SHE SAT

She sat soft and round toed
in the meadow of day’s
green and gold,
slightly obscure,
gloaming.

My thoughts were red trains
on curved tracks and bridges
fearless and far off
rambling,
evermore roaming.

The sun peered from earth’s edge
as spirited breeze blew coolly across,
her hair tangled and ready
for an eve of rich,
oh so sweet, loving.

We walked over ground large
spread out between us,
spent sacred from months
of hopeful sad yearnings.

Grasses and insects rejoiced
in the twilight’s glad opening
of sheen,
as joyful utterance completed
and bathed shining clean
this exuberant,
once thought impossible,
scene.

UNDER THE VOLCANO (for Malcolm Lowry)

The choice to sit
in the heat of noontime
under the volcano of love,
as wet beads of fear sweat
slide down your neck
onto the road dusted
with puddles of oil
and orange scent
can be made in a flash
of lightning
or like a slow turpid jaunt
towards a blue lake,
full of glistening fish
and slippery memories
of breath all aswim---
as we hike in bright sun
up to a crater,
where nothing and all
gratefully mingle
amidst the crazed cracking
of noise, fierce fury’s
compassionate rim….

….Slowly it dawns on the leader,
that we all live down and inside
a purplish cacophonous din,
where peace and her sweet
sister beauty are gems hidden
precious as twins.

FRUITLESS 2

I haven’t had fruit in the frig
or lunchbox for days.
Tables at home are covered
with bills, papers and paints
from projects completed,
quite past
yet too present
in gloom's disarray.
Photos on walls tip off center,
appear insolent,
almost drunk
with neglect
or the unseen passing
of time’s several seasons.

If I smoked cigarettes or drank whiskey with lust,
these would be the days of addictive bust,
but I don’t imbibe to any extent,
life without fresh ripened fruit
or pink fat steak
and this generalized mess
is how my loss shows its disguise.

Breathing slow,
deep, opens
the stiff body
to maintain mere balance
of thought.
With hope,
full feeling might
one fine day
(or sweet night)
be back brought
into this life of mine
right now so still
seeming dried out,
a long brown drought
of becoming---
and being distraught.

Fruitless

I haven’t had fruit in the frig
or lunchbox for days.
The tables at home are covered
with bills, papers and paints
from projects completed, quite past
yet too present in disarray.
Photos on walls tip off center,
appear insolent, almost drunk
with neglect
or the unseen passing of time.

If I smoked cigarettes or drank whiskey with lust,
these would be the days of addictive bust,
but I don’t imbibe to any extent,
life without fresh fruit or thick steak
and this generalized mess
is how my loss shows its disguise.

Breathing slow and deep opens me
to maintain mere balance of thought
with hoping full feeling may in time
be back brought
into this life of mine
right now so still,
but distraught.

SOUTH FORTUNA PEAK, SATURDAY

The top of the brown mountain seemed
forever far, until my bones rested
in thanks on a boulder tipped,
and sky on my sweat meant
quiet and sleep
hovering blue and brightly,
edged next to a cliff sharp and steep.

When I awoke from daydream’s
porchfronted pouch,
the gray rock facing me
showed a man’s one-eyed pout,
which soon revived me
like Jesus enlivened
a girl dead
in her parent’s house,
she awakens to his command:
‘talitha kumi’,
‘little girl, wake up!’

Then on the dry ground lay
a black shell of beetle
left empty and brittle,
the crust of the self,
uncovered flesh had slipped away
into new silver light,
these transformed apostles,
numbered twelve.

And I knew in that moment
so pure and precise,
that she is worth
complete sacrifice.
Peace of salted body
and sweet fruit of calmed mind
walked slow and strong down
that great mountain,
where all and nothing
were buried behind.

My Images Come

My images come from where
we are not born as of yet into body.

My toes lift off a wooden floor
as dream particles swim and churn
and wildly simmer to shore.

Washington Square park sits wide open
while Chinese elders swing to silent music,
Tai Chi mystery meditation ensues.

Can two places at once give us hope?
How strong is the desire to be free?

What nonsense brings forth
may be true,
may save us even from rue,
while mere vapid words
never shall reach
our heartcore's deepest
and dearest blue.

Transformation

The Elk majestic
on high green hill
gazes into and beyond
the world of form and fact,
while Snake sheds skin
after skin,
after skin,
earthbound,
silent
and simply
intact.

In The Midst of First Month’s Loss

This bruise is no ruse,
her face a rose
unforgotten,
placed along
a path
in a broad canyon,
out of reach like sixteen
year old friends
eleven hundred gray miles
north of wherever you are,
newly uprooted, alone
in this land worshipping cars,
not in the old neighborhood
anymore, ready for catch
or mischief of moment’s
beckoning call,
as a trusted key
in a lock opens us
for more, even more.

My pink lungs and sore breast
miss you this morning
and in the blue ache
I long for any wrong
to sift down in cool soil,
decomposing in time
to fertilize the sad ground
where gladiolas may grow tall
and bloom oh so gaily —
and then a vase shall appear,
perfect,
proportioned
for your altar
of becoming,
this fragrant beacon
of forgiveness
and joy
beaming forth
its rare bounty
of beauty’s
true colors.

RING OF RESONANCE

inside the small shop of used goods,
on shelves, in cases of consignment
or for pawning,
a woman owner and one customer
besides the two of us—
who buys my old unused
engagement ring, symbol of love lost
years and years ago,
and time who turned around unseen corners
or barely hinted at through fog
of need,
the scripted unlived hopes of family formation,
now the ring is black
and she purchases it for her lover..

.. and where and who is he I ask in silence?..

The darkened ring hides pure gold I know.
The new owner, ignorant of the unseen beauty,
allows me to scrape and bring forth the shine inside,
scraps and flecks of midnight ash fall off
as bright metal shows itself
almost new, hopeful, ready for their
engaged committed life ahead.

And oh, the thought—‘how much my share
of the price she paid?’—
as money takes its prescribed part.

We walk out and down this street,
closing doors behind us.
Steps lighten as a welcoming of new stories
begins, a felt relief, this wholeness,
this ring of closure, an encircling tale
all loss and gain must eventually tell
in life and in dream.

These Things

hope, that thing with feathers,
lay on the asphalt,
baked hot
under Indian Summer sun.

rage, that thing of hellfire
and torn promise,
smoldered within bracken
on highway’s littered edge.

acceptance, that thing of soft
mystery~worn moments,
floated past stretching
fingers’ flailing grasp.