Self as lotus

Learning to see three sides to a story 

learning to listen to truth between words 

learning to grasp the air as my lover 

learning to live in the light between dreams

Winter Sweater - draft 2 + 3

Lyrics for a song

Left with nothing to say,
I knit this winter sweater.
The thread of you already done
maxed out with blunt end at the
three month premium.
Yet looped into the previous,
already the next one begun;
The stitch of a day
A  meeting, perhaps kiss,
Neither bind nor cast - 
the constant clicking dance of the wrist.

The bits we shared the dares the songs
All now woolen loops 
Row upon row.
Put the emotions in a poem
Said an earlier one, the words stitched
In stripes of turquoise and indigo.

the three month stretch -
then a three month stretch -
see you again when the next three is done.
when you find she too isn't the one

But if in a still moment with needles down
I speak a truth, it's this:
what I loved was the me in you -
the joy and beauty I was, I still am
knitted into cloth of glacier blue,
knotted with some hope in your carmine hue 
though all along I knew you weren't the one.

I'll keep up with the thread, keep knitting my yarn
til one day they bury me in my sweater, still not done.
still warm with the love I have for each one
each stripe
each color
each dear storied man
who loved me for a season,
a three month yarn.

the three month stretch 

then a three month stretch

see you again when the next three is done.

when you decide she too was just for fun

and I in soft progress have looped a new one.

Winter sweater - draft 1 (initial word dump)

Lyrics for a song

You with nothing to say,
I knit this winter sweater
the thread of you already done
maxed out to a blunt end at the
three month premium.
Yet already the next one begun
looped into the previous;
the stitch of a day
a (birthday) meeting perhaps a kiss
neither bind nor cast, just click
continue a dance of the wrist

The bits we shared the dares the songs
all now loops in woolen memory
row upon row.
put the emotions in a poem
said an earlier one, the words stitched
in his stripe of turquoise and indigo

the three month stretch
then a three month stretch
see you again when the next three month is done.
when you find she too isn't the one

but if in a still moment with needles down
i speak a truth it's this:
what i loved was the me in you
the joy and beauty i was, i still am
knitted into cloth of glacier blue
knotted with some hope in your carmine hue
though all along i knew you weren't the one.

i'll keep up with the thread, keep knitting my yarn
til one day they bury me in my winter sweater, still not done.
still warm with the love i have for each one
each stripe
each color
each dear storied man
who loved me for a moment
a three month yarn.

the three month stretch 

then a three month stretch

see you again when the next three month is done.

when you find she too was just for fun

and I in soft progress have looped a new one

Mediated Cities I (draft 1)

Her gold scream cracked dawn on Reykjavik;

A fissure piercing frozen sleep, prodding nocturnal workers
and night-long drinkers in numb retreat, 

severing lovers' conjoined limbs with the fierce rebuke 

of restored sight.

In sharp key of hard light two hours high 

her scream refracts off Esja's back;

long geometries paint box houses -
moving swathes of evasive darkness hugging edges,
avoiding the lock 

The third hour. As though the city exists through writing

through blue ice my bold scream pries open its distant

my own exotic lies.

glaciers folding into dark

That penurious dawn in Reykjavik that cracked to a slivered fissure
now a warm hearted hum, death before bloom
Four hours 

dying in muted climax

The Angel's Agony

The image came to me in the dying moments of dusk, just before blue was lost to black. Like so many others, it came inscribed intact on my heart, a visual story rendered complete, all details in place, each attaining vivid focus with gentle scrutiny.

In the cold wind he stands on the edge of a barren precipice ready to jump, this man entrusted to my care, this man whom I love. The joy on his face shines mirrored on the reflective snake scales below, glimmering as eyes of a thousand medusae with a single siren's voice.

In the silence of the scene he does not hear my pleas of caution; he is tired of my knowing so maintains a deafness through distance. Desperate, from many meters behind him I  grab for his waist to pull him back, protect him in my hold, nestle him small in my chest. But my arms grab air - no, my arms are air.

Unable to hold him I stand stunned, transfixed by my skin the color of my off-white petticoat; layers of skin and clothing so translucent I can see the earth through my body, the scrub underfoot standing unaffected by any weight. I am air.

Why this burden of insubstantiality? The glare from the snake scales blind and taunt, the strong light so much more material than I will ever be.

"Sacrifice him" whispers Truth, and the tears that run down my translucent face burn as acid through metal - grooves etched in vapor til they drop to the ground.

He is already in flight, only the tip of one foot - barely touching the edge of the precipice - ties him back to safety.

I wait to turn away.

Lessons for Ayla

I wrote this little essay as an entry into the Cayuga Sustainable Hospitality 2012 Dream Vacation Contest. It won. :) 

http://www.cayugaonline.com

Days are short in New England now. Another summer passed without taking my daughter, Ayla, on the long-promised trip together. She’s happy to go anywhere as long as it’s time together, her and mum. But if I could take her anywhere, I would bring her to you.

Ayla is an animal lover who possesses the wildness of nights and sea. She dreams of talking to animals, carries magic words uttered as poetry, and flows with nature as only an earth goddess can, albeit at 9 years old. 

I’m certain in Costa Rica she would recognize a sense of home.

Living in the city she frets, unbalanced, like a caged animal. In the mountain setting of Hacienda Tayutic she could unravel her anxious soul, experience vast nature in one breath, and understand how history, social systems, ecological systems, and economies all interact in dynamic ways that can be for the greater good, rather than impoverishing for some in the benefit of others. She could ride horses, as she loves to do; fly through the forest; commune with the butterflies, hummingbirds; discover art in nature and of human hand; absorb shamanic history; and, I imagine, turn all this by night into pictures and words, curled with a cushion in the hacienda lounge.

Until the ocean calls.

She would learn to travel, not just consume. The bus from Turrialba to San Jose takes about two hours. From San Jose, another bus carries local travelers to Nicoya in about four. From Nicoya to Playa Guiones, the road is largely unpaved, dusty, or muddy with rains, so the short distance can take an arduously bumpy few hours.   

But I wouldn’t travel any other way - not only is it the ecologically sound option, but through seeing the lives of local people going about their tasks, we are reminded of how privileged we are to take time off our own daily tasks, to travel to other countries, to be welcomed - if our behavior deserves it - into the lands and lives of other societies. Embracing the concept of geotourism, the light-footed traveller ensures her social imprint on a region’s sense of place is as minimal as her carbon footprint.

With Harmony as home, Ayla would have the waves as her lullaby. The deep darkness of the nights there holding sleep as a marvelous gift. Early morning and evening walks in sea air, daily yoga (fit-2-rip for mum), learning to ride the waves, papaya juice, showers outdoors, and always our art in words and images; we need not move far, our bodies, the surf and local food our only study. Here she will learn that relaxation is precious, and can also be a way of life. And she will learn that her mother too can relax - it just takes the magic of Costa Rica - the place, the people, and businesses like Cayuga who understand and are committed to protecting the interconnectedness of it all, the incredible fragility of balance.  

Honk'tober

Because abundance isn't about material things, said the guy in the gold lame cape to no one in particular, as sprinkles of rain began anointing our heads outside Harvard Square.
Abundance in heart and art, I offered him lovingly. He grinned in return.

Yesterday was difficult - a ritual sloughing of ego's exigencies. This morning, hungover from excess sleep, unshowered and struggling, I ran with fortune smack-bang into the demigods of Davis Square; there they reminded me of the new day's promise and lifted me willingly back onto my throne of love and faith.

It was the Honkfest parade.

Congregated in the carpark behind Starbucks, preparing make-up, tweaking costumes, limbering limbs, practicing tunes, playing for or avoiding or snarling for cameras... making up the happiest weave of characters and song and liberal politics.

I played the camera, since I have no ability in horn.

Note: I'm having trouble controlling where these thumbnails go on the page. To see them enlarged click on the first one and use arrow keys to move between.

This a bad photo, but its the only one i have of this handsome guy,

Then the parade started, with a big brass noise of "Can't Touch This" and I ran to Elm Street

And the sky performed...