Ballet Examination
In this room of light diffused Planks beaten by plies and tendus No leeway is given for pretense In space consecrated. Hands reach for the barre Religiously No piece of attire to cover misalignment Any lack in the labors of time. Soon, toe shoes rub in the rosin And left are minuscule splinters Shimmering in the grain. Breath keeps sheltered In the powerhouse chamber Near the heart While gracile turn out of legs extends in synchrony. No false jumps are possible For we would notice stiff landings, A dry thump, Instead, deep plies absorb landings Muffled into sweet sap spilling Soft caramel tendons No sequence improvised Nor a move accidental Arms never let to rest Each finger engaged In the gaze towards the corner Dancers envision eternity And each of them knows what comes next. Exertion is a secret to most Feet embrace the wooden floors scathed with love Buns tightened Ribbons tucked neatly A ritual ceremony unquestioned. The invisible deity that is art Her little servants nearly out of breath Won’t show it They’ll keep going Personified as dance Offering disciplined bodies To rejoice our earthly manifestation.
My Antonia
A quaint, soft-cover book had been sitting around at home for years, in one of Mom’s Mexican rustic bookcases. Back in my twenties, she bought me a batch of English classics to read up. She saw me consume the dainty hardcovers from her Jane Austen collection. Brontë’s Jane Eyre found me a new heroine in the convenient pocket paperback. The yellowish pages from mom’s Wuthering Heights copy revealed the kind of obscure romance I could get hooked on, and dwell on its effects for days. Still, it was a bit difficult for my young self to read these works, as it was an older English than the one I was used to. Also, it wasn’t my habit to halt my reading long enough to dig into the dictionary, learn new words, and above all, retain them. But I never got to My Antonia, life just threw things my way, and I got caught up and entangled in her net. I married, got my own place, had three daughters. The gift kept to itself, stowed in a sturdy cardboard box after one of our many moves. My Antonia stayed put, together with Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Saki’s collection of works, and Jude the Obscure. Somehow not gathering too much dust, loyal to the classic sheen of friendly paperbacks. But how naughty life is. She decided it was My Antonia’s turn, rain or shine. It was for the best, I needed a healthy break from my phone. Checking on social media kept reminding me of my precarious financial situation at that time. Acquaintances flaunted their trips abroad on Facebook, and then reposted on Instagram. They strode along beaches, ate amazing foods, looked great at family get togethers, and were just so happy. Nothing was there for me, for sure. When my youngest began college, we had to drive 30 miles each morning to another district. Gas wasn’t cheap. My backside didn’t take kindly to hours of sitting in the car either. So I decided to wait for her on campus, saw no point in driving back home. I took out My Antonia from her station in the card board box and set myself up to read all about her. I unfolded the seat of our cherry red hatchback, propped up my loins on a couple of old pillows from the linen closet. My morning coffee was hot and ready in a thermos. I took a swig between bites of the breakfast cookies I packed that morning. I read like my young days, when I had no real commitments. Willa Carter’s book went back and forth between districts, Monday to Friday. I built a little routine of breakfast while reading. Took a walk. Back to the car. Read some more. Took a nap. Another small walk, while pondering on the wonderful story of Antonia Shimerdas’ untamed spirit. The realistic storytelling, tidy descriptions, the earnest portrayal of the native natural surroundings didn’t need additions. All was perfect, no Facebook. Those days were for Antonia, Jim, and their part in the building of a nation. Carved out of its earth, begun at the dugouts, moved upward with ambition, sacrifice, and spirit. I wept when, towards the end, after many years, Jim went back to the countryside to visit Antonia. I worried one of them might die before that day, but bodies weren’t frail like that; they could take quite a bit of the harsh wilderness of the agrarian country before giving in to pain and disease. Jim reencountered an even more beautiful woman on that last visit. Abundant in children, she’d borne the fruits of her incessant hunger for life. A love of the land, the physicality of work, and the memories of her father’s own hardship had cultivated her soul. Naturally proud of what she had built, she seemed to know that her mission had been fulfilled. Antonia tamed Nebraska’s wildness in her heart. Her sturdy spirit spoke to me, amidst incoming chat messages I cared little for, and commutes. Those were silly nuances under the rugged will that shaped Antonia’s body. She lost almost all of her teeth to pregnancy, but her eyes shone as always, even in the haggard face of struggle. They celebrated under her garden pagoda, talking as all of Antonia´s children played around. It was victory, the climb out of scarcity, a life lived to the very last drop.
Springs
That hope springs eternal It has been said Sarcasm or bliss But what if hope be the mesh? Sifting, Dread of sharp gravel Impoverished thought disgraced Pictures torn and mended Voiced disarray Chimes hardened to rust No message conveyed. And if hope be the finest Might she be formed by air Flickers of matter Mysterious substance Prowess of light? That nothing could touch her Yet power belied Such fabric confected by hands beyond mind To withstand our sorrows Doubts and dismay I dare say she lies quiet Amidst a spring they call faith So we hide behind eyes Soaked Striding terrains on the bleakest night Groping on forward Hoping to see But desperate hands grow numb We must stop to breathe And when in air unhindered By heavy footsteps dense We notice at last Her lonely hope of sense That hearts might flicker When chimes announce Hidden springs revealed Faith lost and found
Unapologetic
Today Marianne’s jeans fit tight. Reflected on the bedroom mirror Her rounded face announces A waxing moon Her swollen figure rising waters Plump transmutation of phases Compels time for curves Unapologetic Aphrodite above Smiles like cotton candy Remembering the soft babble Of Marianne’s natal baby talk A young brook in her throat When Taurus in the horizon Oceans will wash over generous Convex skin to be embellished In foamy fur From thighs to hips Up the buxom breast Around a venusian belly Still shy Marianne seems vexed But the moon asks for a day or two That she might be heard Through the curved shadows Of a summer night When her light summons Girl almost a woman Close the bedroom door Liberate Aphrodites thighs Under the moon’s plea Let her breasts down free When tides are playful And your imperious belly Full of promise Will claim her power Unapologetic.
Home Element
His hands should feel like home Familiar as fresh morning coffee Otherwise I couldn’t even imagine Steaming cups terrenal Espresso lust and mocha, Dribbling down the corners of our lips. And if our grounds were too alien I’d lose my way to such skin Because when a calm moons linger silent In his stoic eyes constricted His old beam permeates my phantom clouds Troubled from vapors Imprisoned in my mind. We may be two versions of the same As he reaches New heat ignites prudent blue Pink and orange Loosened soil from his grainy palms Tells familiar truth forgotten. And at the highest of life’s overwhelm With gracious hands humid After another grinding afternoon I can still tell He’s not all water He is more of earth So I lean on his chest and feel the evidence. A heart beating sturdy inside firm walls My hands lay on them assured Remembering things elusive. That home can stand amongst phantoms Unsettled Clouded And even then He holds me.
Lifeline
I’ve pondered lately, looking out this lighthouse, the one we never considered stopping at. Your childhood boat cannot get close enough, it seems lost amongst the peaks of heaving challenge, dipping in a yes, swaying in a no. Yet, the beacon keeps doing the rounds, shedding light over the restless ocean of epochs. And we’re still here, trying to moor. The sea hasn’t deceived us, we always knew. There is strength beyond our means, stirring under the waves, and yet, we pretended to navigate by the book, as if unsurprised. When I finally made it to land you weren’t with me. I walked to the stone tower, let myself inside its vacant walls of salt. The emptiness roared as I climbed up the spiralling stairs, the weight of our past heavy, on my dried out knees. But I chose to come. Every night, as I tried to sleep, I could hear them. Powerful waves of deep secrets crashed against the cliffs, all around. And every night my eyes snapped open, just before the worst and final blow. I got the chance you didn’t on that unexpected misty morning, when our shabby boats settled over a silent crystal pool. The creaking stopped, the wind grew still. I could see right through to the bottom. Blue-green rays rippled below, soothing the interior, making soft dunes. I imagined myself a seal in divine waters, so I dove in and swam unhurriedly toward the lighthouse. You were sleeping. But I didn’t expect the emptiness inside, and I wasn’t properly attired for virgin land. Love, nobody will tell you. Beginner’s freedom stands cold against a brazen ocean, no voices, no song. Will you ever forgive my leaving? I’m still here, at the lighthouse. Won’t you look up, ride a wave, leave the dried up boat. Break off the pretended vessel. Come to me. I’ll ask the sky for a misty evening, because I know you hate mornings. I’ll throw you a line, but only if you are willing. It’s the only way oceans really settle, the only way they abide.
Prayer
I need Grace from the universe Miracles Strength under my feet Electric breath pushing upward. A new gift from the whole of it A token A pass Gateway to abundance Incoming tide on my barren bank. River of heaven I look up and plead from under Drench my porous faith Where broken stone invaded naive pebbles. Nourish me Ripple in organic microcosms Bustling of minerals pervade the dryness, My skin to awaken This body to engage. Retreat and leave me after Glistening in radiant sheen Almost vacant Drenched in grace Crisp. And know me Under the roar of rivers My voice lost asunder In currents gone wild That these hands would not ask If this soul didn’t need.
Song Spirit
Song Spirit of days past delivers appropriate comment. Thoughts triggered by melodies ongoing in the city’s mist, uploaded onto particles invisible, that he knows well how to catch. Quickly, he throws in the right verse. Masterful in the art of capturing exact moments, almost a machine, he recovers musings leftover from sleep, memories believed to be forgotten, old coats hung in the cloakrooms of our past. He sings by day and, when night falls, keeps to himself, as we observe dreams unfold in curiosity. Dim meanings unravel in ways I cannot decipher. But his silence has a purpose. He waits until morning, when the proper wavelength travels back, again filling my head with sound. Upon awakening, Song Spirit catches passing vibrations and pokes at my ear. That I should know the song, that it sings exactly what we saw in dreams, that I should learn it already. We yawn. Soonafter he takes flight afresh, dismissing my pace. I asked him to stop for a moment, to explain the new tune circling my head. He answered it was impossible, for he catches moments riding sound waves, it’s a continuum. What he won’t say is that his work is play, when he tickles the sprites to release the song I had forgotten.
Circles
Four generations and then came you To close the gap between Our all encompassing tug of war Womanly passions and duties strung along Over the decades. Our many missions to stay worthy Thrown into the blender of time, But you might be able to snap open the corset Holding us in stunted breath, Waiting. Let us inhale then Little passions calling to curiosities, Endless exploration, Sun and Moon over coffee Reflected. You may have to finish The melding of our four prides, Into one throbbing sword Settled in the cool autumn. And looking down on us Double glass windows Extreme patriots, Wuthering flags, Tradition, But dangerous ladies, We’ll hang colored beads instead, At the very entrance. Then you, Tanned cinnamon, Poignant cloves, Molasses, Riverdance on the radio Striding double speed The country roads we took generations ago. Already you stoke a fire Walking the line dignified, Already you stay silent And pick up a moment from thin ether, Too young to be a victim Of time run out. You may be the one to close it, The last of the circle And make our names all yours. We’ll give them to you gladly It is you who carries us through.
The Whale Shark
She discovered his animal demon after marriage. A shadow in their ocean cave, an obscure figure pumping bubbles out his gills. The beast drew up powers from the deep, where cobalt blue went true black. Her own demons came forth unannounced, after the hookup. His’ waited beneath for years, not needing oxygen to survive. When a baby, happiness was his native standard, but stale adults scolded from exhausted scripts anyway. He wondered at the beauty of the world, its immensity. Soon, a boy’s adventures clashed against the savage plight for survival. He learned about bullies, dense men, and women, fixed on not enjoying life’s mess. Delicious, irresponsible days got penniless; grit from reality, he got the message. Time was not his to spare. An emotional gut churned, as waters yanked him away from the warm beaches of young romance. In the fight for daily bread, his back muscles clenched the bone, nervous juices scraped inside. He became a talented swimmer nonetheless, able to glide in circles, sniffing in fears, hidden greed, and indolence. He wove convincing words in the undercurrents, and got his way, leading others to believe they were choosing. No longer in a fish tank, he morphed into a river grouper. In time, the man entered the business ocean, as a young shark. Dreams crashed against the stony walls of barnacle-ridden bosses, but the shark pushed on determined, expanding. His will paid off in size, grew respectable. Thus, the enlarged animal safeguarded his domain, demanding applause and recognition. He made arrangements. Patrolling his waters, pumping out bubbles, everyone had to attend when the beast exec spoke. Swaying between the continents of reason and emotion, past fears solidified, and ego set firmly behind murky eyes. Cataracts set in his older days, but he still sensed souls flailing in wide oceans, trying to determine their course. At such instances, the whale shark resurfaced from the deep, weaving currents, persuasion. For his kin, he learned to sacrifice and gave more of himself than he ever thought possible. When their own demons sailed too hard and too far, his gentle whale nature emerged, keeping vigilance, standing guard in cobalt seas. A true beast from a simple fish bowl, he fit the round peg into a square hole painstakingly, through wit and will. Scathed from battle, his skin turned to stiff rubber. And when the new tides came in and generations gapped, his words surged in echoes, bouncing against the old reefs where we grew up. We, his children, resolved then to keep alert. Swimming, not flailing, spiralling up steady, towards the Sun.