I am a tulip
I am a tulip
Made of Dutch root and bullshit
A fleeting season
Of beautiful relevance
Speculation rife and rich
I am a tulip
Made of Dutch root and bullshit
A fleeting season
Of beautiful relevance
Speculation rife and rich
i still read the watch-
Oðinn’s attempts to woo Rindr fail three times
though her royal father approves.
Rindr — of yellow hair, pert chin, eyes the blue of old ice,
and womanly form — feels no desire for dalliance with this deity.
His brash masculinity, coarse manners, offend.
Often drunk, always ego-driven,
and with the juice of goat meat, breadcrumbs,
and mead festooning his beard,
he disgusts her.
She rebuffs his rough advances,
dances aside when he lunges,
turns her face when he tries to apply sloppy lips
to her pristine and comely face. She knows,
he only wants a son to replace the slain Balder,
and she won’t be his brood mare.
So Oðinn resorts to magic…
He begs Frejya for spells and incantations to weaken a woman’s will.
To make him cease wedeling, Frejya,
Goddess of Love, Divination and Magic,
relents — only to later regret.
Poor Rindr falls prey,
so sick, dizzy, and unable to eat
she takes to her bed.
Vekka, an old woman and healer petitions King Billing —
“I can help her, but my cure is bitter.”
Oðinn lies in both words appearance.
Rindr’s father binds her to her bed
so she’ll swallow the bitter draught,
then leaves Vekka to her frightful work.
Lifting his robe shows Rindr Oðinn’s deceit.
Her father ignores Rindr’s shrikes and pleadings;
he thinks she fights Vekka’s dosing.
Indeed, she does!
No love suffuses Oðinn’s treatment
as he forces himself upon his bound victim.
No gentle wooing accompanies his approach.
This bitter dose leaves Rindz with nightmares
of Vekka’s medicine, of pain and humiliation.
Worse yet, when her menses cease and her breasts ache
she knows the full nature of the draught.
Oðinn will have his new son.
But Frejya sees Oðinn’s work, his deception.
The court of Gods and Goddesses condemns.
Despite achieving his goal,
Oðinn is cast out, shunned for ten years,
a grievous sentence.
Even so, valid grudges remain.
Oðinn’s honor suffers
and repugnance of his crime
makes him outcast,
but justice is only partly served.
Search until you find the quiet place, high above
a growling city, where an ocean blue sky sings peace
through the forgotten, living things.¹
Stand still when you listen.
Twirl, open-palmed, when you sing. Even with
outstretched arms, humble ministry
will overwhelm a curious beggar.
Drop your crumbs for the chorus birds. Stop,
pick up a discarded six-pack ring from
the community watering hole. Animals listen to
our pleas, despite their wildness,² so
spare no expense when offering your love
in return. Ignore the passing cars, the lostness of
your understanding, the worry of
unreturned phone calls, and exchange breath with
all that is seen and unseen in this caravan kingdom
of travelers fighting to explore
a trying world.
¹ Oakland, California. The off-season grounds, the magical-play-pretend landscape of Woodminster Amphitheater in Joaqun Miller Park.
² Two or three times a week, during my grad school years at Mills College, I would drive up to the hills. Park. Give a concert for no one. Such juxtaposition- honking and pollution, a hurried city below…above- fountains, a Snow White community nonchalant and hanging out…there was such a pressure-cooker signal for me to bottle my existence around 23,24…so I absolutely wore imaginary rhinestones, and Judy’d my best Rainbow to any deer, bird, squirrel willing to stick around and listen. Grateful for the friend who shared it with me.
footsteps fall into place
Where Is the joy, to all embrace
slave away the jobs we hate
To be Paid a starving wage
Where’s our Wonderful People
Wonderful People
In this world, you could make it a better place—
wouldn’t it be nice?
children’s arms fall astray
Where Is the love, we all crave
no one looks up to see
All of Love’s opportunities
There are Wonderful People
Wonderful People
In this world, we could make it a happy place—
wouldn’t it be nice?
The hawk came down before he came
and broke its neck against the pane.
In an old story that I teach,
love enters at the window’s breach.
He set no tasks: I set my own
and stitched the seamless sark alone.
I washed it in the rainless well,
I dried it where no blossom fell.
I laid it folded at his door.
He answered not. He came no more.
What’s whistled down the wind goes free,
but no one asked the hawk, or me.
All autumn on the dappled walk,
they left the body of the hawk.
Moonlight unstitched it where it lay;
I watched it lighten, day by day.
Cold bleached it pale and wore it thin,
hollowed its eye, its beak sunk in.
A checkerspot rose from the breast,
each lost thing gathered, repossessed.
Let him go call the feather home
and knit the wing again to bone.
it’s a hopeful sad,
i tell my therapist
on the screen
i don’t look at myself
in the box in the right
hand corner
she asks, what does that mean
i say i feel it in my
breast bone
like a flutter
an echo of something
that once was
& might be again
in another shape
i say, that doesn’t
help much does it?
Although you may think it
a movie lover’s sin
My machine already ate
my Gone with the Wind
A sacrificial test
to see how tapes play
But not even Clark Gable
could save the day
finally love yourself enough
to walk away
take the consequences, judgements, unanswered questions
all the might have been scenarios
the realization: you are someone else entirely
it is time
one week out
growing more comfortable
decisions are not my forte
I had a brief, Wednesday freak out
I admire myself though, for pushing through
confirmation is a process
yet sometimes the vibes register
sending more than a simple feeling
a push out the proverbial door
everything I value
evidence on a gravel road
perhaps a transition, only
still yet a change, beginning, hope
renewal
