Inspirations: Poetry

Nirvana Spring sun whispers compared to August fire Its timid warmth more cherished As though it can only outline, Tease out fullness And fool’s folly, hope. Surviving another cold sojourn The bone-life, Where Nirvana comes hard April incandescence uncoils us, Small Garters twisting on warm logs Shedding to shape-shift. Asana: Vrksasana, Tree Pose. Stand in Tadasana, bringing R foot up as high as possible inside L thigh, toes point down. Inhale, lifting arms up, balance. If you are touched by ‘Nirvana’ sway into ‘Dancing Tree’ by shifting hips away from R knee, open arms to sides, lift chest higher and feel the whispers of spring light. Do both sides, of course. Health Notes: Vrksana strengthens leg and ankle muscles, increases balance, and offers a place of stillness, even when it ‘dances’.

In the ocean of our breath, we meet ourselves, Deep sea divers encountering exotic fish the first time, Gasping in delight. What strange creatures we seem. Filled with fear, Dazzling with courage when the heart breathes, Let go surface safety, plunge down, Into dark waters, glitterings of spring.

If I had known, Oh sweetest heart of stalwart years, That you would see so well Calm forlorn seas within Teach my drowning self to float– Later learn to swim. If I had known Then my parched self would unfold Skin melting into skin And snake-like shed All I had been, rising and Risking its re-birth. If I had known When you said “enough” each night “Well done, ‘twill keep” To lost days When Sorrow held my hand That you would offer yours, Palm wide, fingers spatulate and firm. Then I’d have known To bow and blow kisses For every golden breath, Every hour your quiet gifts Of Grace and song. Beckoned as the ‘Bower Bird’ Building his Lady’s twiggy castle. Am I worthy of this altar Dazzling and flowered? Where I sit with my Best-Self, Proclaim this life out loud And wait to hear you say, “When you crack, the light comes spilling in Yes, the light comes spilling in.”

Under the staggering gaze of the full moon, Her face the face I love Reveals cold weight of winter Illuminating purple snow And hills where geese wait. Her round largess at the horizon Sets off shrill squawking Silhouettes rise across her redolence. Do angels fly on such nights? Lovely as swans— white on white, Unseen, except as reflection. After the hill, the geese, the angels, We stare face to face She turns not from my scarring, The beauty-less form I shadow. Her white breath softens my face Her frozen light caresses my hair Daring me to reveal more.

The hill behind the house lies bare On dark’s descending ride, Leaves a figure standing lone with the North East wind inside. She hesitates, then hears commands, Sounds of squadron pride, Silhouettes on sunset’s wing With the arc of the world as guide. She waits, as hopeful beacon In silent calling –“Come by here!” Desire fixed on longing Seeks communion peers. The left wing Sergeant feels her And shears the squadron’s tilt Close by to let her listen Wing spans sounding silk. ‘Whish, whish’, holding breath to hear Then lifting, soon are lost Leaving golden tears In exchange for heavy dross. For faith, she wakes before first light Eyes fastened toward the hill Willing God to land in feathered, squawking drill. Muscled breasts stretch landing glides, Sentries stand the guard, Others settle and abide To dream the coming ride. Too long they’ve lingered on, Knowing she cannot part. They wait upon the signal, Her hope in a willing heart.

Harvesting Dreams When the lay of the land lies ripe, Pendulous the moon, Delicious golden weight. Journey from dark birth Headlong toward the Grail Daughter of darkness/daughter of light Hanging horizonless Reflected Consort to her mate His light, her soul. She ripples the blue-black vastness Covering fields, orchards, forest, pasture Making sacred, wheat, corn, apple, grape. Transformative elixir reflecting What is, what is not Her dreams ready the harvest.

Burnt by the sun Summer’s long days pull like taffy From childhood eyes. Womb return to lemonade Steaming pavements, hoses, and wild cries. Tree Frogs burp, exciting the dark. Sounds of far off waves move in When we lie in light long after bedtime. Dreaming with eyes wide open–memories Caught in a firefly net of lingering dusk, Between what was and what was wished, Dreams come and gone And come again. Have we only to roll in the sweet grass, Lie still in an August night? Or did we dream the first time?

Tender is the night Soaked in August heat Oven-baked-day leftovers Bodies soft and bendy. Darkness swallows Noon’s acrid burn, A sensuous descent Of thought melting into midnight air Bones disappearing Skin surrendered to touch. Scent of dripping Brugmansa, Perfumed, poisonous, gold-orbed, Magic alive and well Settling deep in the nostrils. Possibility enters I am already different