Flying a Kite in the Storm

This night of acrid anxiety
is just as I remember

the brash voices of reprimand
and doing all I could
in my small body
to absorb the shock
of constant disapproval.

Who the hell do I think I am
to dare to find joy
in the face of a stranger?

The axiom of this decision
is as if I must choose
which child I love more.

Equanimity is not an option.

Let me tie a key to the string of this kite
and let her slowly into the approaching storm.
These clouds, grey-green and boiling angry
with flashing temper of revenge.

Spring Waits for Tulips

Snow, no longer white,
melted down to the brown grass.
Spring waits for tulips.

Bring Joy

Bring to me soft whisperings at sunrise
and warm drinks and sweet things to eat
and I will go feral
for that kind of love.

Bring me to the edge of each day
with breath and chanting
and I will dance with joy
like giddy birds coaxing black oil seeds
from a welcoming feeder after snow.

Bring to me a scabbard
to hold the blade of doubt
and I will tuck that sin
deeply into the leather so that
there is no glint of betrayal
to blind us.

Bring to me a flint
to strike with metal
and flash hot
with these dry shavings
of unconditional love.
I won't settle for emotion
that will be quenched
with wine or cool water.
Let me burn bright
within the hearth
of sturdy and truest self.

Bring to me a mirror
to hold in front of you
so that you might see
the beautiful outline
of the Divine
in the many changing seasons
of your eroding expressions.

From Pakistan to Picayune

The vinegar
of the lofty mind

puckers with the pervading trends
of arguing for the sake of disagreement
and gathers creased brows that will never smooth.

We lose real estate
and hearts that might heal

when bitter words
and thoughtless policy

take seats at the table
when chocolates and tea are served
from great, earthen vessels
and platters overflowing.

Cast your mind
into the pit of a prosperous soul
and let it burn with the white heat
of abundant love.

The alchemy of those shining elements
will hold the universe
like a bride first kissed
on her wedding night.

Breaking of the Spell

Don't flounder
in that chronic slumber
where nobody rescues you
from a bad potion
by an inadequate enchantress.

This witch is really quite lovely
if you ignore the raspy voice
and the wailing when the moon rises,

the orb speaking beautifully
in the heavens with an accent
slightly glottal, yet not German.

Don't stumble
in that stuttering conversation
about commitment and contracts.
These formulas won't work any better
than those of the trolls, the fairies,
and the Chinese herbalist combined.

It is you
who must prepare
for breaking the spell
with a mirror
or a small kiss on the lips
of a frog,
or the slipping
of a small foot
into a sturdy dance shoe
before midnight.

My Arms Ache With Nothing: A Dream

In the dream I was dreaming,
the baby came in an unexpected way;

naturally, by osmosis of love and blood,
from the craggy depths of my womb,

my belly round and full as a spring moon
gorged with new silvery life,

unrestrained and fluid power of water
and light to create a new being.

Confused and drunk with night,
as dreaming so often can be,

I searched, unrewarded for the child
I was applauded to have brought forth,
asking the question,

"Where is the baby?"

He was nowhere to be found.
He is nowhere to be found.

My arms ache to hold him.
My heart is bursting
with all that emptiness
can offer.

Steadfast Intention

A sleight of spring
has fooled us again

into believing that Love
was the fire breathing dragon
that would save us

from the leaded burden
of being alone.

The air is often light
and the moon brilliantly hopeful
in the stories where romance
takes us galloping away.

The fabric of this longing
is torn and battered
by storms and so many journeys
that sentence us to solitude.

Wait a little longer
and listen for the song of the cardinal
as he calls again for his mate.

The swivel of his red wingspan
is a sure sign of a contract
with steadfast intention.