildfire brought to blaze,
Each minute teases out twice as many flames.
I hope I touch a million souls
So they each can do the same.

A life like yours does not end:

It is the melody sung by a Highland lass,
Sacred chant of the nightingale,
Stars that live for centuries,
Rivers flowing in endless circles,
Flowers fathering whole fields,
Flames that catch and consume –
All these are you and me, all things containing love,
Inspired by music, brought to fruit in poetry
Love is the Lord, creating constantly.

39
 Childhood Dreams Snap

Childhood Dreams Snap

Childhood dreams, like silken strands of spider webs,

Somehow snap, lose their elasticity, sag from the stress
Of years stretching them further than their capacities.

The cobwebs of what our dreams once were

Hang lifeless, limp with the lethargy of despair,
Sheer, cloudy curtains clinging to the corners of hope.

40
 Campestino

Campestino

Campestino, all at once country-boy and soldier country man

Dressed in olive drab, a rifle slung over the shoulder,
Chicle chewed hard and rough with an open mouth, chewing gum
Boots crusty with dried mud.
You fight for your beliefs
As your pretty girl is at home
Stirring a simmering pot of menudo type of soup
Listening to corridos coming across the farm type of song
Like small birds flying to their branches in the jacaranda trees.

The cattle are lowing in your absence

And your girl gets on her bare knees to pray
To La Virgin that you will return home safely. The Virgin Mary

Did you notice the brambling hibiscus bushes,

The flame red of their petals on your way to the war?
You love war more passionately than that girl,
She is a soft woven blanket of wool, a warm cup of champurrado – drink like hot chocolate
Sometimes she cries with a little voice and it sounds like
The sheep bleating when they are afraid in the night.
Those things make you sweat a cold sweat, and worry.

But war is hard and constant, nothing to figure out.

It is necessary as plowing the land to bring maize forth from stalks,
Tracking and hunting deer and rabbits in the dry brush
And slaughtering cows with a single, well-positioned blow.
War makes heroes, bronze statues and silver medallions
Recuerdos that live longer than any woman, any amor. memories, love
Women grow old and tired, they put on weight and lose their beauty.
They turn like the old nopales, brown and wrinkled, dried up.
cacti
When that full fleshiness has disappeared, what is left but an image
That reflects you, your hard life, the shared troubles you both survived together.
War is not like that. There is a purpose, a reason, a cause.
If you fight it is because there is something at risk –
Your farm, your village, your rights.
If you die, it is because you were young and brave,
Serving in something important,
A common ideal your compadres shared together close male friends
Like a good cigar or a night of drinking.
Nobody knows you, this desire that burns inside you

Like the sputtering flames in the wood stove.

You want to be a part of something, a revolution, a battle in history
So you can brand your name into the land, write your story in the smoke-filled sky

41
 Campestino

And rise even higher than the satin flag still flying in tatters above the town after you die.

42
 Violent Cycle of Creativity, 1 of 2

Violent Cycle of Creativity

First, the tension starts to mount:

Shadows suddenly seem shades darker,
Fears grow fuller inside the stomach.
Even the dog gets nervous: his legs quiver
And he can’t stay asleep for long.
He keeps waking - shifting his head,
Peering into the dark with glowing eyes,
Then huffing and putting his face back to his paws
Until the next noise rouses him.

We also feel the impending violence on its path:

The sharp creaking of the house frame as it settles
Under its own weight like the hissing of a fire log,
The wind pressing hard against the glass panes,
Sliding them in their grooves with a startling rattle.

Out the window, the moon casts a pale glow,

The trees are looming specters with skeletal arms
Naked of leaves as they stand cursed, frozen in time.
No birds grace the gaunt branches -
The winds are too wicked in the winter;
They stir the seas to fury and enrage the fierce clouds.

Everything can sense the anticipation, even men

Who become frightened and angry, rough and loud
As they feel the coming storm in old broken bones
And the elders can feel it in their arthritic aches.
Wind chimes tinkle discordantly to the unrelenting music
And then when it feels like there will be no release to the pressure,
The build-up of static, the booming thunder,
The clouds pour forth their rains.

It happens so little, storms must be painful as creating.

How exhausting to suffer through the dry spells,
The overwhelming anticipation,
As if inspiration may never come,
As if relief is impossible to reach.
And to feel the terror of being born, of facing death,
Of watching again as father brutalized mother.

Let it out - let it all out, the anger, the tears,

All the colors mixed with gray: black love, red hate,
Yellow ranting passion, blue and purple memories.
Once the violence has been released, stumble

43
 Violent Cycle of Creativity, 2 of 2

Then fall to the ground with a sigh of relief.

The dog no longer sniffs the dark,
The windows are no longer rattled by bursts of wind.

Simple silence.

You are finally free again.

You are united with God,
At peace with the universe.
Don’t think of the next time.
You have done your work for today.

44
 Fragile Breath of Life

Fragile Breath of Life

Fragile breath of life

Whose tender petals
Only bloom for so long,
How is it that man cuts you
Without conscience?

He gathers the bleeding buds

As an offering to a false god,
Buries the flowers in a land
Marked by invisible lines.

The land loves all her children,

Her arms hold them all to her breast
And man wounds her with his weapons,
Plants mines instead of trees or brush.

Fragile breath of life,

He whose lungs you once filled
Was so young, on the edge of manhood.
He fell like a tragic Icarus
Trying to reach an impossible sun
Melting under the weight of a lie.

Some men believe they fight for right,

They battle for honor; that their swords and guns,
Bombs and bayonets are tools of peace.
God bless these fools, for they don’t know
They are killing in the name of someone else.

We live through each war

As if each time we think it will change something
And yet it only leads to another, and then
Another, until history can no longer trace its origin.

Violence breeds violence, an endless cycle

Whose jaws can snap up life in an instant.
The clash of tanks or armor is never as effective
As the shaking of hands, the signing of peace accords

45
 Interrogation

Interrogation

In he walks:
Clipboard, serious business.
No smile, only a quick handshake.
“Coffee?” He asks, his face stone.
It’s a mind game. I decline.
I refuse to accept his terms.

He squints: his dark eyes are shadows

Shooting piercing pin-points in rapid-fire.
His brow is a cliff ridge: misery clinging,
About to slip, send him over the edge.

His questions are circles,

They overlap and double back.
My answers are still as statues,
But our moods are the changing light of day,
Always dancing in opposite directions.

He stands over me, the threat.

His body is a building standing over me,
Immobile, cold, constructed of steel.
I don’t shrink back, I have nothing to hide.
I am only afraid of his cunning:
He twists words like earthquakes twist metal.

His anger is another trick:

The crashing chair, clamoring clipboard,
It’s a performance for me,
Lit by the single-bulb spotlight above,
He saunters across the faded green stage.
No applause from me, which makes it worse.
Veins leap from his forehead,
Purple patterns appear on his face.

He composes himself and tries again:

Forced smile, pat on my back.
“Let’s make it easy,” he tells me.
No deal, I say. I will stay here
As long as they make me,
But my silence astounds him.
I am free inside my heart
No matter where they put me,
But he is kept in a cage
Of his own creating.

46
 On the Loose

On the Loose

These animals –
Thick Neanderthal necks,
Sprouting hair, bulky arms
Walking with wide gaits
They lumber down the sidewalk
With gorilla grunts of acceptance
Amid snorts and guttural groans.
They sniff the air, stop suddenly
To lick their fur, scratch themselves.
Sometimes flying fists will spring
From a steaming geyser of unexplained anger.
Really they are just putting on a show:
They would jump through flaming hoops
To please the clapping crowd.

Better for them to be behind bars

Crouched in a corner, hand-fed,
Groomed daily, thrown paltry treats,
Made to dress in little sequin outfits
And monkey-suits to do dances
And perform petty tricks.
Brawn and beef, these animals
Are simple-minded beasts:
Sweaty behemoths,
Dizzy zoo creatures stinking of filth,
Their fur matted and flea-ridden.
Without a whip cracking over them,
They don’t even know what to do.

Rampaging, banging down the streets

Tearing up the concrete,
Breaking the glass with a crash
To see the window displays.
These animals want to feel cashmere softness
But their knocking, bumbling paws
Break everything they touch.

Faceless mannequins bump into walls

And sheer fabric is shredded to ribbons.
All they touch becomes scraps.
Their gurgled calls ring out in frustration,
Echoing jungle fury through alleys
And against the glossy marble buildings,
Until they finally fade off into the distant trees.

47
 Weight

Weight

I have been here before,

Known the load of sadness.
My neck was abraded, worn red
By the strain of the yoke against skin.
My muscles stretched and pulled
Beneath the unbelievable burden.

I know I’ve trudged along this path before:

Familiar fences, trees and mountains mark the way.
I remember the whirling gusts of dirt
Blown into my face, stinging my eyes
And I can still see the jutting rocks, the split stones
Worn down by the traffic of passing carts like mine.

This was my way, my eyes were always cast down,

Surveying the prints and remnants of the ground
I could not think about the weight I pulled.

But I remember too, the vines climbing over the walls,

The tendrils circling the nearby fences
And how the coils would embrace the posts.
I saw the lush greenery burst forward and cover buildings
That lined the dreary path, the path of merchants and servants
Who hated the road as much as I.

On summer days, the smell of fresh grass

Would impregnate the wind and swirl around me.
My mind would be light, focused on the grassy aroma,
When other scents would creep in as I hauled my load.

There was the perfume of honeysuckle,

A sweet texture, the color of pearl-painted seashells.
I would inhale the smell of lavender, and glance sideways
To catch the spectacular view of the fields in full-flower,
Dressed in summer colors, blushing with scarlet reds
And glowing with the golden light of sunshine and moonlight.

My burden was lifted from my mind and I remember

That even with a life of heavy labor
My spirit, my passion, my love could not be broken.

48
 Taking Heart

Taking Heart

The night my heart

shattered into shards,
I was an uncomfortable pretzel
in the molded plastic
and metal-tube legged chair.
A magazine lay spread-eagle
on my lap, pages nervously worn
to brushed suede from hours there
spent staring at ceilings,
at the minor crevices yawning open
in the corners of muted mauve carpet,
at the other people around
struggling to resist
the nodding wave of sleep.

The fragments of my heart soon slipped

into the four concrete walls
pasted with neutral wallpaper.
It crept into brushed swatches of grays:
a clinical calm free from offensive colors.
I memorized the wall so swollen with sadness
it sometimes showed fearful faces
stuck in the abstract streaks
that skewered my heart within them.

Once my heart left me,

I could no longer stand.
Tears washed the marble floor
littered with pink rose petals
near the burnished bronze plaque.
Tears will always wet the polished floor
as the years stalk me, severing me
from the birthday parties and pictures,
red velvet hair ribbons and bright balloons,
white roller skates, unicorns and a Pegasus
that still spreads her sweeping wings around me in dreams.

49
 Should Die

Should Die

I should die before you,

For the onslaught of winter
Would be too much for me to bear.
The weary burden of such business
Would weaken my heart;
I would fall dead from the pain
Of losing you.

I should die before you,

For we are twin souls,
Though the difference in earthly age
Makes it unlikely I will go first,
Yet I love you so much
I could not stand to see you go.

I should die before you --

At your feet, struck by the power of your love.
I would want you to hold me in your arms,
Bless me like your own daughter,
Cover me with loving kisses
Bury me with tears of true love.

I should die before you,

But you are so far from me.
Would you journey to my grave
If I was buried by the pastoral Pacific?
Would you pilgrimage here,
Or send your prayers,
Possibly flowers?

I should die before you

Because only then would I know
I’d be missed, loved, remembered.
I know your thoughts would return to me
You are the only one, besides God,
Who knows me as I truly am.

50
 Measuring the Days

Measuring the Days

The days are measured out in eight pills:

Two green as spring grass carpeting a mountain,
Five pale orange like a rising full moon
Before it reaches its fullest height,
And one, if necessary, pure and snowy white.

This last one makes sleep come suddenly

Like snow banks or avalanches dropping -
And can keep sleep for hours or even days.
But why stay awake when the days
Are measured out in eight pills?

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 Surviving the Storm

Surviving the Storm

My shoes are wet with rain and crumpled leaves,

The mud is caked in the treads and grass slips from the crevices.
I have walked across slick black pavement
And through cool shady forests in this rain.
It seems the rain has lasted for years.

I have walked through the slanted sheets of silver drops,

Felt their icy weight upon my covered head
And had the inevitable trickle of water spill
Onto my neck from the cupped crease of my jacket.

I have been outside on the streets downtown in the cursing gusts,

Felt the angry, jealous breath of the storm upon my back
When she hurled her violence at me, striking me with blows
Until I could take no more and pleaded with a shop owner
To let me wait out the storm in his closing store.

I have been caught unawares walking through the forest,

Between journeys or possibly inhaling the clean scent of new spring
When she has spat her furious rage at me.
She shook the branches to tease the blush from my cheeks,
And delivered her wearying vengeance by watching me huddle up.
She laughed as my head was cast down, unable to face her full force.

The beauty of her gentleness is blighted by the force of her fury.

Don’t all small, delicate things contain a hidden power?
I try in earnest to avoid her tantrums and speak gently to her.
All my actions are humble offerings of myself to her,
When I bring her small gifts or compliment her on her loveliness,
I am trying to appease her and keep her happy with me.

I don’t want to anger her, arouse the spite and envy in her,
For I have heard the rain pit the panes of the windows
From the comfortable safety of my little apartment.
Although gales of wind blow the tops of the pines outside
And branches swing and sometimes crackle and fall,
I always find she keeps me safe in her arms
And she never has deserted me.

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 Love Poured Out of Me

Love Poured Out of Me

Love poured out of me

In the sweetest poetry
It fell from my hand more beautifully
Than flowers cascading from a tree
Petals like feathers bowing down
Ballerinas and butterflies tumbling down.

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 Some People Live On the Cusp

Some People Live On the Cusp

Some people live on the cusp

Treading through the lacework of shadows
Half-hidden by the reflections other cast upon them,
Struggling through the thickets of forest,
Slowed by damp, slippery moss and overgrown vines
Tendrils circling over their immobile statues’ legs,
Coiled tightly up the white marble columns.

Some people live on the cusp

Miles away from the deafening bustle, the noisy racket
That streams through the mind, full force of a locomotive
Surging over rickety tracks, all steam and oily metal clinging
Engine puffing, people chattering, horn blaring a resounding shout
Across silent hills and secretive green-meadowed valleys.

Some people live on the cusp

Shut in, away from the kindness of others.
They live their lives in the dim lights of single bulbs
Steeped in the choking emotion of a solitary existence.
Some can find solace, a deep spiritual comfort in the darkness
But others wander blindly through it, stumbling and tripping,
Bumping directionless across the crowded floor.

Some people live on the cusp

Their differences glaring, the poison of insanity coursing through their vessels,
The indelible mark of a youth sagging from the weight of its mistakes,
Physical features covered by an alabaster half-mask, roses and music scores,
Or any other line drawn with the misunderstandings of our society,
A line that unfolds instantly like magic to reveal a barricaded wall,
Impenetrable and final, separating the normal from the different.

Some people live on the cusp

This cusp is a thin sliver of the moon, a pale edge shining softly
Over the peaceful solitary souls roaming the boundary of life.
The desires they clutch to their secret hearts are unrealized,
They have been made to feel they are undeserving.
Where are the angels to comfort these lost, these wanderers,
These bruised and broken people who live existences of bareness
A minimal life, free of frivolity and embellishment, simple in its starkness,
Unfettered by the concerns of a stone-hearted populace.

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 Time to Heal

Time to Heal

I watched in horror as wailing women tore their hair

And beat their breasts in mourning.

They grieved in public, their howls and cries

Borne on the wind, like seagulls riding spring thermals.

My eyes were riveted upon them, they cursed God

And cruel fate, their despair like ever-darkening clouds,

Their tears self-renewing springs that watered all the world,

Streaming freely from their eyes and continuing

Until years had passed and their bodies fell away from them;
Their forms had melted into the gushing flow of the river.

Their sadness followed them into the next life,

Darkening their countenances like shadows in the afternoon,

Hovering around them like pigeons flocking -

They never shook the birds of grief away from their heads.

They wore despondency like bridal veils fastened to rosebud tiaras,

Showering their shoulders with fresh heartache in each new form.

As they traveled across time, their bodies changed

But were still flanked with circling, diving, twittering birds,

Stalked by their former memories, each life trailed with more despair,
Pain was heaped upon pain as the spell lived out its time.

Grief suffered burdens the heart for generations -

Only by bowing to these birds can we be free of them.

55
 Stepping Stones

Stepping Stones

Choices are slippery stones

Skirted with moss in a stream.
Some are more treacherous than they seem,
Others look slick, but deceive.

How can we convince ourselves

To leap to the next rock in the water,
Resign ourselves to fate and forget fear?
So much seems to be teetering on that leap.

What’s the worst consequence -

Splashing fully into the water,
Feeling the wet resentment of a fall
And picking ourselves up again, to dry in the sun?

If the rock upon which we stand

Begins to sink or starts to feel slippery,
Consider the jump to another.
“But the water’s so black,” someone complains.

My friend, if we don’t try to take a step,

And just stand there in the rising water,
The moss will claim us, capture us
And we will die where we stand.

56
 Nursing

Nursing

My starched whites clung to my legs,

Like children to their parents before operations,
With fear swimming in the pools of their eyes.
I arranged the flowers that I plucked from bouquets
Mourning family members placed on the bed-table for disposal.

I watch the morning parade, children in fuzzy slippers

Shuffling along the white linoleum floors to activity centers,
Their colorful terrycloth robes bright as the finery of kings.
Mothers sigh into fathers’ arms, sob silently against their necks.
Fathers momentarily forget golf scores, secretaries’ high heels,
Diversified portfolios and mortgage payments as they hold their wives,
Notice for what looks like the first time the soft, vulnerable gaze
Longing for the man to say authoritatively “Everything will be alright.”

I see the doctors on my lunch break with their detached attitudes,

Holding their egos balanced carefully against their walls of arrogance.
Concrete faces, dead eyes tell families the tragic news.
Not even the last gasp of life can crumble a doctors’ fortresses,
For if the buttresses were gone, the doctors would fall to pieces:
Unsewable, unmendable, broken shards, their humanity beautiful
As a shiny mirrored mosaic, bits of shells and squares of glass.

Sometimes I think nothing is really here, that all is air and ash,
That I can exhale this dream: part the stale air like Moses,
Breathe out the sterilized metal tools and plastic bags and folded gauze,
Pray the rubber gloves and paper wrappers away
And open my eyes to see the hand of God, gently brushing us,
Easing us through our trials, holding the hand of a child on a table
Walking the child home as the rest of the mirage falls away.

57