A Woman’s Way of Knowing Truth

A woman
who makes her way
in the knowledge of soft skin
and the dark night of her hair—
the trusted strength of her legs
and upright beauty of her neck and back
is a mystery to the spirit
of those who do not believe
in the world of blood and heat
that must flow from one generation of body
to the next wailing body.

I hold my hands out
in wonder as I touch the face
of another lover,
pull him close enough to view
the black depths of his soul.

This extraordinary perspective of all time,
captured in one beautiful face after another,
has never failed to excite me.

The great experiment of seeking truth--
making her way from yani
to the heart—
and only then finding a voice
and the vision of eternity
to be released slowly
from the crown
of the willing.

It is here that I found the wonder of you, Siddhartha.
I never expected to hand over the keys
to my garden gate so willingly
to a man like you.

A woman like I am
would fight the ferryman
on the River Styx for freedom
from the likes of you—
and yet I have surrendered willingly
to the light I have found
in the empty place in your hungry belly
and mind.

Making Gold

Before Siddhartha the beggar
there were men—
many men who came to join with my body
leaving coins and gems
at the foot of my bed
after they released their power
and their fear,
their anger and their sorrow,
hope and glory
into the depths of my darkness.

Sometimes even love landed
at the bottom of this well
sparkling, catching some distant light.
Tenderness and gentle gestures
played at the longing for more—
shadow puppets on the screens
of my chambers.

But suddenly
the empty poverty
of a man I never knew,
his heart outstretched
toward the place of plenty in me,
between my breasts--
between my eyes—
in the heat of my blood—
drained my cup
like a thirsty vagabond,
ready to crush the grapes of a new wine.

What are you now, Siddhartha, all these years later?
Why did you come to change everything?

We were earth
and the makings of the richest soil
from which gold and truth
would be mined.


Wanting All

It is a comfort to know
I have long since given up
the shell of the rag doll
I once was—
the toy men came to admire
and amuse themselves with
in that garden of wanting.

Now that green place is a resting place,
a quiet place where monks meditate
and there are no women who indulge desire
for anything but peace.

The summer days drift silent as history there,
simple food for the spirit,
in moving patterns of leaves,
the cross current of answered prayers,
where the meaning of bones is sometimes discovered
only to be forgotten in the next breath.

In that other life, Siddhartha,
I don’t regret offering you everything.
Wanting all and finding you
filling every empty space
was my greatest joy.
Every fiber in every cell
was waiting to absorb you
so that I might be ready
for this journey to the Buddha.

I hold the hand of our small son
you have never known
and I am glad to be holding part of you—
the foundation on which your body was built
has taken his place next to me.
Here on the banks of a river
I know I am home
in that place you left for me
to become the temple
of all wanting—
that sacred place of loving
the exact moment
of each day
aware of the high stakes
of just placing one foot
in front of the other.

It is this desire to focus
on the love of a child
where I have forgotten
to want anything else.

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.