A Call to Prayer

Come into my bed, Siddhartha,
and feel the warmth of my brown skin
next to the cool smooth of the sheets.

The air is fragrant with incense
and the glow of small flames of candles and oil lamps
stir and flicker in the slightest moon breezes
catching the darkness of your eyes.

You knew from my first glance that I would welcome you here
gladly entering this game of love we must learn and share—
Consort and Master,
Mother and Child,
Flower and buzzing Bee,
Rain and rushing River. . .

I have waited this long day for you to join me, sweetest one,
and the ache of longing leaves my throat and tongue
tinted with the taste of metal
that must be washed clean with new wine
and freshly harvested fruit.

I have the reflexes of a cat this evening
anticipating your arrival and find myself caught
between stretching and nervous napping. . .
pacing the cage of my beautiful gardens
both ignoring and bringing into view
the flowers and the blades of grass
where your feet will travel
to this sanctuary to learn with me,
to discover what it means to open the heart
to all hearts.

My body trembles, my love,
with the distant thunder of an earthquake
that will surely bring us to our knees
that will both change and delight us
so that we might see all humanity
flash silently
in the face of our loving.

I hear you at the gate
and your voice is the bell
that calls me to prayer.

Kamala Getting Ready For Love

When I first glanced you, Siddhartha,
dirty and ragged, you unkempt beggar,
at the entrance to my grove,
I thought of nothing.
I was looking at nothing
but the space you took up
on the ground near my gate.

But when you spoke to me of thinking,
and waiting, and fasting,
I fell in love with the sound of song in your voice
and was enchanted by the misty calm of your gaze.

You called me teacher
and I must now prepare
to fulfill my contract
you’ve sealed with one kiss.

This cool breeze of afternoon
turning to eve
soothes the heat
coming up in my spirit body
and I ask my servants
to oil my skin with musky fragrance
so that you might never forget me.

I pray, Siddhartha, the good fortune of my beauty might bless you,
anoint you as you enter the garden of my skillful arms
and slumber in my generous bed.
I am the priestess
who must share the sacred texts of flesh
and introduce you to this kind of love.

My fingertips are moist with perfume
I will place at your temples,
glide from fleshy lobes
across the tendons of your throat
to shoulder blades and gather lightly
at the small of your strong back.

The Seed Growing in the Belly

Siddhartha,
I watched you leaving my city,
my bed
with no effort of resistance.
I let you go
knowing the seeds of you
are planted in my belly.

My love.
My beautiful bird.
How could I deny you
your freedom to find your goal,
the core of who you are
when I already know
the wonderful truth of you
in the warmth of my skin
touched skillfully, tenderly
by your gentle hands—
My mouth already knows
the sweet taste
of enlightenment
like all the harvests of a lifetime
to be licked happily from the lips
of that deepest hunger.

But now you flutter beneath the surface
of my dreaming, Siddhartha,
like a brightly bold butterfly
or the dusty brown sparrow
settling down for the night.

I offer my womb
for this small twilight shelter
and now selfishly hold
the most precious
treasures of you
safely inside.

Siddhartha,
I am finally remembering
what it is to love
in this child
that will repeat you.

A Poem for Kamala’s Kiss

Beautiful brown man,
I thought I could laugh at you,
mock your poverty
as if it equaled no mind,
no heart,
deny you even the kiss
you ask of me in payment
for a simple poem,

but you opened the vessel of your soul
like the cool breeze just before the rain,
and I must have you, drink you in—
my mouth long at the well of your words.

If I were rich, Siddhartha,
I would cast all my gold
into your watery depths
for the honor
of bringing up the bucket
and beholding the sound
of sweet light
again and again.

How I can kiss, Siddhartha,
for the promise
of another poem
tomorrow.

Kamala Meditates on Finding Desire

In the shadow of the wide sky,
in the sun on the droplets of dew,
in the shadow of a northern forest,
in the shadow of an oak tree,
you come to me Siddartha
offering me your mouth,
like a fresh fig
moist, and sticky sweet
bursting open and fragrant.

Your words are gifts greater
than other young men who come to me
in beautiful robes
with purses full of many coins.
They must buy my love,
beg me to show them
the art I weave with my body, this fine gauzy cloth
wrapped around them, whispered in their ears
and bathed onto their oiled skin and hair,
scented songs of birds nesting on their warm flesh
like first morning light.

But you come boldly
out of the forest, Siddhartha,
to the entrances of my gardens
and offer me words
in nothing but a tattered loin cloth.
You ask me to teach you
about my abundant love
and I am enchanted
at the empty bowl
you have filled to overflowing
with the mango, perfumed droplets
of all my desire.
These simple words
stir me to the core of everything I am.

What did I know of love before you, Siddhartha?
What will I ever know again without the brush of your hand
at my cheek or your hungry lips at my sweet brown breast?

Even my breath
cannot fill my lungs
like the thought of you.

The Longest Days

The longest days are upon us again
and the gift of fireflies
welcomes me home at midnight—
smiles in the darkness
before sweet sleep closes my mind,
lets me rest from my weary wanderings
on the road to somewhere, near anywhere,
past no where.

It is known in certain circles,
and on the paths of some women,
that bones in small children
and wings of new angels
only grow while the body slumbers.
Layers of fine calcification
and downy feathers
gather like dust around me.
At first translucent specks flicker
in the yellow sun of morning--
then flash as daydreams.
Before I know what has happened
I am covered in memory.
I can’t tell the difference anymore
between the white petals of daisies
and the melting cold of snowflakes
caught in my eyelashes in December.

Somehow it doesn’t matter.
I love them both equally
for their beauty—
two children to be embraced,
then cast like stranded starfish
into the great waters of time.

If you come to me today,
walking slowly toward the fountain
that flows gently from my heart,
I will drop all intentions to the floor
and follow you into flight.
My bones are hollow now,
like any creature who must fly.
And my eyes,
they can’t help but fall in love
with the cloudless sky.

Daisies Opening on a June Morning in New Hampshire

They are opening today
just like they do every June
bringing adoring breath to my open heart.
White petals unfold
insisting on love
with the absolute truth
that only a flower on a long stem
smiling at the sun can do.

Love, I want you.
I want your belly pressed to mine,
your forehead firmly against mine
so I might see your eyes,
look to the center of you,
so that there is no need to ask you for more light
or to open yourself wider to allow me to plunge deeper
into these waters we’ve come to explore.

I promise to take nothing
but what has been mine before.
I offer you these daisies today,
one perpetual petal at a time,
as an offering
of no expectation
but beauty
and the kindness of your heart
that can’t help but love
in the absolute terms
of this exact moment
in this exact life
in the spaces and lines
between the white petals
of a June flower.

Reality looks just like this radiance.