Vulture
Vulture as a totem, a powerful sign, reminder of an alternative view of the world today, a way of releasing, of finding peace; the art of personal power and detachment.
Winter Scape Prayer
Make me the clearest water, a river’s modest current, transparent to the Sun’s arms, wintry cool though not frozen, winding lighthearted, all through out the original land. Make me crisp as linen, left to dry in the early winter breeze, to the matured caress of the daystar, my real lover. Give me if you may, the freshness of a dutiful morning, softly sloping towards the distance, all the inner children running towards me, frisky as home dogs. I hope for the scent of sunbathed hills, and the bite of sharp frost on my cheeks, the sky cleared of most clouds, infinite blue envisioned far and beyond. Make me more than a sketch, define this impression of a woman blurred against the straw fields, and sign this fine portrait as your own. Allow me the natural clarity of tall grasses, weed, obedient to the wind, free, wild again, but wise. Offer me up to the winter sky, let his frigid breath embrace this aching body. Its ok, we belong, the bite is no longer when I can melt to the chill. Now I walk on gladly, warm hands, warm feet. Crisp linen hung, swaying naturally, bleached, and the modest river our region’s pride, our last name in its winding current. Allow me then to strip away the clouds forever, and stay in my perfect winter scape.
Baroque
You’re so classic, almost baroque. Must be those strands, it’s been a while since you let them be; coarse between my fingers, opulent mahogany curl, streaked with silver anguish, and the burnt butter of your skin. Yes, I know what the harshness of grey skies did to our mane. You’re such a moth ball now, although I still like you in a suit, when you give off the aroma of a cool cathedral, enclosed, quiet. Time’s debris floats in subdued streams of sunlight, filtered through the stained glass. You’re a piece of sacred art, a haloed saint, looking up the elaborate vault, drama in your eyes, always. A dark background is all you have suffered, your orbe the only light in the portrait, and your exquisite hands, my very own Greco. You’re a grand organ for sure, a monumentalist, and it’s sort of embarrassing, but I stay and listen. Dark eyes can hide under extremist brows and yet, gentle light infuses the swivelling colonnades of our lives. Sound might mellow your whisper to low confidence, and rise then triumphant, booming like the cinema. Colours march out the grand pipes in patterns, repetitive, like you opening the door for me since we first met and, I daresay, forever. Jubilees outside my window, the morning mist. Thunderstorms through the late afternoon, it’s all you, a prelude, so tocata, a fugue.
Brother’s Soul Recap
He sits with a purpose, Stays without strain, Concise as a butterfly, A star self guided. Perspires soil, but his heart might bring rain, Trickling down, Streaming along clefts. He practices the main performance, Won’t strive for more than this, Repetition his prayer, Renders sweet. And I do believe, His life might be a river, an intricately woven quilt, Sewn-in careful vigilance, Of each and every infant stitch. And his mind might be open A country sown in neat rows, Awaiting the next harvest, Determined, Under combed skies. Brother is sure to reap from the good earth and, Onto the heavens. When his produce stands in orderly heaps, Realised in the fields of labor, Of love.
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.
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.