Eventually I will publish a book of poems. Until then, these words reside in cyberspace.
Moonshine
The woman lives
In a wood-paneled farmhouse
on Emerald Street.
She sits
lilting in a metronome rocking chair
on a tilting porch
keeping time with creaking pine knots
long after the hands of her watch have given up methodology
in favor
of fate.
She wears
Bourbon breath of moonshine made
on an almost forgotten autumn evening
centuries ago
humid air thick with potential
of a life
yet to be lived.
The lightning bug dreams of tomorrow
danced round her milky thighs
as hot dew condensed on forehead,
Sticky.
Rolling in rivers
to iris eyes in full-blossomed bloom
that night
centuries ago
brewing tonic water
from castaway
carbon.
Her hair was still auburn then,
with glimmering golden flecks of mica dust
and flaming crimson tones
of russet birch leaves
as they depart in final floating breaths
to rest
in boneyards of sweet decomposition.
She shifts
in her rocking chair,
repositions her right leg to alleviate
the twinge in her lower spine
that began to aggravate
around the time
her second lover left for the war
decades before
she moved into this house
and onto this porch.
She sighs
profoundly,
takes another sip
of the sweet liquor
distilled in oak barrels
in the basement built to withstand tornadoes
One of those storms turned her hair white
Zeus’ bolt
phantom thunder sent from Hades’ hell
and her locks turned,
shocked,
forever changed,
like leaves of the willow tree
from autumn to winter
in one cold spell.
The woman lives
In a wood-paneled farmhouse
on Emerald Street.
She sits
lilting in a metronome rocking chair
on a tilting porch
keeping time with creaking pine knots
long after the hands of her watch have given up methodology
in favor
of fate.
Marionette
Expectant
I met an old friend.
Seated,
suspended
on bended knee
with the gentle curving crescent smile of the moon,
and loving eyes
the left palm
open
to the sky
holding space
and time.
This little shrine overlooks the cliffs
of the Pacific.
Far beneath,
saltwater washes
granite clean,
churns rough edges
smooth and pristine.
Waves drown out
the endless cacophony of human thinking
and command calm
as the statue
sits still
holding space
and time
in a left palm
open
to the sky.
On the first day of Summer
life burns hence
too fiery
for comfort,
and I am feeling
yet again,
the deep need to call
the soothing blue
of this ocean from the tall
saltwater cliffs of Big Sur.
Sometimes we forget that we carry
peace
within these bags of skin,
for as Buddhist philosophy
teaches us,
any decisions
worth making,
we solve
by soulful in-taking
of
seven
soft
breaths.
Live with ease and breathe with light,
drink in the breeze
to quench
the mind
ease the heart
and head
and set aside
mad ego that has led
body astray so many times,
lay empty hand to heaven
to hold space
and time
in left palm
open
to the sky
fingers loose,
to let life
flow by. .
Morning Light
Guadalajara Rains
My
six-year-old self
spins and sings,
splashing through
every puddle she sees.
Wild winds lash at palm fronds
as purple lighting
pierces bulkhead clouds
in blotted ink indigo skies
above her dancing head.
She senses
the magnetic pull
of pure potential energy
as every atom
awakens within her being.
Electron trails
send signals from tiny hairs
on tip top of skull,
standing at attention
like tethered soldiers,
ready to deliver
from thunderclap clouds
the great catharsis
of lightning bolt
through body;
breaking bones apart,
bursting heart
and blinding eyes,
opening sight
to the sheer size of life
beyond this
finite
human skin.
Yet despite the stakes so high,
her barefeet sweep between raindrops
Which pound
upon fleshy shoulders
and thighs
and arms spread to fly.
My
six-year-old self
spins and sings,
splashing through
every puddle she sees.
Gleeful and giddy,
amidst the storm of centuries.
Shadow-Seer
Candlelight flickers-
A single flame
blown sideways
by the breath
of some great being
yet unseen
to my
seeking eye.
Divinity,
why must you linger in the shadows?
Why must you shroud your
shifting form
in mysteries?
In momentary
synchronicities?
We know you are
the one
whose breath
causes
our candle to dance,
to twist and twirl
in magic entrance
though
tethered to wick and wax.
This faith,
buried deep
in human chest,
woven with
sinew silk
into beating heart
and wrapped round
ribs of Eve’s devotion
will not falter
will not melt
or float away
in smoky spirals.
And though you hide
each night
in liminal lines
of dark spaces,
we light
each candle
in your name
and fill
the world
with dancing light.
Devout of heart
and full of grace.
Divinity,
why must you linger in the shadows?
We feel your touch
in whirling water,
and hear you singing in the wind,
so let faith’s pure golden fire
expose your form
and light your face.