Monday, July 30, 2018
Time is so elastic, with a quality of kindness
One can nestle into
Wrapping oneself in the
Infinite expanse of space
She's very tall ... I glimpsed her once
Presiding over the universe
On a golden ribbon, sacred artery
That flowed beneath her feet
And in that river, bright leaves appeared
Uncountable beads of karmic treasure
In all beings' book of lifetimes
It seems ridiculous to think of
Parceling Time into segments
She laughs at the idea
Of being cut, corralled or measured
She stands so broad and colorful
In her long coat, until she smirks,
Turns sideways and
Leaving only patches of light
Like melting snowflakes in the dark
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
How we all change day to day, year to year.
If I met the person I was sixty years ago, would I like her?
Forty? Twenty? Yesterday?
Talking with my seatmate on the plane
I tapped into the universal language –
Commonality is a lingua franca
Last night on the dance floor, each of us shone
Like individual moonbeams
I liked the women in sequined dresses, all silver and gold
And the tipsy girl in tulle
My aging muscles remembered the steps
Knees complaining afterward
Like proud, exhausted athletes
Who didn’t shoot the winning basket, but helped
Our moonbeams flashed
With the same kind fire
Into the welcoming night
And fifty years ago
My hips could telegraph and tease
My arms could play a talking drum
Of anxious youth
Striving for a clear opening to victory
On the racecourse of world peace
Would that girl recognize this queen of leisure
Tuning her senses to each sentient being without a qualm?
Anxiety is a burden not to be borne
Oneness is our Blood Type O
And will I take this knowing into tomorrow?
Perhaps my consciousness is a layered dress –
Sequins, tulle and silk
Over clean, soft cotton
All the layers pressed together imprint the soul
Like a leaf from under the microscope
Note: Koinonia means a spiritual communion. This was the winning word correctly spelled by the winner of the National Spelling Bee, 14-year old Karthik Nemmani. This poem is a reflection on layers of self, after attending a wedding and reception of my dear nephew. Traveling cross-country to be with family brings up a lot of feelings. Who am I? Which I?
Friday, April 20, 2018
The slate blue clouds layer across the sky above the last remnants of gold clinging to the tops of the trees. It’s that melancholy time of day that I love so much.
It reminds me of the summer after my freshman year of college, when I was walking on the lawn at Rockdale, my Grandmother’s house, with my beau Langley, a fellow poet. We were discussing the book I’d just finished for English class and the report I had to write that weekend.
It was Faulkner’s “Sound and the Fury” and Langley felt it was a real story that exposed the underbelly of true Southern life. He had grown up in Culpepper, Virginia, and ought to know. He wrote poetry about cows and drying tobacco, then.
Somehow that stroll across the lawn is how I always feel about twilight. The fireflies are just about to come out. The air is warm. It's early summer, and you can hear the distant barking of a dog.
Now it’s only April, but already I feel the approach of summer. I’m ready for those languid days of drinking lemonade and watching the bees looking for clover and alfalfa. I’m ready for whatever inspiration may come.
Why are we artists so prone to melancholy? That’s a question for another day, but I put it out there. It’s always haunted me.