Shadow Boxed
as the angel stared
its shadow spoke silent hues
painting hard questions
to blindly follow
forget the nature within
disguise it in sin
self-abuse reflex
this, the true fall from grace
denial of self
Morning Through A Window
A steady stream
of golden light
Splashes across the floor
Catching on the tiny chain
around her ankle
As she crosses the room
Her feet disturb the dust
Raising tiny impotent clouds
Conferences and Confluence (Hour 1)
i
Pains perch on parallel buds around us,
intersecting like painting gone wrong;
but they will flee, they will flee.
They may as well continue to nibble at us,
they will be doing so only to mock themselves;
for dawn will always come,
stretching from the opaque into the transparent,
mending the fences of reality.
ii
For Se:
The dark days never got through your doorsteps,
for your words wear a silk gown of bravery,
sweeping your floor clean,
as all sides of near-death receded
far and far away from your glow.
Silk and floor and life,
all sparkle;
breathing in whole-life,
deep and long,
in the sparkle.
iii
For Ingrid:
Those days of pain drowned
in the ocean of your love for nature.
Those images of the seas and the skies and the landscape,
they amplify the light your being feeds from.
Your external eyes are pretty, they already defeated the set back;
your inner eyes are bright, full of light,
full of life
iv
For Caitlin:
Your inner strength is a moving mountain.
Light waves of agony do not prevail against mountains of life.
We will mock those pains and all its associated distractions.
Light waves of agony do not prevail against the laughters
that feed from your strength.
v
For Anjana:
That quarantine scare was a mere hoot
in the broken trunk of the scary trumpet.
The glow of your home is strong against the ills
of uncertainties flying like kites above us.
It is pretty clear we are not at its end.
It is pretty unclear we are in its middle.
Yet we live strong, ahead of the evening victories.
And your shout of relief sent a healing balm
across the conferences.
vi
For Mildred:
The chaos grew, swollen like the discarded dead.
Howl for the chaos;
I know, I know.
Howl…
If you are hanging in there, you are hanging well;
for dawn will always come.
vii
For Tanya:
How can pain not be scared
of the one who overcame it
over and over again?
You know your story, your story knows you.
Victory found you, got stuck with you.
Hold that grip, all the aces embrace you.
Victory will always find you,
even as gratitude dances for your living.
viii
For Jacob:
Great seeds sprout in silence.
They tower up high once above the surface.
With many fruits to spread around the globe,
yours is the manifestation of great harvests.
Many yet to come;
we will mock those pains, they cannot prevail.
ix:
For Tobe:
In a time of revisiting sorrows,
you savour the refreshing flow of the Vermont wind,
basking in the renewing words of converging poetry.
with chocolates drumming the echoes of time,
healing memories down the lane;
healing us all.
x
For Richard:
Seventieth is an upper landmark of life,
and there will be more decades of the line drawn with cheer.
In these conferences of poetry,
poems write us, you say.
As your words jet its healing all around us,
we await your twelve new surprises,
like a dozen denizens of poetic paradise.
xi
For us all:
Your voices are embraced with warmth when you speak.
Your silences are heard from across the horizons when you are mute.
All of us, as we chase essences in shapes and sizes,
we unite in these conferences, flowing into a confluence,
as we swim in the vast waters of unending renewal.
xii:
I sip from this cup of overflowing muses,
in these conferences,
converging into a confluence of communions.
All of the pains can nibble again.
They will be doing so only to mock themselves,
for dawn will always come.
Dawn will always come,
stretching from the opaque into the transparent,
mending the fences of reality.
Written from Hour 1 text prompt.
Lost in White Noise VCS
These changes
Keep coming up on me
I don’t know anything for sure
Less everyday
Today’s world isn’t the same
As yesterday’s
Are we adapting?
No, we are reacting
Spread out like dust
I was part of their labyrinth
How could I ever be hidden in it?
We’re all white noise
In the spiral arms
Of the galaxy
01 – Endings without Goodbyes
What can you do when there is no farewell?
The opportunity lost, slipped away with the
Hustle and bustle and musts
A final box packed and placed on the truck
And then on to the next
But the past not forgot
Within the walls, childhoods lost
Echoes of laughter and tears
A sister and brother playing and fighting
And really aren’t those the same?
A family bled dry, on the brink of ruin
Searching for a way to stay whole
And so on to the next, they say
We need a fresh start
And to a new state we are headed
They hand over the keys and
It happens so fast
An old friend left in the dust
What do you do when you miss it so much?
The warmth of the wood and the light filtering in
Through the living room window
Inviting and familiar and safe
Where you rocked and rolled
To your first earthquake in 1992
And the yard in the back with your peach tree
Bushes of rosemary and rose
And expanse of grass where there used to be play
Where you’d run wildly screaming and giggling
Or play in a pool set up for the summer
Pick up thorns in your feet along the way
You visit this place in your memories or dreams
And maybe even sometimes drive by
Know in your heart the feelings are real
Frozen in time somewhere and somehow
And perhaps your never said goodbye
Because this home still lives in your heart
Stop (Prompt 1) 2021
I was never sure when to get off,
First i was in Norway and was struck by how strong and caring it was,
But I felt bored, was uncomfortable ans surprised to not be moving,
Then I drifted through Canada – never actually stopping, felt too stunned by leaving Norway.
Moving on I passed to Israel, there I spoke like friends for months before I actually got off,
When I did it was difficult as I knew her all too well,
She pushed me on snd vanished behind me and the trip continued on ahead.
Some stops were so minor and short they don’t even count, others I yearned for but didn’t hold me back, always compelled to keep on going, if I didn’t stop for long I couldn’t get old.
Back in London after much getting around,
Yet Moscow came and stopped in my life,
Felt like Norway again,
Was so impressed, excited and yet insecure and harsh,
One day Moscow had enough, and it’s turned cold and was no longer a place to stay,
Poland came next in an overlapping stop, rhyming names which everyone forgot.
Something inside me made it hard to stay, anywhere at all, and clung inside my moving place,
Pushing at the place I was, always thinking of the next place to go, rarely appreciating where I was, so never really being anywhere at all,
Later constructing with photos memories which otherwise seem like someone else’s,
Cursing myself to trudge on,
Then taking myself far away, Armenia in America supposedly a permanent place to stay,
Yet how volatile that was and restricted-depressed I couldn’t really stay,
How it felt at those times how badly my stop fit me, yet nowhere worked so a vagabond I went,
I left Armenia afraid, like I almost escaped and then needed to move for some time,
Like a cruise ship with a day stop I went surveying traveling a few new bays,
Trying at last to reflect inside,
Like seeing the world and the outside.
I stayed again in America, first fleeting, uncommitted and yet finally trying to remain,
I don’t think that being in one place,
Is the ultimate goal in this transitory life,
Yet being forced to run and never slow down,
Is exhausting
And even the colors blur from motion,
I learned so much from the places I went,
Humbled in awe and learning to remain,
Knowing that even this longest journey must end.
Of Peace and of Rest
Of Peace and of Rest
Peace, the desire of ages
Rest, the quest for it is unending
Does one who has peace have rest?
Or, is it rest that gives peace?
Peace I pray for
Rest I seek
For me and my household
For all generations to come of me
For, as curses reach far
To generations yet unborn
So do prayers reach far
To generations unborn
And, my prayer is
Peace that knows no end
End Game
Poem One
End Game
Is it my imagination?
Is it like this for everyone?
My ten year old me timidly not seeing much else.
But the thirteen year old is elbowing for space – not quite as innocent.
Life hasn’t been linear.
My ten year old had no doubt, was confident.
My twenty year old had a lot more uncertainty, had to consider where I fit in, and realized that
I was not floating on a preordained template. Had to plan and decide.
The certainty of uncertainty hit home.
Looking back I realize how privileged and cared for I was.
So sure that the future had a plan for me.
Grappling, I realized I needed to jump templates from cared for child who didn’t need to make decisions to a struggling student whose grasp of quadratic equations defined who I was to a being with choice. Who do I want to be?
The answer came in a flash of light and a combination of circumstances, the words of a teacher and a bum on the street.
Family and career engulphed the new me. And like every other phase it moved on to the next undefined stage as one more curtain rose and fell in my play.
I planned three surgeries and tumbled into another during this endemic pandemic that at times seems bathed in pathetic. Is anything different as I see ugly roar like a lion all over the globe?
My onionskin self has so many me’s to consider the new world and where I fit in.
Friends and acquaintances are falling like trees in a cyclone. Is this a weird combination of circumstance or is it age?
I guess I’ll need to figure that out.
1 Favorite color
1 favorite color
1 favorite color
new soft green gently nods
food is old and risky
picture window displays
our mother’s green rebirth
green offers infinity
artists struggle to find
as wounds go wrong green
whispers death still waits
aging me sorts crayons
always looking for my shade
blue sky smiles a yellow sun
helping creatures find
green hope and redemption
