Amid the life-giving waters
golden wheat fields
and verdant forest
the empress luxuriates
in the fullness of her fertility
Crowned with the stars of the heavens
adorned with the pearls of the sea
draped in silks of pomegranate and
holding aloft the scepter of the world
a symbol of her reign
The empress nurtures herself
as she awaits the arrival
of her abundance
made manifest
The empress is
every woman.
The exercise: take a random lyric from a song (for me, one written by Thom Yorke), and use it as the title/first line of the poem. Travel where it leads.
A million engines in neutral
I am fed to bursting with combustible ink,
a spark of the written Tao, fumes
of loving kindness, and here I am,
engines rumbling on countertops,
disrupting family meatloaf dinners
with angry cries of “Mindfulness!”
and “Ego trip!” and “Stop attaching me!”
and “Stop anchoring me down!”
and “Me! Me! Me!”—a million engines
prepped for a million-mile
journey into the heart of the sun,
wasting their fuel on the cul-de-sac.
I want to die at my writing desk
as Harrison did, offering his
one-eye body to what Gods
would have it, but only after
writing ’til his soul was empty;
he would have written more
had he more time (which he
didn’t); he would have written
more letters to that Russian poet
who hung by his neck in a Leningrad
hotel, a poet who wrote with blood
since he had no ink (I think that’s why
Harrison loved him so) – all why I
want to die at my writing desk.
— also for Sergei Yesenin
These are indeed the lives we’ve been given,
all these thousands of bright shining mornings
& dark starless nights, all these damned beloved children
lost & found & found & lost,
all these tears.
We can say as loudly as we like, If only I’d been there
or If only I hadn’t or If only I weren’t so mean or thoughtless
or weak—but indeed there’s no changing the past
no matter what color glasses
we look at it through.
Indeed there’s not much use in looking back or forward
even though we do just that, morning & night,
even though there’s no confusion whatsoever
about where we’re headed, only how we’ll get there
& when.
Until then, the world is indeed harsh & cold
except for what we bring to it in our little rooms,
the brimming mugs of coffee we share & warm our hands with,
the cream & the sugar, the only barely burnt
crusts of bread.
Why am I here?
It is a question I hear and often ponder
In my 55 years of life
Why am I here?
I was created, that I know,
By my God
Why am I here?
What is my goal?
That question often resonates
Why am I here?
Today I will be kind
To myself, my family, others
Why am I here?
Will I change the world?
I doubt it, but I might change someone’s
Why am I here?
I am here to be me
That is enough
two grown women
fighting at a baseball game
an actual, on the ground, hair everywhere, everyone staring
brawl
and I consider
what has become of us that we take to blows
on a beautiful not quite summer evening
America’s pastime and children present
it wasn’t even dark yet
perhaps this is the norm
and I’m late to the realization
here’s hoping though
peace in the midst of a mixed up world
peace despite the volatile
peace amongst the in between
here’s hoping we don’t just laugh it all away
half-sleeping, listening
to the Grateful Dead
I blast through speakers
I know it’s only months
before he leaves again
and wonder what he
will remember
and what he will forget
and wish there was a way
to freeze a moment
without stopping time
The cool crisp air
that follows
a morning rain
is like
a new beginning.
It breathes life
and energy
into the day,
as if the heavens
are looking down
with blessings
as angels descend
upon us
with raindrops
like mystic tears
of joy.
