Posts for June 28, 2018 (page 4)

I am glad that words are a two way mirror.
So I can offer up my body to subjectivity
While my soul can remain enveloped
in a cloak of anonymity

Exposure in the light keeps me grounded to the earth
The sun’s judgement, too harsh to try my wings
for fear that they will melt away.
But confidence in the shadows allow me to soar
And everyone could use a bird’s eye view.

I duck behind these sentence fragments
And watch you, the sketch artist, pencil me in.
I laugh a little when you’re wrong.
I cry a little when you’re right.
I fear what will happen when it brightens up on this side
Because glass can be shattered in seconds
And it’s never as pretty in pieces.

Day Two in Guatemala City   

Outside, a rooster crows.
It is dark before dawn,
and I hear a voice from my past,
repeating wisdom that farmers know,
having experienced it through
a lifetime of toil:
you can’t slip daylight
past a rooster.  

I hear another rooster,
and then many others as they write
their poems to foil
night’s dominion, its fog and dew,
 from this urban landscape. I know
you will sleep past dawn,
unaware of the wind that blows  

soft, a breath against a lover’s ear.  

I walk into the garage and detect
a squeak, a soft whirr – a hummingbird
lured inside by the red silk kite draped

on one wall.  Cornered in unfamiliar territory,
the bird lacks a blueprint for escape.
Double doors are open to a breeze swirling

with the scent of flowers.  The sky awaits.
Yet, this iridescent shimmer flaps
in a hopeless loop from nailed-up hula hoops

to the culpable kite and back again.
The farther inside I inch, the more frenzied
its flight.  I murmur soothing words,

slink my way to the window and open it.
The breeze is instantly sucked through
the garage and out: a clear exit.  I tiptoe

outside, watch with relief as the bird
drops down into that blossom of air
and drinks its freedom.

on the dock
when only birds
and I roused

over delicate waves
watched several wispy
white puffs from
the lake’s length
lilt our way

assumed trash yet
awaited the exhibits

salvage our marriage
during the meanwhile?

exquisite catalpa tree
blossoms masquerading as
orchids wafted in

it must be
too late when
I still expect
waste from the
exalted

It was an all consuming flame

My skin began to boil

I watched as it roped around my fingers and spun me around

I kept a straight face

It is an interesting dance

When you are wiping your eyes from the sting of the smoke

And if only I could have saved the animals

I would not dream about it so often

My brother played sick that morning and tried to stay home

The windows cracked from the heat

The neighbors said they heard two explosions

What could it be?

And would re-building that house mask any of the memories?

He was a monster from the start and this set him free

With the flick of a match, or maybe a lighter

He was cutting himself off from me

The instant this monk drops the lighted match, he crosses irrevocably from life to death, from protestor to martyr in the cause against his country’s hatred. Few will understand what would bring a man to that fork in his path, will even begin to comprehend from their self-referential vantage the results of daily acts they’ll excuse but never face. Years and lifetimes later, in a not so different country, too few will take the time to reflect on why a family would risk everything to enter at a moment when their government turns hatred to stone no less palpable for not being physical in form, while fewer will refuse to toss the match on others.

Long before Trump, a wall
was being built in the hearts
of millions of Americans.

Its bricks made from mud
dredged from The Other Side
and fired in the various 
Kilns of Indignation.

Its mortar, a mixture of
Fear and Suspicion which 
hardens overnight into Hatred

The main motivation for
the people on both sides sounds
like the exact same thing:

“Bad People are fucking up
the United States and must be
stopped before it’s too late”.

I have to go now because
people are throwing bricks at me…

If you are here to summon my story, you must remember you are listening not to me, but to your own mind. My purpose in life is to move, peak in the breeze, bubble under the influence of air, travel from my source to the place where gravity pools. I am not your philosopher. I am not your teacher. Listen to the river that flows inside of you. Where has it been? Where is it going? You need me to caress the parts of yourself that are parched and aching, but I only swirl around your fingers. It is true. I am a sculptor, but I cannot carve a path for you.

you
walked the el camino de santiago
for days
weeks
on into a months worth of
finding yourself

as for me
i ate celery
and cried
had dollar store peppermint tea
for days
weeks
on into a month

i
purged all color
but grey
and stayed

and emerged transformed

twenty nine days older

Yellow dog story has another part.
Running free, checking out far spaces,
He spied my five cats. Yikes. What is A dog?
These from birth, protected felines  
With coats bristled, backs humped,
Ears pert and tails in a twitch,  hiss
Collective disgust at such a smell, sight
And growl. A bark? No self-respecting
Tabby cat would stoop to make such sounds.  

Best to be safe and fly to the car top
Nearest tree and gas grill and crouch
Frozen as lawn ornaments, and if they
But knew it, a funny sight in their terror.  

Hate to laugh at their fear and disgust,
Can’t help it since neighbor dog just stood
There almost as bewildered as they.
Such fun watching both sides mixing species.  
Sorta reminds me of folks whose dismay
At the off-key trumpet blasting from DC,
Find themselves lunging for higher ground.
Better if they defend their turf treasure
Instead of meowing their muted displeasure.