Dual
He’s hellish haven That won’t stay still And I know damn well Not one to balance. His lunacy The sane one Discerns the complexities While the other side retorts in haste Laconic disregard of our bond. Soon, Rudeness spills from his sly grimace In the hopes I won’t be able to tell If he hides Or if it’s just those damaged goods. He’s karmic A jailer A jail Too potent for my taste bud But I’m addicted nonetheless To the ride that goes nowhere. I’ll tell him on it and And he’ll have to admit While his twin self says no In supposed secrecy. He’s accompanied By one I condemn For having thrown the towel too soon For not finding the meaning A sloth in thought A poor seeker Not of my clan. But how it heals when tidal heat Exudes energy that boils perpetual In his natural hormonal body Could this lover side save the other? Can the evil twin sustain a clear direction A ball of fire in his hands Stable purpose worth my admiration? Can his flame burn in good rhythm Or will it go out in a pathetic flare?
Time stamps
Time deals differently now. I ask to the invisible ¿have I been dislodged, dug out of somewhere, a matured stone turned crystal? ¿Or was something dug out from me? ¿Is it possible to go backward, find the place where I was brighter, before solidity? Maybe even further back, to the ancestors, in the deepest forests, when conversations happened all at once; trees reverberated voices, whispers emanated as song, before this extraction, when the pit was left bare. ¿Could I sleep in such crystal perfection, resting as a goddess, carefree, accomplished just for being placed, that dreaming would be my only formal occupation, a profession eternal? But for now I must resist the call to the grind, the advancement mill of success, of my present time stamp. Upward I only see the whipped clouds. Skies rest before the coming of age. Our atmosphere heaves like the oceanic tide and then exhales, belly flat. I must learn to let it out too. And the pit, ¿what about the pit? It’s what I carry. Memories clinging for shelter, when the wind whines harshest. But time ran itself out, it chased itself mad, time to refresh. So, ¿should I fill it now or honor its sullen interior? I’ll give the pit time to sulk. Afterward I’ll patch it good. Make it wholesome with loosened soil, intense nutrients, aired by early spring. I’ll pack it firm, and mark the repaired hollow with a sturdy flag. This is my new time stamp.
¿Did I Just….?
¿Did I just realize truth while caught in the motion, amid the rat race, the traffic jam? Did he just pull up his mask and smile? ¿Did light flood the cabin while I stared, at the dented tail of the car in front of us, and what always has been just took a deep breath, and then exhaled relaxed? ¿Did the past just say hello with a real face, no makeup for the show, no PR? I believe she just yawned. ¿Did I just find out what was never hidden? Freedom hung out placid in terrenal constraint, nonchalant, waiting at the bus stop, no biggie. As I pass the grey, abused underpass, stained by chaos, vehicles swarming, ¿Did I just discover meaning at the edges of my usual brain rant? ¿Am I now finding it funny that we should care so much, that freedom turns out to be a child? Playing in the playpen of borders, earthly limitation, unconcerned by the litter. She smiles nonetheless, she laughs, each moment is of itself, a complete story, no drudgery of carrying it along to the next. She’s quick, organically attentive, not in a rush to make sense. It’s a short cartoon, rich in color, mesmerizing, that’s all. ¿Did I just hear the drums of potential while stuck in a traffic jam?
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?
A Quiet Passion Film
After much hassle, trying with a VPN to no avail (hello VPN newbie) my sought-after Amazon movie remained unavailable in my region. So, I resorted to YouTube, not really my fave. This old laptop can’t umph the volume enough for the platform. Resigned, I followed Emily’s example and set up camp as a recluse, in my room, while the rest of the family watched a popular dystopian series in the TV room. Closed the door, drew the curtains, placed the small screen on my nightstand, and sat on the edge of my Sunday dystopian bed. After surmounting the initial technical difficulties, I was ready to indulge in a film by English screenwriter and novelist Terence Davies. I realize, months later, I’ve missed out, not having seen any of his previous work. I’m practically ashamed, really. The reason is the usual one. I’ve been distracted inside the dense bubble of survival mode on. To the point of forgetting fine moviemaking is always there, just around the corner. And I’m guessing only Terrence could have portrayed her like this, being a writer himself. Emily’s lines are living art. Thus, the film had to be exactly that. The motions of her life infused by words. And the other way around too. Life propelled by words, givers of anima. An artful proposal, the scenes are akin to an exhibition, a dynamic walk through a museum, where stillness is relative to our perception of time. The Dickinson home is as much a character as the people it contains; a canvas for sober, unadorned days, apparently, because an undercurrent of passion flows through Emily and spills over, drenching all nooks and niches of the wooden abode. Even the scenes outdoors, in the garden, outside the church, are composed as if a painting from the great landscapers. Cynthia Nixon embodies Emily’s persona with her stunning performance; the quiet passion trembling in her eyes with each line, seemingly on the brink of tears, a mixture of bliss and sorrow, a strange borderline between beauty and despair. Each dialogue a jewel, a special piece of the puzzle. Interwoven are many of her longstanding quotes. Somehow they fit the scenes painlessly. I’m guessing some critics could say it sounded forced, affected, but I would argue that her words were never separated from her life, the way she lived, a type of honesty that demands outflow, be it on paper or at the family table. Her mother’s depression caught me off guard. She and her sister Vinnie cope by offering pity, a compassion that seems to emerge naturally from their inability to do more than provide soothing comfort. Not much else could be done. To me, this severe mental state is a crossroads, a symbol, almost a point of union for the poet, where the despair of it all meets her constant flux of awe. A heavy burden for sure. Davis depicted her father as a disciplined and diligent man, intellectually inclined, and emotionally contained, but loving in his own austere way. I wondered if he felt abandoned as he didn’t have a fully dimensional wife at his side. She was partly gone. Depression sucked her in, and nobody could rescue her. ¿How afflicted was he by this special type of abandonment? Emily, the town recluse, exercised freedom in her own way, like when she negotiated to use nights for her writing. I could only guess her father was the keeper of household rules, of correctness (mom wasn’t there) and these dictated the people should be asleep at such hours. And when she refuses to go to mass or to kneel when their pastor commands, as they would pray for her salvation. But she doesn’t. Maybe too keenly aware, she wasn’t there yet, ready to be saved. Or maybe it was the exact opposite. She was fully arrived, awakened, at the end of things, a presence of being that sees poles unite, dualities collide, mesh. The kind of someone who we recognize as a poet.
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.
Commute
Not much is needed, besides good food, select music, and the same unruly road. The 2016 SUV still delivers, though we should at least promise to change her front tires. Soon. Fortunately, our Oxford gray ride is trustworthy, even if she croaks over the dimpled streets of this overgrown city. This morning, your avocado toast soothes with the aroma of sprouted wheat, and my coffee seethes in its metal thermos. But before digging in, you roamed my paid subscription to Spotify and decided to try our luck with an album we haven’t heard yet. It might be a good one. We are a curious pair, of tired city dwellers, commuting each day in hope and determination, that these repetitions will bear fruit for your future. Resolve has become invisible, we feel compelled. ¿Is it the strange working of destiny that makes us travel the twists and crannies of the urban sprawl? The SUV sails among a potpourri of vehicles and trailers, making their own ways, detached from our cause. You bite into the golden toast with certainty. I’ll take that as a good omen after a much needed swig. The piping hot brew disseminates hope. This is our ritual. You illustrate, without intending to, how it is to be so young, gambling on a road with few guarantees. You make me recall. I also used to love toast in the morning and looked out the window as I commuted to school. The city’s corners, its sequestered neighborhoods, populated by gamblers of life, watch us roll by. We loved the album, turned out your selected artist was a darn good songwriter. If it weren’t for you I’d never have known, that’s the thing. We are commuters compelled by shared destinies, travelers, and our road in company already contains the secret password, the lucky charm, your future behind the muddled housing. Soon, I see variegated meadows stretching ahead. Oxford gray roads meld into a new portrait. Our SUV is now venturing into crisp, new territory, the city left behind. Cows graze comforted, green is the guiding color, just as you finish the last of your avo toast.
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.
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.