Soul Person

Last night I dreamed I was a high school English teacher who'd seduced another middle-aged teacher, a brilliant artist named Lewis. We're alone in my empty classroom having an intimate conversation about books and art. He's totally my type. First of all, Black, but not too handsome. More James Baldwin than Idris.

Secondly, he's brilliant - caustic and witty with an underlying vulnerability that sends me. We're having our first kiss when there's a knock on the door, or rather a scraping noise.

Lewis pulls away. "What's that?"

I laugh. "Probably a cat." But I know it's probably a student so I get up and open the door.

It's Felix, one of the coolest kids in school - a senior. He's tall, looks multi-racial with a sculpted, quizzical face. He's also gay and has a prosthetic left arm from the elbow down. I don't know how he lost it.

Anyway, he comes in and says, "What month is it?"

"September."

"Oh, good. Another Virgo." (How does he know that?)

He has an extra fake hand with a cigarette attached to his prosthetic arm, and he pulls it to his lips and starts to smoke. The fingernails of the fake hand are painted white. Smoking is forbidden but no one has been bold enough to stop him, and I don't try.

I say, "Maybe it's rude of me to say, but the way you use your hand is so beautiful."

He laughs. "You know, most people are too scared to mention it. They can't process two things at the same time. They suddenly blurt out - 'Oh, you're a queer...'" 

I laugh, too.

Lewis has walked a distance away to give us some privacy because he really is special.

I tell Felix, "You know what? I'm a very loving person." I tip my head toward Lewis. "Just ask him ...

"But underneath, I think I'm cold. Really dispassionate."

Felix's eyes widen and his gaze intensifies. I close my eyes.

"I've never told anyone that before, but you're such a genius, I felt like I could tell you."

He says, "You're smiling."

My eyes are still closed to keep from crying. "I know."

I say, "You're a good writer now, but wait 'til you're 65. You're going to be a cynical fucking bastard, but you'll be an amazing writer. I wish I could be around."

He says, "You're my soul person."

"I know."

***

I actually wrote all this down the moment I woke up because it was so clear.

What the Tree Told Me

Remember to stop, breathe, look, listen, feel...breathe...appreciate...

Close your eyes and reach out with your mind, your breath, and listen deeper...feel gentler...be at peace...

Other poets, artists, thinkers are questing for solidarity from all planes and dimensions...

Welcome them, living and dead, one heart beating in tune with the beyond, the universal wordlessness...

Empty of goals because all has been accomplished...

Even as we are continually evolving.

Parallel Dimensions

 

She gazes at the breathing trees

The voices in her head a distant hum

Inconsequential words

Dissolving quietly

 

The summer breeze

Herds leaves like schools of fish

A deep peace stretches out

And rests its eyes in all directions.

 

What about Africa? What about the Oceans?

 

We cry for Ukraine and beg Russia to stop.

We agonize for Gaza and beg Israel and Hamas to stop.

We pray daily.

But what about Africa? What about the health centers destroyed, women and girls at risk of rape and murder? Children dying of hunger? Aid workers forced to leave and food programs, vaccination efforts and HIV prevention ended?

 

We fight for our endangered species and forests.

We beg for habitats to be left alone.

We beg to keep our national parks and protected lands free from pipelines and drills.

We demand clean air and forests.  We write letters and march.

But what about the ocean? What about the dying coral reefs? What about the beached whales, dolphins and sea lions? What about the fish swimming north to colder waters?

 

Africa, you are enormous, with scores of countries – each with its own resources, needs and priorities.  Why are we leaving you vulnerable to exploiters?

Mother Ocean, you are the source of all life.  Hidden.  Mysterious and Inviolate.  Until now. Why are we polluting you and heating you and overfishing you to the point of no return?

Africa and the Ocean.

This is a short love letter.

Year of the Snake

 

The falling snow says it’s okay to hide.

We have a blanket under which to consider

The extremity of our emergency –

An emergency of perception, of consciousness

And understanding –

Our human connection to all life

And even to each other

Now a topic for debate.

 

We’re watching a battle of storytellers

The eloquent and the unintelligible –

Given equal time by the conmen.

The most appalling thing is how well organized

And constructed the shell game was,

Each move calculated to hide the worst crimes

Amidst outrageous and unbelievable acts

That must be fought singly.

 

Meanwhile, they tighten their grip on us

In their aeries which we cannot enter,

Even with the tallest ladder.

Does that sound too abstract?

In fact, the stage of action happens

On the plane of imagination.

A battle of ideas where the key to winning

Is to link up soul to soul.

 

Keep reaching out to grab another hand,

And reunite,

Until our majority is too obvious to ignore.

And if they attempt to divide us,

We remerge, incorporate our limbs

Drawing into ourselves

New strength.

 

One act at a time, one hand at a time,

Even one poem at a time,

Until our long body of separate segments

Joins and begins to hum –

You can hear it like a song –

Beneath the snow,

Without words and more powerful for that.

 

Our one long body sheds its skin

Uncovering the deep and vibrant pattern

Of our true design –

With full mobility – now freed from

Counting steps,

We glide into our own future,

Orienting ourselves by

The heartbeat of the earth.