Category Archives: Humanities

Room To Play

Room to Play

It sits on the nightstand, a
spiral-bound stack of deadwood
no larger
than a cassette tape, clad
in magenta,
offering
one hundred and sixty invitations to
commune with myself.

A black butterfly clip divides past
from present; faint blue lines
promise to
bring order out of chaos.
Paper bits,
notions
extracted from this moveable
brain, mingle with silver.

But it is too small for secrets, it
can only contain the mundane;
the lines
too orderly, too rigid. Muse
needs galactic
space,
demands borderless playgrounds
to spill the soul’s blood.

In My Garden

In My Garden

In my garden moves life.
A garden snake, pink and pencil thin,
skims across gravel, shimmering
as it flows. One touch of my
finger sends it skating slinky style
into a nest under the antique roses.

In my garden dwells peace.
Roses pursue self-actualization,
nodding budded heads in agreement
with the wind. They bloom
hot and pale pink, luminous with
red veins, each one uniquely imperfect.
A spider nestles in one exuberant bloom,
betrayed by two spindly legs.

In my garden flows energy.
Bees murmur about their tasks as
they hover and dash, hover and dash.
Red ants, audacious in adventure,
climb the stone wall foothills to the
mountain of my body, seeking the summit.
They rest on the flat plain of my
notebook and I, godlike, teach them
to fly with the flick of two fingers.
Undaunted, they begin again.

Sheer instinct, the drive to live,
to move, vibrates quietly in my garden.
In my garden I thrive.

Minstrel

Minstrel

Words tumble from your mouth,
so many happy children rolling
down fields at play;
vibrant, sonorous, thrilling with energy
as they leap and chase each other.
Your voice a symphony,
a rich honey tenor pouring into me
inscribing life on my heart;
crescendoing in passionate explanation,
now resting, silence drawing me forth
into the next movement
and your heartbeat a metronome
beating a river of strength
beneath magnificent melodies.

Your breath whispers caresses to my soul,
tender wisp of touch here,
long circling stroke there,
wooing me to dance the delicate cadence of love.

Crucifixion

Crucifixion

She wills him to leave.
He shred her with words and now
she is every slut who ever lived,
the Levite’s worthless concubine from Bethlehem
as she stands scrubbing under
stinging, steaming needles of water,
as she cooks him out from under
her flesh, now banana tender,
welting purple at the wrists, breasts, thighs.

He permeates her head, the
musky mushroom scent stubbornly
remains regardless how much
she retches and spits;
she bites the bar of soap as though
taking communion, seeking its promise
to trade cleanliness for evil.

She stands, trembling and heaving
from gut to fingertips
shaking bone deep cold,
and the blood,
the blood won’t stop,
evidence of a sacrifice
that was not his
to make.

Full Circle

Full Circle (for my mother)

You held your infant daughter
in your arms
agonizing, cajoling,
willing your love to her.
This baby expected
perfection–
that you read her mind
and provide
every need, every want.
Sometimes that infant
arises now,
and your daughter rails
against you
for not possessing omniscience.

You jiggled your toddler daughter
on your lap
as she laughed,
singing to her,
calling her your “little Punkin.”
This half-pint drank
your love
as a thirsty babe
guzzled the milk of life into every cell.
Sometimes that toddler
gazes now
with adoration for her infinite
mother
content and whole in her trust.

You watched your teenage daughter
from afar
as she brooded,
wishing her victory
over that devil called depression.
This young woman envied
your detachment
and accused you
of confusing her
and burdening her beyond control.
Sometimes that girl-woman
rages now
crying, wondering where
you hid
your secret fountain of peace.

You love your grown daughter
with all your life
as she strives,
reaching to her
with the gift of friendship.
This woman recognizes
your humanity
and gently removes you
from the pedestal
to a place in her heart.
Sometimes this woman
perceives now
that though we are family
we can meet
somewhere in the middle.

Dissolving the Puny Illusory You

Be one with your blog but don’t get too attached. Blog about anything, everything, and nothing. Get a life. Have fun. Practice. Then ponder this: blogging as a transformative practice is NOT a surrender of the ego. In fact, it makes your ego even bigger, in hyper-speed. The trick is to make your ego bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger, by blogging, reading, linking, blogging, and learning. So that in time, you can sit back and watch your ego as it grows in cyberspace, spilling gently into meatspace, growing, growing, expanding into Infinity itself… dissolving the puny illusory You who thought of blogging in the first place.

–CoolMel, Kosmic Blogging: 101: How to Blog, What to Blog, Why the heck Blog, and Whatnot

A First Draft

California Living

After supper I make amends to
my body, taking it for a walk —
four miles marched, punctuated
by the blat-blat-blat of a Harley,
the Doppler whoosh of small metal
worlds on wheels

I am bathed in a sodium yellow
streetlight buzzing industrially
like nothing heard in nature
this din of light pierced by
the ersatz bird chirp of a
crosswalk signal

Gazing up, I wink at the moon
undressed, full and flirting with
voluptuous clouds, the air
infused with cloying car fumes
and I pause at a yellow rose
far from Texas, inhaling (yes, I inhale)

its spicysweet gift. It’s not paradise,
this city, but I am alive, and it will do.

Just Stillness

Still Still

The cats sleep. The furnace belches
dust and heat. A dying man tries

to breathe. Just a machine, your chest rising
and falling. Bleached leaves flap like wings.

The creek, still still, still solid. The hole
in the oak, abandoned. Frogs dream of life

beneath the ice. The hole longs to be filled.
The concrete angel on the patio sulks.

Last night I dreamed the farmer was reaping
snow, that his harvester was eating me

alive. Husked. Hulled. This morning light fails
to be described. A skein of geese unravels.

Boring, predictable. I glean the field for signs.
A crow ruins the silence. I breathe, ignore it.

–Laurel Dodge, La Chambre d’Ecoute

There is something stark, austere, beautiful, and reminiscent of Zen in this poem. I discovered Laurel’s blog last year. I read it often. (I also visit because I have a huge crush on her cat, Bob, who is featured frequently.) What I find compelling about Laurel is her willingness to dwell on the edge; she converses with death, loss, and grief in a way so intimate it makes me uncomfortable. That is why I visit her — because she explores places I don’t feel brave enough to pursue. Also because Bob is so gorgeous, and she captures his catness in all its variety.