River
February skies my hearth, wind whispers my name transparent, knowledgable of its nature. I was raised in this winter quadrant, the Sun to the horizon, and they said it’s in detriment but I’m not bothered. My name runs through and is lost, but will find other hearths on its unpredictable voyage. Because I randomize, that is my fort, gusts out of synch. But today the Sun has snuggled up to Saturn, and I must see reality, fine as this day’s sky. He hints from his warm abode. An answer is born and is sure to last. I don’t have to push for it, mix it with others, or put make up on it. Reality just runs itself out like my gusts always do. Skies sing, they are taking to finer yet more potent winds. My hearth will never again be what it used to, it is almost ashen. But I see futures reflected when I stand by the river, the one that runs through all fields around. It goes on forever, doesn’t depend on me. I should only observe, listen, standing right here, on the the rocky bank. I close my eyes. A new gush comes, electricity in my head. The river builds up thunder, currents unstoppable, as native February must.
Transfusion
I guess you were meant to iron me out, after times of intense ambition, climbing cliffs, goat’s hoofs embedded in solid rock. Games for climbers, persevere up the steep and, I suspect, maybe I got lost in it, and this round has to be the last of that. You must spend all of me, empty my pockets. Imagine our tie as a promise made a while back, of bleeding it all away, and soon to come, the full transfusion. Total hema count anew. After you scrunch me up good, wrung it all out I’ll ask —¿what then? Let’s realize this in exhaustion and pray. A new configuration gurgles down below. On the surface my face sags, my bones hurt. Your hair thins, eyes shot. But we are almost there. Let this be the waiting room, as the last of another Sun year passes outside our window. Wait it out. And when the sky turns reddish and blotchy it is occurring, our next horizon, transfusion, our brand new blood.
Strange Riches
These strange riches given, Stand crumbling on the sullen street of times past. Grandma’s house with its ceiling planks bent, A violent crack runs wild, the length of the dining room, Shut doors, melded to frames, Of childhoods past, stories kept, Flooded memories. But Scheherezade still waits inside Arabian Nights, Bound in real leather, tightly fit in the carved Italian bookcase. Framed maps of antique parchment rest about the entrance hall, Leaning on the walls, waiting for something, Maybe the final collapse. And I wonder, Those long gone explorers, cartographers of time, ¿Might their eyes have met riches just as strange as mine?
Angel Codes in 5
The first time, I was gifted a smooth, white quartz. A milky crystal to hold and cherish for protection. That’s what my mother-in-law, Marge, urged me to do. “It’s already blessed,” she said, “on my last trip, I stood inside the circle of the round temple and held it high to the sun. The shaman assured me it is charged with my good wishes for you.” Of course, I accepted her benign gift. “I believe it’s Archangel Gabriel’s, maybe Raphael’s stone, but don’t quote me on it, It’s blurry,” her post covid memory speaking. Not particularly bothered or elated, I thought it a nice thing to have around and admire. She went on about her visit to the traditional ritualistic site in central Mexico. Next time, they came as music. Celestial chants from a relatively new choir popped up. The music app said it was something I might like. The Poor Sisters hailed heaven. Their Elysian voices enveloped the old SUV’s interior, lighting up the world. A sense of bliss popped up as something I might live. Again and again, I let it repeat, like a junkie for the fix, all the rest of the month. The third time I located a feather, resting gently between the intersection of two branches. Its delicate filaments shuddered softly in the early spring air, calling my gaze into twilight. Soon after, a casual search on the Internet found me a handful of sites. They stated I might find such a sign, in case doubt was too set in its ways. The fourth time, they sent a token. ¿A secret password? ¿ A code maybe? Not sure, but they left a Rummi chip with a number twelve face up, partially buried in the warm dirt of the park, waiting to be unearthed. Back home, I googled lots, searching in a rampage for angelic codes. Confused, dazed after encountering such a vast mixture of data and tales, I retreated. I’d stay concise and follow their example. Twelve would be our simple token of trust, nothing more. The fifth time they just plain spoke. We were in the middle of yet another summer blackout. Our house stood silent, heavy with trapped in heat. Hubby called the electricity people to register a service failure report. Then a voice “¿How may I help, what seems to be the problem, where are you located, what time did…” static on the line, fizzy sounds. “You’re fading,” said hubby to the kind lady. Soon came their voices, electric words spoken, particles stirred in ether waves, rip roared in my mind. A language not any of us understood, but it brought the light back, instantly. Hubby pressed “end call” on his cell. That was that. Five times assured, five ways to tell, I’m in good company.
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.
Treading
Lately roots awaken from slumber Memories disperse whispers past Silent picture of her in a blue dress Running the fields like a promise. Autumn matter releases And in the spring floats in seedlings Like her spirit of stone and brook Her fields Loves I did not yearn And yet we correspond As does love when it reaches far Giving no reason for lengths of time. Lately her past is a promise The possibility of all I carry forth That won’t be lost Real butter on toast each morning Steaming coffee and real cream Her life enough to build my own When in the early winter I reach for the knitted blanket Still stowed with the linen since we were kids. Roots awoken keep spreading The ground roots unbeknownst to my treading feet Sheltered in old hikers boots When and where many pasts come to meet.
Greener Meadows
She needed proof from the outside, it wasn’t enough that her limbs ground and trembled from imposed rigor, cramming in the exercise session. “No more gorging, giving into cravings, no more nonsense,” ordered the familiar voice. It sounded so reasonable in her mind, that she could stop that silliness immediately. She’d forgotten, again, in the wide stare of the prejudiced mirror, in the parlor, that very morning, while absorbed in the tasks ahead. As a nonbeliever in the vague, muted sighs from intuition, she felt sure her condition was registered somewhere by a reputable MD. That didn’t save her from remembering she had never been able to restrict from oral pleasure. Disciplining cravings was never her thing. Soon, the pesky bug of ambivalence crept up, saying the meadow was probably greener on the other side of her. She was not a planner, no road was ever sketched, and no prospect ever enunciated. Her way was akin to the October gusts; unconcerned, always looking for something wonderful to “lo and behold”. Emotions tore her in two, back and forth, wanting to achieve what she wasn’t meant for. Then he came. She said yes, although at her core there was always another option, wanting to be revealed. But alternatives needed excuses to be taken, and he was no drunken idiot, just lying around, being as fatherly as a pile of dirty laundry, smoking a couple of packs a day. She saw no way of backing out of him. Her new mess would have to do. Worried, she bounced theories with her shrink, unraveling layers of herself. The professional hinted: might she be obsessed with finding fairness where there wasn’t any to be had? Could she be free in an unfair world, where willpower fails against cravings, thighs jiggle in faded jeans, and husbands aren’t as exciting as they were pumped up to be? The two faced caterpillar glissaded to her head, announcing options available. ¿A brighter, greener meadow, on the other side of marriage? But love happened. Perfection came, for a while, and it engaged her senses. Four legged with a mane, and during this time she felt free. At the end of thirty-something she found herself resolute, along trails of sweat and falls. Her mind balanced in the risk of art, thighs tightened steadfast around a noble back. An emerald meadow stretched ahead. Her husband’s fear of the future tipped the scales over. The green turned pale. After his drilling probabilities into her gauzy reality, she tore herself apart and acquiesced. She wouldn’t die riding, she’d stay put for him, and play along, pretending to be herself. The game of passion subdued, will against whim. It faded her discreetly. Se searched for worlds and found them in other people. Outside of herself other eyes watched, feet treaded, hands explored, voices told. Books piled on shelves around the house, in the coat closet. New theories brought back some of the lost gleam from her eyes, while her body grew old and achy. But temperate October always comes back in amiable gusts, and she dreams of greener meadows, still.
October Woman
She said things just happen without any sense of an underlying plan, that life is an unfair trial, in the end. I just listened. But she was fascinated nonetheless by destructive patterns. There was comfort in the old familiar going back and forth, just to be sure that the scales couldn’t possibly stay level. It consumed her in the cool fire of her forlorn native moon. The celestial body gifted my mother with a razor mind, trapped in a frozen lake. The clouds above in the October sky parted in slumber. Nights kept quiet so that she might rest the ambivalent instrument of her fate. She tried to accommodate our world of cognitive dissonance. It hounded on her tidy way of loving us. A purebred soul like hers couldn’t possibly meld into the world’s nastiness, so she read books instead, making time. It took long to make her out. I could not build a coherent picture in my mind’s eye. So many pieces lay close together, as if ready to fit into each other, but no. She would scatter them again and reconfigure, compelled by a sense of fairness to the rest of us. Then again, her moods never fit the frame, and I found no glue, until one day, I saw her standing in front of the horse stables, staring at the October moon. Tainted in soft orange pink, the luminous lady spoke of a secret. Despair had something to do with her phases, repeating each year, almost identical, as people often do. The weighted scales would never rest. Her message was the howl of a tamed wolf, music from a Celtic flute. My mother’s lonely pupils converted, the message was remembrance. Stone wind-chimes hung around a forest, where the luminous lady kept cool fires burning in puddles of mute light. Mother decided she would finish with grace because it was only fair. She handed over her grandma’s old country leather suitcase, with smooth rounded corners. Inside, I found figurines, fragrant books, poems scribbled, dainty fashion tips, and quotes. Artsy jewelry pieces, horse trails, a lucky charm made of grasses and twigs, spiders housekeeping their webs in the morning, and just enough madness to keep me sane. If in another lifetime, we’d have met on board a train, traveling first class, reading our books. We’d discuss our reads and a nice waiter would have brought us some more tea. From our window a regal Sunset, as the trip was a whole day affair. And the October moon, the luminous lady who tames the wolves, would have seen us through, in ease and grace.