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.
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.
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.
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.