A TOUCH OF MAGENTA ONE AFTERNOON

What are our definitions of creativity? Are we like street artists who have to be like guerrilla fighters--painting on the streets with minimal supplies, being watched as they create, being part of the tourist experience. Creating is an intimate act, and yet like voyeurism, we like to watch something as intimate as the process of inspiration and then creation. I suppose some wish they could paint or write or compose and what about the lovers of art, can they be a part of the process, the internal skeleton of creation? Can that be enough to keep the process going? The I Ching reads...

Before the beginning of great brilliance, there must be chaos. Before a brilliant person begins something great, they must look foolish to the crowd.

A Touch of Magenta One Afternoon

A confetti breeze is felt on a
gingerbread storybook street;
a luminous easel refracts
magenta from a mackerel sky.
A Machiavellian man,
a seraph of art,
paints from a somber palette,
hidden behind
a misconduct of reverence,
his nameless vice—
a nude woman.

Nestled close and woven,
observers matched in
committed fabric,
two women watch
the artist work; they are illuminated
by the moon, entwined arms, entwined breath.
Single words expose what they feel--
beauty, fluidity, passion, art--
All while sharing the affinities
of a tortoise shell hair clip.

Standing sealed, holding an
elbow to perilous advantage,
a compass of confessions,
a bright light of exposure,
a complementary portrait of
a silenced woman,
fragile as quiet lovers.

Art is a stroll, a beautiful place
on a public street of Paris; heat
fills hearts with infinite possibilities,
love is as elemental as color like paint
layered onto Sappho’s easel.
A brunette and a blond—roman a clef,
they hold their fears through the equinoxes.

The nude--a polarized myriad of surfaces
emerges off the face of the canvas.
Their minds—fractured
and overlapping with reasons.
No white purity of diversity while
allowing a tender joining;
beads hung low into
the cleavage of discovery,
all sewn into the
internal seam of a woman.
Once they’ve seen enough,
still arm and arm, they move on.

WEST BANK

We think we are seeing images, as they are, as we think they should be, or as our brain would like them to be. I find the mystery of perception to be fascinating. I find the world of creativity transformation into art compelling. I wrote The West Bank about Her Mother's Lover, (the novel Rachelle, my writing partner and I have laboriously given our souls too), as a artistic expression of the time period. In Paris, 1930, life was a mixture of art, feminine coquetry, literature, and dance all joined in one of the sacred temples of Montparnasse. As Hemingway said-- "If you are lucky enough to have been in Paris, then where ever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast." Allow this poem to move its erotic energy like a dance set to words and let it feast on your soul.

West Bank

A place of faces, underground,
pearls and ties share
souls of the
same kind. Stemmed
glasses of wine,
rocks in
bourbon or rye.

The lover sits at a small
round table, focused
on her other self.
Tango music arouses,
a pearlescent hand
from a French-cuffed sleeve
swirls caramel liquor, a burn
curling in the air--
A sultry masculine art.
Small shoulders held tall,
black leather belt
enhancing a curved waist,
and a white pressed shirt.

She is standing,
partnering a zinc bar,
smoking.
Onyx slip-dress
opened dangerously low
to the small of her back,
delicate muscles
linger
under her pale skin.
Waves of sienna hair pulled tight
in a French knot;
charcoal eyes,
crimson-stained lips,
swan chin,
shoulders soft-- her
lost femininity found.

Over her shoulder,
with an earnest gaze she
meets her lover’s eyes,
back suggestively curved,
charming smiles exchanged
“aime-moi, l'amant,” she mouths.

From the lover’s seat
she is driven,
compelled by
their secret.

Standing and drawn across the floor,
gliding through the air, cologne’s
breath wraps around
a familiar silhouette.
The lover has
memorized her flesh;
knowing fingertips
slowly slips inside her dress,
marrying her sensitive waist.

“Will you have a drink with me,”
her lover adjusts her tie,
her hazel eyes fixed
on the lips of yes, fingers
slip her necklace to her back.
Tiny pearls roll over her spine.

The woman in the onyx dress
is guided by her lover and she
languidly sits, her
fingertips smooth her lover’s
black trousers.
Her neck holds a strand of pearls.
She lowers her eyes from her lover,
her thoughts glazed from the heat
of conventionally known ways;
she is sure their legs are touching.

Others, masculine and feminine,
fill the sumptuous salon.
Her lover orders
her a Kir Royale.
Red lips touch glass with the softness
of letting go, hand holding the solid
stem of a flute.
Love fills their veins
with the sweetness
of shared beauty.

“Will you dance with me?”
Her lover whispers,
lips tender to the cup of
her ear.

Breath caught and with a smile,
she nods her head yes. Rising and
looking into her lover's eyes,
the sky opens wide,
the secret is broken.
Souls are free,
body to body moving,
slow dancing.
Her head lies on her
lover’s shoulder,
she breathes slowly,
slowly, slowly.

It is a surreal moment lost
in the West Bank of Paris as
souls wrap
around
the underground and turn
around.

HEAT SHIVERS IN EQUILIBRIUM

There is something HOT about heat when it is 7 degrees outside and snowing, and I am warm inside. Recently I have been fascinated by the power of the sun and the comforts of warmth and the sheer power of heat. Heat lives in cycles, in races, in love, in fire, in explosives, and in the invisible power of the hot transferring into the cold body. Heat spontaneously gives pleasure, power and warning until all is equal.
Heat cannot be separated from fire, or beauty from the Eternal. Dante.

Heat Shivers in Equilibrium

Heat breaks boundaries, thermodynamics,
latent and sensible forms taken for granted.
Fire, water, love, a momentary hot spell

breaking through polished sand, heating inside,
exploding outside, blushing pink flesh. Heat
fused between bodies burrowed under bed sheets,

passion heats within a kiss, the hot iron of a
skillet, heat from the sun transferring and flowing,
heat inside your mind craving droplets of living.

Your heart beats inside heat, 98.6, homeostasis.
Strong fingers rub heat into bones, blood moving
and turning her beauty into soft bodies of liquid

and lost within another thought, she becomes solid.
She opens her ceiling of another universe, seeking
the zenith, she transports into other heated forms.

Yellow heat lives inside eyes closed, it is hot.
A U of beach chairs in the middle of a living room,
the fervor of spinning molecules repels sleep, leaving

a room full of bodies in heat. Outside in the cold, silver
branches wait for spring and a black crow with oiled
feathers is perched motionless in the gray of the sky.

Heat escapes as blowing steam from nostrils;
a female red fox mainlines across fields of snow.
Hot blooded muscles frame fur-covered mass.

The heat of red wine settles down throats, raw heated
conversations, a fireplace consumes and returns warmth,
trees are flattered by the continuation of the seasons.

In nature, outside our bodies--inside our hearts,
Mother nature is a driving force on earth,
a spontaneous disambiguation of the final heat.

Turning Pages: LYRICS AND LIFE

Turning Pages: LYRICS AND LIFE: "IN HIS LIFE   John Lennon had magic in his mind.  His words and music brought people together, challenged them.  He stuc..."

I love the mix of emotion and passion, Roe you are an inspiration. Check out my friends new blog... She is a writer too.

BEAUTY

Live in the moment. Feel the perfection of knowing you are exactly where you are supposed to be-- Ahh, yes. Appreciate your own beauty, allow chocolate to melt slowly on your tongue, smell the thawing earth, know who your friends are and tell them, and of course drink wine with them. Each day truly is a gift. Each day we have a choice to forgive and learn and change as we live in the present moment.

Enjoy yourself. It's later than you think. ~Chinese Proverb

Beauty

In the body of an airplane,
freedom over state lines,
lost in pillows of
white clouds;

in the bottom of a glass
of dark red wine,
the chocolate slowly
melts inside
her mouth;

her lips, full, inviting,
invigorating--
enough to bite,
to taste the hidden
moment of life.

PINK PLASTIC TEA PARTY

I am anticipating an early spring break, the budding crocus, the tender scent of melting earth, the turn in weather to be a dependable truth, but as a little girl has taught me, we can not judge the outside until we understand the inside. Some how we want life to give and yet it is all changing with a swift swing of words or wind or ways. Like a tea party set up on an outside table in the final light of a winter afternoon, we hope things will remain as they are until the morning, they might not be-- The world can change, people can change, we can change. Today, let us be present and know to enjoy the moment. Let us learn before we judge.

Pink Plastic Tea Party

On a Tuesday afternoon in February
when the weather is unpredictable,
when the earth is soggy with melting snow,
when the sun is on her slow faithful turn--
all defrosting her hibernating soul;
a little girl sets a tea party for four.

Moon follows and window
frames begin rattling,
heat pipes start banging;
waning leaves keep blowing,
no one noticing the carefully
placed tea party prepared
that day in the yard.

Each precisely placed plastic plate
swirls through the swollen night;
the dreams of imaginary playmates
tumble across the first scent of spring;
crocus silently pushing begin to emerge.

And on waking,
the groggy face
of a five year old
looks out the kitchen window
and discovers, under the
sepia sky, that life changes
with one swift hand
of the hissing wind.

FRIEND ME

I have finally set up my own facebook account. I know, I know, so many thought I was a face book hater. I am not, well not anymore. Earlier in the week I witnessed a little boy doing something very sweet yet made me question how we interact. His endearing act inspired me to write Friend Me.I have battled the web vs. the physical contact of friends and it was one of the reasons I shied away from the social network. Now, I see the change in the world and how we have learned to communicate in new ways. Since we are friends, cause you are reading my blog presently and maybe read something I wrote on facebook, feel free to share my poetry and Friend Me!

FRIEND ME

It‘s a stomach virus
invading my house,
so I drive right to
Rite Aid to buy

a water bottle and Tums
for the upset stomach of
my nine year old daughter.

In line, in front of me, is a
little boy pulling at his
mother; shunned, he
looks at life differently,
patiently waiting for his toy.

His attention is attracted by
the magazine rack and
finally he settles on a face,
a mug shot, I might say,
of a man with
blue topaz eyes who is
staring eye level with him.
In a quiet mantra,
I hear the boy whisper--

“Your face,
a nice face you have.
I give you a kiss,
on nice lips, you have.” And
he kisses the face on the paper,
a picture looking oddly like a
computer screen.
“You have nice lips.”
The little boy continued to say,
to the freckled man
on the cover of Time magazine.

This face, on display, on
the cover of a magazine.
His face, a possible facebook picture.
THE face--
that taught the
world to be connected,
was awarded
the man of the year
at the swollen age of 26.

I can’t stop staring at the boy.
Does he think he is the real McCoy ?
I think his mom is facebooking; she fiddles
with her smart phone,
the cashier behind the counter
is counting on a lull… so he can do it too.

“It’s a nice face.” I hear
the 5-year old boy
say. “You have a nice face.”
And he kissed the face
once more. He stares at
the glossy picture, perched
like the head of a mannequin
on the silver metal magazine rack.

It’s Mark Zuckerberg, who
created an open information flow,
revolutionized and minimized, I realize.

The miniature gold-framed glasses,
balanced on a four-foot frame
reflects the face of
the youngest billionaire onto this boy--
not blocked by an internet firewall.

It’s cool to be a social net worker,
to jump the fence as a philanthropist and
a web protégée with almost a Harvard degree all
in the year of 2010, also studying Mandarin Chinese.
Can we guess why? I figure it is

nothing the little boy shouldn’t understand as
he stood there kissing a man with a nice face.
He is not misunderstood, he is free and knows--
we all want to be accepted,
to be friended, not unfriended, to be connected,
to be virtually touched, even if it is by a
face on the web or the cover of a magazine.

PILINGS

"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."
—Plato

It is in our memories that we realize our lives have meaning. Memories are so important no matter how old you are or how many years have passed to recall them. Can we consider ourselves blessed if we can remember? My father passed when I was just 11, my memories are few, although they live strong in my heart. He was a powerful man who burned himself into the recollections of many untouched by time. My fathers favorite Plato quote was said enough times to etch the words upon his urn.

When men speak ill of thee, live so that nobody will believe them. --Plato

PILINGS

Sitting on a polished dock,
four dangling bare feet hang,
he weaves rope into
loops for cleats for his boat.
A taper candle burns between them,
standing in a puddle of
hardened white wax.
Nylon line singed on the
tips of his burned finger prints;
he does not even cringe,
as her father marries
frayed strands of rope
creating a noose.
She sits in silence with him
and waits for his approval,
he thinks of work,
she breaths in his sandalwood scent.

He moves in discipline,
as the girl memorizes
the meditation of his heart, and he
masters the ritual of his weave,
her bent legs swing in rhythm,
she stares.
Beads of sweat roll down his temple;
a mallard duck floats by,
looking for scraps left behind,
pushing his orange beak
through the brown Chesapeake.

His massive fingers braid shiny threads
until all ends become blended
into one rope spliced by two hands;
she braids her long hair,
pretending her hands are his.
The nylon melts, burning black,
sending little curls of smoke to
seal the fate of a secure loop.
She watches
the candle die, alone with the
setting sun, on the dock with the boats.

IRREGULAR HEART BEATS

I woke up last Thursday morning knowing I had to visit my mother in the hospital and then at nine o'clock I got the call from the school nurse. The day turns from morning to blur. With all the energy of life flooding my veins, I have to cover the care for my mother and be a mother to my son. His heart. The struggle of my childhood, the challenge of my adulthood, the source of beating life. It is all in our hearts, in the steady beat of our existence. It is what links us through generations. A grandmother, a mother, and a son.

Irregular Heart Beats

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

A beaten ring murmurs from the grungy house phone.
A call from the school nurse--your son, please don’t worry,
has an irregular heart beat--I detected it at a routine exam,

here in the high school health suite. One, two, three,
irregular arrhythmia. I sent him back to class.
You should call his physician immediately.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

The Bell phone, with the umbilical cord attached to the wall,
shook in my hand; we never answer this line. I retreat.
My son inherited the broken heart of my father--I repeat in my mind.

Hopscotch, pig tails, running free, playing babies, ambulances
searing emotion into my spinal cord; I look up from pretending--
“Your father is going to the hospital, again.” My mother said.

The tightness in my chest demands my return to my full-
grown body--bump, bump, bump, bump. My heart is fine.
I live in the shadow of a throbbing silhouette of sorrow.

Through the phone receiver, a voice continues to whisper,
words like heart beats and skipping, irregularities and doctors,
all past history alarming my chambers, stifling my faith in mothering.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

I hang up the phone gently. Trembling still, the steady
beat reminds me, burning tears choke me,
my heart a Cartesian diver measuring the pressure.

Electrical impulses in his heart that coordinate his heart beats
don’t function properly, the pediatric cardiologist explains to me.
An EKG and an echocardiogram and a halter monitor, and we will plan.

Bump, bump, bump, skip a beat.

Sticky leads and wires. Fluttering red lines scratched on paper.
No irregularities. A cool dark room, warm gel, birds singing, Doppler,
ultrasound screen, electrodes, my son is lying shirtless, and I witness his heart beating.

The chambers are filling, the chambers are emptying; I am looking inside
the body of my son, looking inside his heart , one heart beating, and all I see
is an ultrasound of my baby inside of me, moving and beating in steady rhythm.

My son is living his life, sometimes with an indiscretion. I touch his head
gently, and I watch the direction of his blood, blue and red,
flood and squeeze and dance like a fetus, an entire life pumping continuously.
 
I listen to the lob-dub the muscle is making, the quiet chirp of the
electronic bird behind me, bump, bump, bump. I take a moment to breathe.
I am filled with meaning, with mothering, with what a heart provides--love.

Bump, bump, bump.

I take my eyes from the screen and look at my son, his body taller than mine,
chest hair, strong arms, blue eyes, he is my history and with two hearts,
I hear bump, bump, bump, bump. A perfect steady beat inside of him and me.







 

DEATH

Am I ready for death?
I sat in my mothers hospital room in a gray pleather chair; the respective place for a visitor or a daughter. She slept and slept the pain away from her back surgery; I waited in silence. Not that death is knocking on either of our doors, but I was compelled to ask myself the question? Am I ready for death or to experience death? Um...NO! Death is funny in hospitals. I rub my mothers head, and think. It lingers in the walls the way drunks hang at corner bars. I feel it everywhere, an institution for recovering health, and this leads me to think of how the human body has this miraculous talent to heal itself. And...the invisible drive to go on. It is the secret human power and when you feel the shimmer of life force, inside you, you know it is not your time.

Death

The essence of what is left--
lingering, singing, laughing;
even in the coffin, her
energy feels like breathing.
Dirt on wood, wings escorting
a soulful journey--
shadows of emotions living
in recesses of quiet mornings.

Is it in death, we find life? Or
in life, we see the invisible?

PAINTER, POET, AND PRIEST

Where does inspiration come from? How are we able to link what we see, our experiences, and what we touch, and turn it into paintings or poetry or song or dance? I, as a writer, have disciplined myself to step aside and allow the muse to flow through me. I believe we are each a work in progress and should practice living presently, and with that, try to pick pieces of life out of each day, whether positive or negative, and turn those experiences into something that creates meaning to all our lives. I challenge you to find inspiration in your day and create meaning from it. I am the POET. May the muse be with you. P.S. I took the picture below when I was in Paris at an American book store, I thought the irony in it.

Painter, Poet, and Priest

In difficulty, my vigilance helps maintain my strength,
I sit in the second seat next to the water fountain,
a fluorescent prayer candle helps illuminate my sanity.
Gates of seats, mine is also next to the magazine rack,
I face the front of the reception desk; I watch patients
being greeted by an elderly woman. Please take a seat.

Under construction, the hospital is, a painter
wearing white Sherman-William pants, covers
black marks left from gurneys and carts and
rubber tires of wheel chairs with white paint.
I sit, as my mother is being prepped, and on his way
to another place, the painter stops at my row of seats.
He casually asks if I am deep in thought and if I am okay.
“I am passing time,” I say. He understands. Life is long.

It is the look on my face? Is it the waiting room?
Is it the white paint I need to cover the dark worry?
Is it a life time of visits for the grace of my parents?
A priest comes along, white collar, concerned compassion.
“You are in deep thought. Are you okay?” I really start to
wonder; I look down and check to see if my white shirt
is unbuttoned. Can they see into my broken heart?

I shift in my seat and think about a drink--
not from the water fountain, and answer,
“It is a short procedure.”
“Is it serious?”
“It’s not death.”
“I understand.”
Does the priest see the cloak of loss on my face?
Does he think I should let God whiten my way?
Maybe the painter and the priest are special today
because all I want to do is poetically capture their peace.

SUN

Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. Buddha

I was engaged in a interesting conversation with Paul Macht of Paul Macht Architects. He is an environmentally-minded man who opened my mind to yet another possibility of the sun. While sitting in front of a fire in his zero energy green home, I commented on the heat and how I was in need of the sun. He said to me, "that is the sun burning right there in front of you. The tree grew from the sun and now it is the sun burning from the wood." He then went on to say how the sun is in everything and that thought inspired me. The sun truly is the universal giver of life. May we all feel her warmth today.

Sun

The zenith of the sun,
presently,
sun inside fire--
bullion.
Alive in verdant trees,
olive oil, vitamin D, heat and energy.
Grows until death and
converts back to life.
Persecution of a pagan woman
for worshiping her love,
lifting and cultivating and living,
a cyclical glove.

All revolves around
the recycled one.

La Rive Gauche Pense

On the first morning of my arrival in Paris, I found myself standing on Pont Nuef. The thing that struck me was the hundreds of locks linked on the wires of the bridge. I asked a local artist what it meant and she said it was lovers locking their promise to each other. It is a beautiful sentiment and the city itself has inspired not only my own muse but so many others. Make a promise to yourself and lock it to your heart and stand true to your word. And with attention and a bit of work each day, you will glow in the results of your work.

La Rive Gauche Pense

Notre Dame hides the sunrise,
streaks of purple burning blue
reaching for strutting steeple arms,
shadowing the temple with nobility.

I,
alone,
am walking along Pont Nuef,
memorizing the rhythm of
the Seine River.

Pulsing,
dark wet,
flowing like
breath.
Square gray stones
in stacked lines,
perfectly mortared
like lovers.

Steps of time
stand in as story keepers;
the cool air once yours, now mine,
fills my lungs, knowledge to my eyes.
Red wine quiets her chalice
fulfilling our shared hours;
locks linked for a lover’s promise,
art leaning on iron lattice.

Red apples fill worn baskets, rising
words slip easily from my lips
releasing the inner battle of my thoughts.
Secretly, once a dream,
rests on the statue of my sleeve,
I am living.

I stop and sit on the bridge,
the old, new bridge…
my thighs aching,
thinking thoughts in French.
Laughing freely…
does it take time to fall in love?
Or does it take time to be in love?
Who could know as clearly as an
engraved stone being worn by the
passing breeze.

The Desire to Be Seen

A few years back, at a time when I began to immersed myself in the art of poetry, the journey of self discovery-- I desired more. I was taken to the Frita Kahlo exhibit at the Philadelphia Art Museum and was moved by the intensity of her art, by the intensity of her energy, by her pain, and by her unrelenting need to create. No matter what we don't have or what we might think is broken inside ourselves, we are each our own exquisite piece of art. May the diversities of your life create your masterpiece and let peace follow each discovery.

The Desire To Be Seen
The Exhibit of Frida Kahlo

The brevity of the trip, the air is electric,
the momentum of the street, the insanity of the city.
The weight of my person, the white of the lines,
the black of the tar, the mix of our minds.
The art is hiding in frissons of clay,
the woman is in the canvas I seek,
sweat pours out of me; it tells on me this day,
I can be part of her museum.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Art touching art, a broken start,
imprisoned in a wire corset,
naked breast, stabbing pain,
stainless nail piercing her brain.
Is she an impassive goddess?

Art that hangs motionless, whispering voices that rhyme,
effortless flowing of a seeker's sharp mind.
Ethereal lights glow, desires fall to marble floors,
filtered air is shared, her drive for passion is more.
She is skimming my skin, devouring a space that I once owned,
a solitary dance seeks my energy and permeates my soul.
She repaints my mind and imprisons the images I once did hold,
whirling thoughts are blistering each of my lungs.
I embrace my perfect ribs and feel the warmth of my blood.

Eight deep breaths for every realization; I study art.

Stone white column
standing in as her bones.
Anger, hurt, deep knives,
deceit, a drone--
Is it double martyrdom?

I am aware of the dance I am in,
a swift touching crescendo given the chance.
Spinning in spirals, smoothing sharp angles,
I surrender to the contours of me.
Perfect symmetry, rapturously intimidating,
all somehow are consuming me.
I turn and demand to receive her pain,
as I fall prey to her pleasure,
the palatable taste of her energy,
the complexity of her art.

The front of me,
the back of me,
all around me,
molding, moving
through me,
up and down
my spine.
Master of discipline,
life of porcelain.
I should not breath,
my heart, my lungs,
my art, my time.

I surrender and let violence abate; I study art.

Cremating insecurities, releasing demons,
pokers caressing, driven insane,
crippling her mind, abandoning her name.
Broken column, La Columna Rota.

The Rare Moment When You Hear the Snow

On a road trip, to my dear friend Linda's new Pocono home, The Gap in the Clouds, I was inspired by the intensely moving and peacefully falling snow.  Nature has taught me how we are slowed by the intense heat and how we are slowed by the intense cold, and it is in those moments we should reflect, feel, and express. I felt comforted in the high mountains, while being blanketed in white, all allowing me to understand my past, devour my present, and invite my future.

The Rare Moment When You Hear the Snow

The equanimity of snow falling, cushioning,
lying laden on leaning branches--
a light blanket of white, a roundness of beauty,
amorphous shapes erasing sharp edges, all
poised on a January morning marching
and congregating on the roof tops of lives.

As shadows are rotating over the western horizon,
there is the beginning of a childhood—at day’s end,
her braided head rests on her mother’s lap, a working
hand smooths the winter’s cold from her face,
stories pass at fire side, photo albums, and wine are
traded from mouth to memory; traditional
voices enfold and hold images in the child’s mind as sleepy
eyes slip away and dreams curl into a rare journey.

Over time and outside, our hard edges are erased
exquisitely as the hard land is covered. Silent
pressure inviting tranquility to the living,
slowing the memory of a life’s journey
all falling in purifying flakes;
each individual crystalline dance
mixed into a spiritual tone of reminiscence.

In a snow storm, images exist in the memory of
a woman, once sleeping in a lap wrapped
in the warm whispers of history.
The history of war and loss and love,
the purity of white from blood.
The covering of pallor over death;
the quietude of colorless from hollow words.
The mission of love etched into hearts;
the illustrious birth of a yet another life.

In a spontaneous moment of difficulty,
in a white water of growth, we
live in the falling and rising shadows of sun
and the crisp alabaster snow-- all
swell in the shimmering patina of life--
encompassed in the protective powers of peace.

The Apparition of Communion

I took my mother to the hospital yesterday for a short procedure which prefaces a major one next week.  As we sat waiting, we talked of the power of women and the presence of angels and the apparition of the Virgin Mary. We felt hope together, the kind that comes with the unraveling of the meaning of life-- knowing some things should be left to faith and others should be pursued with passion.   
 

The Apparition of Communion

In the white and silver hospital room,
women- one sitting, one lying, both under
the two arms of the crucifix. Together they gaze
at the wood holding a metal human frame.

The women hold hands like rosaries, one hand tarnished from a
mountain of oiled worry, a precarious existence for beads.
The other meditates on the
mysteries of medicine and prayer and their meaning.

Thunder hangs low in the square room. No windowed sky-- anxiety glows a hole
through the unknown demands of a pale blue fabric wall.
The council of war decides on the other side--
nuns on knees, shoulders touching, pray continuously, no eyes necessary.

Physical and spiritual graces arrive with Angel wings, a feather’s weight
of devotion, laughter erupts from some concealed
dense core in the land of aged flesh; the soul releases faith.
“I cannot have hope.” The patient says.

“I will have hope for you.”
A river of tears cascade over the illumination of burden,
and freedom follows in the church of their hearts.
They cry until they laugh and freedom follows in their hearts.

LOVERS

Snow seems to capture the slow memory of each life's journey in each falling flake. Lovers,-In the warm of the night, invites the mystery of touch and the intimate connection we all desire. Tucked away in those quiet moments, as the silvery snow blankets and softens our earth outside, we are awakened to love.

LOVERS

In the warm of night,
powdery bed of down,
bodies of oil blend
into silvery shades
of white water.
Flesh arousing
smooth and brilliant,
falling and rising,
consuming air,
melting snow,
tasting
quivering drops of
cerulean salts.
Boundless
echoes of pleasure
arched in
honeyed chambers
of our single heart.

Do You Believe What You See...

On an inspirational day of writing, my friend said to me... Write with the clarity of your vision. Write how you see the world through your eyes. So, I decided to take a picture of my face, which ended up with only one eye in the shot. I thought, is this how I see the world? Do I only see half of life? Truly, with two eyes open, this is what I wrote.

Do You Believe What You See


My eyes embrace the innocence in a baby’s foot
and the splendor in the unfolding of the American flag.

I kiss a child’s knee, scraped by concrete, where
red blood flows, and again, gains the depth

of a teary smile, all mounted on my touch. I saw you
look into blue eyes, no words dare change that excitement.

I see the lies from a teenager’s mouth. Snow storms,
saving lives, loss and sorrow, laughter and building a home .

I witnessed a shattered man with no shoes, a mother,
a woman beaten down. Did I see it? No, I saw it.

I see the majestic sun rise, hues of orange and rose, rain,
green, night, and hope-- all an exploding blue sea on earth.

Was it a yellow bumble bee or was it black? Or white?
Or was it a wasp? Will love be strong enough to change that?

Was it underage drinking? Butterfly wings fluttering?
Perjury? Stealing? Or a drug deal in the make?

Can we trust what we see? Seeds planted far away
in our dreams? A window of plans? An open door into life?

Visions—
Do you have them?
Can you remember them?
Can you tell me?

A Glass of Time with You

   Not long ago, I was in Paris and ventured into Musee d'Orsay, a converted railroad station, housing art from the early 1900's. The museum rests on the left bank facing the Seine river. I was drawn to the GIANT CLOCK on the top floor. I will have to estimate its size, 25 feet high! And to my surprise, and my photographic ability, you could see out from the backside of the clock. I could see behind time and realized this:
What we do today affects the future of our lives. Do well each day, in kindness and compassion, as time flows by.

A Glass of Time with You

Yesterday,
sitting with you,
watching you and slowly truth is
showing you how to reveal your histories.
Blue temptation dances around your heart,
like mysteries opening as forgotten flowers,
and bloom into uncomplicated fields of ripened earth.

Yesterday,
sitting with you,
the day heard simplicities defining wisdom,
the passion that envelopes reason,
the red wine burning down expected walls,
the sun glistening through many of our lifetimes,
a pair of white swans swim against a current
swaying between green leaves turning burnt sienna.

Yesterday,
sitting with you,
inviting you to open the darkness of hidden questions-
time seems to teach how to master only itself- you
slowly expose each secret petal as the bee intuitively
is drawn to the nectar, taking with it the yellow pollen.
A testament to the constant flow of nature’s sanity,
tying us to the memories of our sweetened moment,
all understood in the hush of one day.

Yesterday,
sitting with you,
you left a rippling presence today.

FRIENDS

   A few nights ago, I had the pleasure of having a round table dinner with 9 powerful, intriguing, and beautiful woman. One can never underestimate the power of a friend. In the simplicity of a 50 word poem--I think of a friend equaling the bond of iron. Changeable when heated and beautiful when cared for and an element in our blood that allows oxygen to heal and give energy. The strength of that kind friendship should be trusted on a soul level. May each of you have a friend as strong as iron. I know I have been blessed.

FRIENDS

Our connection,
like the nature of iron,
bends and molds and
conforms in heat;
steel tendrils curl
sturdy and steady
from a cold
reserved place.

A crimson gate interlaces
our hearts
in shelter,
blending and defining
the boundaries of
luminal breath,
wrought in the burn
of flesh and truth.