A poem is a waterfall of words
cascading over rock
sometimes flowing
sometimes not
it pools
here
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On Writing
Cloth
I gave my sewing machines away. Now there is only cloth here; corduroy, tweeds, raw silks and purple satin. Someday the needle will rise and fall again, guiding thread into fabric, connecting pieces together with looping threads.
creating stitches
holding tight this creation
magnificent cloth
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dVerse quadrille prompt with the word rise and form of a haibun
More
Small stack of books not yet read. Their titles draw me in.
Virgil, the poet who died of a fever; poet to emperors and Rome.
His poetry of the land, Georgics. Kenneth Rexroth translations
of Japanese poetry, one hundred of them. The Grandview Hotel
poets from Peoria, Illinois, write together about the weather,
changing of seasons, bluffs and bridges. My friend hands me another
for the stack. She knows my heart. “You can borrow this if you take
really good care, no coffee stains.” It is the Peoria writers’ work in
letterpress, fine paper, portfolioed, each piece a work of art.
I am afraid to open it. A delicate thread creates a closure on the front.
It is the opening. Are my hands clean enough? I ask myself.
I imagine myself enmeshed in reading each line, those words
embedded into the paper, an art of poetry. A drop of blood falls
from my nose and I am horrified. How can this happen? How
can I tell my friend that a spot of blood is there. I could hide it,
hope she never goes back to the page where the stain was spilled.
I could remove the blighted piece and hope she does not miss it.
My remorse that I could not write this, could not design this, could
not print this. My drop of blood the revealer of my lust and
inadequacy. I bleed for more than what I am.
I Poet
I
I came out of the canal listening
for my own voice
with my first breath
I heard it as a cry
I found darkness in my eyes
til opened to the light
I was that baby you wanted to be boy
I was made girl
all parts of me to receive touch
to open
to flower
II
Listening for my own voice
it navigated out of my thoughts
my mind spoke a product of time
of culture of possibilities
of bouquets gathered in spring
it was good to be who I am
III
Now the voice knows its own cry
weeps into the light and dark
listens with belladonna ears
what hallucinations will arise
Going Off Road
I want to take to the back road
or am I too old
4×4 off road vehicle
on dirt path no obstacle
nothing to stop me
you call it crazy
big tires to maneuver
over rocks and boulder
need clearance below
good for both rain and snow
off the grid going solar
must carry one week of water
I want to go where others can’t go
to find places I don’t yet know
_______________
NaPoWriMo a list of something
Mark of the Tattoo
My son the tattoo artist
two delicate piercings on his face
no tattoos
soft brown hair
falls on his shoulder
where a geisha is painted
In such fine detail
the most detail he tells me
of all of his tattoos
this one in colors still brilliant
No branding here
no scarification
just pen and ink
a portrait now a poem
etched on skin
by tattoo artist
my next of kin
The newest one is on his palm
still healing
it is of aum
he talks of pain
of blood letting too
a religious experience for him
and now for you
he tells me of puja
of Ganesh
I see
stigmata
mark of tattoo
No Explanation
Earth rises over lunar scape
cell divides again and again
cosmic dusts travel
billions of miles long
there is no time
to explain this
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dVerse prompt on time
