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Poetry

Tiger Lily

Swollen, dark, bulblets at the axils of each of your whirled leaves, 
Pointing upwards, as if a sign of your fertility, 
Painting you the most sexual of all beasts.
You are almost waiting here tonight, 
Like a siren, intent on seducing the entire month of July.
Petals melting back, 
Daring the touch of a humming bird's tongue, 
Then declaring the act Erotic.
Sometimes I think you wish you didn't wear the clothing of a vixen, 
The only lily that doesn't hold the copy write to a lonely face, so people could 
Find your fragility before they plucked you to watch you wilt in a prison of glass, 
With no sky to look upon, and to love you.
East Asian native, garden escapee, 
Your spots instead of dew drops look like blood stains on orange satin, 
Bleeding through, until they end up drying on your blossom, 
Maybe because you are the one who hides your battle scar 
Beneath a forest of stamen, reaching outward, 
Cupid infected and pollen tipped.
These grass blades stare at you as if wishing they were worth notice, 
Yet you are the one never satisfied with having represented enough color for the world to recognize.
Don't you know, 
You are the one with whom the departing side of the day chose to leave its claim!
Don't you know, 
You are part of the sunset's array, of mango colored children!

Horseback

I rode, under a cloud multiplying sky, which matured yet garnered no age. 
The temperature had yet to dissolve into summer.
Miles and miles of touch- less acres daring to be run through. 
Land under hooves, newly condensed with the tears of spring.
Heaven and hell could have mixed and spun, as our pace made time and space seem void. 
Pressed up against his withers, his breath boiled upwards, through my hips and chest and heart.
We've made imprints upon a field, which when blown, moves like the sea.
So there I wept in some place inside, for the feeling of this I so much missed, 
His coat grabbing at the fragile shade cast off under my legs as if it were tightly knit webbing between us.
All the matter in the living air took breaths as one, 
And I listened to him so as to climb up the sound of his inhalation.
We have birthed a resurrection, you and I… 
Of power in the sweat it took to achieve the second that we were no longer separate, but one. 
One creature forged of the two broken halves of each other.
Together, we concealed our secret intentions to escape by any means possible and by any means now. 
In that jointed stage of self-synthesis.
It was then that I told him “Fear not this second my horse like lover, 
Fear only the fact that like everything else that feels perfect, to this moment too, 
Will be fastened an iron bridle, which will restrict the longevity of it’s movement.
And this moment will slow, and dive into a thing called yesterday.... 
The waters in which triumph tends to drown, but how it sparkles as it sinks.
Because beauty is still possible in yesterday, its water isn't dead. 
And it is there that we will be preserved… 
Our identities melded, sinking this ship wreck of a plan to keep us locked up in a round pen.
No matter how many faces a round pen may assume, 
We tore the vein giving life to any and all of them today.
And now, 
I'm half man and half horse”.

Play Things and Penny Candy

I remember you and I used to play in the dirt which makes this world whole.
You and I used to know how to pretend, 
or maybe we used to not pretend at all and that's what made us so perfect.
I recognize you amongst the many.
Growing lonely in your world of play things and penny candy.
Your softness, like birds caged for their antics; the prison now a home.
I see you in the reckless direction of everything I’ve ever fought for or believed in.
I see you still in the field beside the house, an exalted fabric of green on blue, and God there too…
All the answers we wanted in simple things, like the zealous union of weed and flower.
I want to tell you that there are people who find beauty only in broken things… 
Before it’s too late, and pull you then from the diluted pain of our losses.
And tell you, the voiceless, to borrow mine.
It is that of a woman, relieved of the heavy husk of childhood, intending to heal for the both of us.
You are not to be ashamed… For healing is the seed of hope.
And a seed may be small, but as it is planted in the earth, 
It is not said that it is rootless and stem less.
It is not condemned as immature and underdeveloped.
It is instead stared at in wonder.
Because for the length of time it takes to get from seed to bloom, to death of the flower… 
It contains it’s whole and complete potential…
As do me and you.

Promise Me

Promise me now,
Promise me always
Even as they strike you down with a myriad of hatred and violence,
Even as they dismember and destroy you that no man can ever be your enemy.
The only thing worth anything is love;
Unconditional, invincible, limitless love.
One day when you face this world
Unburdened by the tyranny of fear and hate and greed
Your fellow men will behold you.
Across a thousand cycles of living and dying in full bloom
Your joy will become eternal.
No sun or moon that ever rises, will ever see it fade.

The Final Destination

Promise me now, 
Promise me always
Even as they strike you down with a myriad of hatred and violence, 
Even as they dismember and destroy you that no man can ever be your enemy.
The only thing worth anything is love; 
Unconditional, invincible, limitless love.
One day when you face this world 
Unburdened by the tyranny of fear and hate and greed 
Your fellow men will behold you.
Across a thousand cycles of living and dying in full bloom 
Your joy will become eternal.
No sun or moon that ever rises, 
will ever see it fade.

November Frost

We are not born.
We do not die.
The moon, which carves its million mile course through the sky 
Has seen us all coming and going.
One by one, 
Into and out of form and function.
Each life, 
An advancement to no discernible end.
Perhaps an infinite pattern of coming and going
Where only the space between,
Tells of the primal color of what we really are.
Walking in the withered fields, 
Newly taken by November frost,
It is easy to feel that time passes for all of us,
The same as it does for the frost when the sun rises to kiss it with it’s burning lips.
We pass, as all things do, like frost on the grass.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
And yet we can never truly die.
We can only come and go, 
From the timeless space between the lifetimes that we live.
Which is what we really are.

Alchemy

Nigredo
We are turned to ash.
We are rich with the putrefaction of what we once were.
And the shadow rains down upon us
We suffer all but death
In the perpetual fire of our own illusions
We suffer all but death
In the hell of our own fears
Until…
Albedo
The ash is washed away
To reveal our original purity
To every black, there must be a white.
A heaven to every hell.
And so
Behind the mask of our temporary identities, there is an eternal soul.
When we remove the mask…
Citrinitas
We find it
We turn
From what we thought we were
Into what we really are
We can see now
That the moon’s light
Is not sun light,
It is just a reflection.
We are just a reflection of what we really are.
When we decide to turn from moonlight to sunlight
We are transmuted
We awaken
And when we do…
Rubedo
We become the embodiment of our very soul
The sunlight is all that we are
A perfect fusion of spirit and matter
We are now the phoenix
Looking down at the ashes that once consumed us
With gratitude
For we are now…
Enlightened.

The Death of December 28th 2011

Over the choir of the hour,
I hear the minute whisper, 
that life is a series of seconds, 
strung together one by one.
A happy life is nothing more than a succession of happy seconds.
But I watch this woman before me, 
as I hold her in my arms,
twisting with fear and writhing in the agonized resistance to death 
as she advances towards it with every breath she takes.
And I see that her existence, like so many was a desperate quest for a happy life.
Like so many, she spent her days so intent on reaching that happy life, 
that she missed the happy moments as they slid beneath her feet…unnoticed.
Death, like birth shall have no dominion over the ever lasting soul.
When blood and bone and sinew are gone, 
we shall all have stars at hand and foot, 
though we resist it all the same.
The coming and going from this life, is not often a thing of ease.
And the bitter landscape of grief tells us that those who die,
are lost to us.
The living flesh is not immortal.
But death is not the monstrous tyrant that reminds us so.
Rather, it is the inevitable lesson which teaches us to look beyond the flesh for what it is that lives and dies.
Today, from the granting platform of my arms, she leaves this life.
When the line on the ECG runs flat,
her daughter, like a woman giving birth, is taken up by interwoven tears and laughter
in the throes of the release.
It is a palpable transition that liberates every one of us within the room.
It is a ceremony of souls.
I sit atop the white linens, both they and I, stained deeply by her blood.
What is left of her is celebrated in a residual silence as people file in to say goodbye.
I remain for a time, in the cold of her mortal garden.
Her skin as cold and pale as clay.
Holding her body, now renounced,
with immortality at my side.
Death does not stop time, even when it feels like it should.
The seconds are still strung together one by one.
The question is…Are you watching?

Sex

Hovering so directly exposed, we can feel the earths rotation.
He is damp and desiring as if newly being weaned from my
breast. His skin in a pervasive slide over mine, learning the
notes to this melody of flesh. Hunting the reeking nectar
lying beneath the surface of our ability to control.
Latex becomes the festering of love’s honey, it fills the
entirety of this ocean of blankets, preventing this action’s entire purpose.
His Body arching into me, desiring to conceive a feeling rather than a thing.
I want to take you deep into any part of me you wanted to coat or fill.
You defy my ability to keep things stagnant and dark,
You are my own precious piece of this world
Writhing to the beat of one pulse
Can you do anything but be powerless?
The moment sweeps over us like a passing tide, and you lay on me.
Are we even 2 people anymore?
I don’t think so.
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