Who knew.

I didn’t actually have to be blonde to have more fun, with all love to blonde women everywhere.

Holding onto my life, just as I did in that small raft on the River Ganges, while Ma Gangas was as doing all she could to ****** me into the rapids and keep me for herself forever,, I had to learn patience, and I did.

I held on early on when one disease and then another went after my tiny body, starting 10 days after I was born.

It didn’t matter.

I was here and right away I saw and felt this beautiful world all around me with a quiet intensity that field every sense, every cell in my body.

You were young enough, and precious enough,

To get away with it.

I might not get away with it, but

I’m going to hide my shoes anyway.

So that I never have to leave the home

I have found in your heart,

my dear new, and ancient, friend.

Returning is certain.
One way, one day
Lifetimes within lifetimes
Transcend, one into
Another.
Eyes smile in recognition as
Adios will always
bring you home.

Above and beyond
its manifest colours,
is the hottest part of the flame.

Patiently, and with trust,
bring the sacred frankincense
within your heart
to the invisible fire, and
it will be ignited
in this most intense heat.

That is the searing power
held only by Divine Love.

It is thus that human love
is purified, gains
dignity of purpose,
in the arms of the magnificent,
all-encompassing love of God.

Flash of lightning fuses
a moment of dreaming
with momentary reality.

As I drift off again,
rolling thunder finds
all the cells in my body.

An ancient prayer moves
through my mind,
and before I know it
inner vision has found
a new story to see.

You know me better than anyone.

Time holds onto my heart,
rests within my mind.

You are the silence around me.

Walking, my world is larger, as
details present themselves.

Hard, inedible berries redden
beautifully in that same garden.

Delicate stalks bow slightly,
preparing for their lavender
blossoms, a little smaller
than last year’s.

You, really listen, and that is
nearly everything to me.

Everything, would be you
trusting me, to listen too.

Our beloved poet brother,
light warrior, musician,
has gone on ahead of us  
into the realms of light.

Fierce, funny, loving,
you redefined courage
as you battled your final
foe. He didn’t really win,
because you shine evermore.

Even as we celebrate
your beautiful life,
knowing you are free,
our hearts still ache
and we miss you, being
here, on Earth, amongst us.

I am here connecting with the soil,
with the smallest suggestion
of a breeze,
before the day’s heat hits.

Across an ocean, we were
to have met again, had
you been there, my friend.

Now, we do our best
to be where are.

Across the bare wooden floor,
new leaves dance shadows
onto the dark green Roman blinds.

Whatever is poet within
me, in this time of hurdles,
Issues from my mind
as images, mute.
Gazing directly back at
you, intimate, silent.
Speaking into your own
apertures, inviting contact.

A love like this,
perhaps it isn't made
for mundane living.

I can still feel
the texture of your
deep yellow shirt
as I held you in my arms,
sleeping your holy sleep.

At the very centre of my fingertips,
I can still feel the sense
that I am holding life itself,
that I am holding - Infinity.

Green and new as emerging plant life,
vaster than the velvety immensity
of this Icelandic night.

Steaming, pale pink, moments ago
these rosebuds were sleeping, dried, unfragrant.

Now, like a single paper flower that blossoms from within
its scrubbed clam shell, held together lightly, then opening slowly
in its requisite, tall, crystalline glass of water,
these tiny buds are softening, unfurling, reviving,
intoxicating me with this heady, womanly scent, and
moistening my face as I lean over this healing brew you sent for me.

Born of humans, linked to me by human blood and a shared, ancient selkie ancestry,
wise, beautiful, deep eyes, flowing dark hair, blessings pour forth from you
in all, and every moment, of your gentle, earnest, worshiping life.

Kinswoman to my open heart,
to our ceaseless inquiries into sacred mysteries,
your power to transform finds me
wherever I am.

Coming from your humble and holy
houses each morning bringing blessings, your lively and
cheerful "Good Morning!" sounds - all the power and energy
that a good life brings. Living by the light God gives you
every day, eschewing electricity,
and all of the worst that it brings with it,
teaching your children and loving your wives
with gentleness and devotion.

Ruben, Glen David, Marlin... did I spell these right?

I only heard your beautiful, traditional names in your own, clear, grounded voices,
as we began to know each other, while you travelled back
and forth, from bright and early each day, onto our ailing roof.

Tearing into four layers of old, sickly roofing tiles with your
wonderful vim and vigour, a healing began that went deep,
deeper every day, as we absorbed the precious fortune
of having you in our midst. Your chosen, Amish lives inspired
us, and still do, as we still, quite often, hear the echoes
of your footsteps above us, each one a prayer and an affirmation
of lives well-lived.

One fine afternoon, one of you stood straddling the very top of our
steep old roof line, and that image of a man mastering his craft,
invested in a life that blesses everyone he cares for,
and teaches by example, everyone he meets,
will stay with me for all of my days.

Zellie Eugenie, embodiment of  French elegance,
  consummate graciousness of a native Texan,
a lady ever and always, so delicate and so strong.

You are still my role model, Nana,
even far away, where you live now.

Your voice stays vibrant in my heart,
even after all these years of you living in Heaven.

It was a summer afternoon, expansive, warm,
like the residual, slight drawl of your San Antonio accent,
when I brought a little bucket of these dark, juicy berries,
picked from your own tree, into your sunny, quaint kitchen.

My parents were rarely away, so this time
when we could just be the two of us,
me staying in your ruffly, cosy guest room,
was treasured by us both, and each.

This, as it turned out, would be the day when I learned
to bake my first pie, beginning a life
devoted to fine cuisine that still stays at my core.

Your hands, feminine and capable,
skillfully gathered flour and shortening
into the shaggy, powdery ball of promise
that establishes each new pie crust.

I think you taught me then how to use tapioca,
added to the berries, to soak up some of that
deeply purple juice, as this first pie
bubbled to completion in your well-used oven.

Every time I use my mother's solid maple
rolling pin, sliding it forward on my palms,
I am one with her, and with you.

Do you get to see each other in God's home?

Or do you live in different neighborhoods?

All I know for sure is that you both reside,
forever adored, respected, emulated,
as best as I know how, inside of me...
from whence these tears pour, blurring
what I can see of what I humbly write
to bring you closer to us, way down here.

Zellie Eugenie DuBarry Downing Regan Wright,
your courage in following your heart, and withstanding,
as you must have, the criticisms of a world, of a society,
that likes to put us in categories, especially as women,
still informs my own courage under similar circumstances.

And so honour and admire any and all couples who remain together,
loving, supporting, respecting one another,
while allowing each other to grow into more of themselves.

Some of us, having put everything we have into each,
yes, each, of our marriages, have yet to reach the place
where we are on equal footing with our one true beloved.

May the dear Lord continue to watch over us,
as we bend and search and grow, and may we, too,
even much later in life, know what it is to be happily married.

Each of us women is one,
you know.

The sweetest smile, and all for me.
Loves come and go.
She stays on.

Smiling into the night ahead,
long dark hair
spread out widely
on her pillow, slender
arms resting
on all that softness.

She is the one who brings visions
in the depths of night.

Lucid clarity
and saturated, unknown colors.

Unvisited places, deeply longed for.

She tells me about the life within everything.

Underneath these words she gives me,
are sacred, and secret images,
abiding in silence,
abiding in vast inner space.

At last,
she is loved.

And she is listened to.

This simple sauce: twelve blueberries,
water, vanilla (no, I'm not going to tell  
all my secrets!) was everything I have
learned about celebrating frugality.

A red-headed woman, my young mother,
shining elegantly at a cocktail party
in a dress made by her
own delicately beautiful,
strong hands.

One three dollar silk remnant,
purchased in a little shop full of
cardboard boxes, each bursting,
to overflowing with fabric, and
texture, and color, high up on
Upper Broadway, in 1961.

Because you love me,
I can be.

Listening to you,
I smile.

In your invisible embrace,
I am whole.

There is nothing left to do.

It is all you.

It is all
you.

Out of midnight sky
unboundedness
one
dusky bluebird flew
straight to me.

Spreading his perfect wings
across my heart
I felt his feathers, felt his heart,
beating with my own.

"I will not leave you now."

"You have finally understood."

"And you have won my trust."

*"For always."

From deep within the cavern of my heart
a stream of truth is rising.

Like clear water rising through
the rock of ages
it flows.

It caresses the rock
softening its edges, leaving it
still strong and sure.

From deep within the womb of my body
a seed of truth is rising, warming to
the sweetness of a newly radiant heart.

From deep within the jewel of my heart
the light of love is shining.

Vast is the one unbounded space
within me, all around me.

Vast is the one lovely moment
which is right here,
and which is right now.

My very dear friends and wonderful, international tribe of poets:
When I first joined you all here last August, I was in a time of deep solitude, culturing inner silence.
It became an ideal time to make real progress with my writing.
The part I had no idea about then, and that has become such a treasured part of my life, is the growth and blossoming of new friendships
with many of you!
On June 2nd, 2016, just over a month ago, I felt an innocent, spontaneous impulse to open up, once again, to the world around me.
After all that immersion in transcendental bliss consciousness, life began presenting me with beautiful new opportunities, which has in turn lead to the most fantastic job I have yet had the honor to call my own, in which I am able to express and employ
all of my particular set of talents and abilities.
Hence, then, my long absence, and my enormous, growing admiration for those of you who have families, jobs,
and also contribute excellent poems here!
*May the force be always with the poets, the writers, the thinkers, the artists... all the good and sincere well-wishers of our dear world family, and of our precious Mother Earth.

(I have just re-written this poem that speaks to my present experience and frame of mind, and thought to offer it again in this context.)


Eyes of Light

Momentarily, two eye-shaped
places in these thick grey clouds
stared directly at me, and there it was:

"Always be truthful.
Always be kind."

Just that.
A reminder.

Slipping down into the place
beyond all words,
feeling knowingness
seeping
into my bones,
residing in quiet bliss,
at home
in my own authenticity.

The lamp at the door shines,
both within, and without
residing, just being,
knowing, in the the words
of Julian of Norwich:
"All shall be well,
and all shall be well
and all manner
of things shall be well.”

It might be the brilliant yellow of turmeric
boiled into salted potatoes,
washed down with the brown
of peppermint tea.

Or the intoxicating fragrance, when
we are hungry enough, of simple
spices. Cinnamon and cloves,
in another dish of oatmeal.

Outside the house, across the street,
the neighbors' children scream happily
into the warm night, where
the first fireflies begin to appear.

Held in the hands of the women of the world
is all that was and will be.

In her tiny, newborn hands, reaching out,
feeling the air all around her,
is curiosity, openness, freedom.

May is always be so.

Our mother's hands hold
healing like none other, when she
is centered in her own heart.

May it be forever thus.*

Women's hands gesture, gracing our most
ancient and sacred of dances.

And drive trucks.

And do surgery.

And gather healing herbs.

*In the hands of all women is the healing of the world.

Heavy lavender blossoms, lifted
by sudden rushes of night wind.

Jacaranda, her scented branches swept into
dancing alone under the only streetlight.

Hiding further in the dark, bushes of
kumquat fruits, ripely orange,
tempt me to taste them.

In the deep blue air, first stars create
orbs of light beyond themselves,
glowing hugely in the sultry, silent sky.

As children, in this springtide of the year,
my two brothers and I would venture deep
into our woods, exploring all that had thawed.

Walking along, there was little need for talk,
absorbed as we were in the scents and sights
of lovely nature, awakening all around us.

Following a line from the artesian well that fed our home,
we listened for signs of an undiscovered, woodland stream.

There, we heard it. That secret, lovely gurgle, somewhere
hidden under soggy brown, deciduous leaves.

Excitedly, we used sticks of hickory and oak
to dig down, to free the living water.

Once we had found it, clear and singing,
we leaned in, working together to ease its path.

Time disappeared from our minds,
this self-appointed team of junior engineers.

Somehow, though we wouldn't have known it then,
that freshly springing water was life itself to us
surging forth once more, finding,
like each of us, its own way home.

Now I understand, remembering
our common sense of purpose,
the way we worked together,
with single-minded focus, why
freeing it really mattered to us,
mattered so very much,
and always will.

Whirlwinding into a
  warm, sudden updraft
last, pink, pale petals
find each other, swirling....
Blushing once,
they flutter down,
  brushing the earth,
nesting back into gravity.

First light in the Hudson Valley
Arbor Day of April, 1970.

Adrenaline coursed through our young
bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose.

As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles
to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds
called out from the misty swamps.

Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife
were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats.

Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued
warning cries from deep in the woods,
where blights were killing our trees
with increasing frequency.

Three of us rode together, cycling in relative
silence, until we came to a meadow
selected for our early breakfast picnic.

We feasted on special fruits and cheeses,
hungrily stuffing in rare treats.

One friend began to send iridescent
soap bubbles into the chilly air.

Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud
of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun.

One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass.

We stared at it, somehow understanding that here
was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet.

Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance
of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us.

The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned.*

We were sleepy in our classes that morning;
most of our teachers understanding that we stood
now for something worthwhile, that we believed in,
and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval.

Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show
designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents.
An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave
of changes that our generation brought with us.

Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife
flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium,
accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of
Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary
that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913.

We had no idea then how much worse things would become.

All these years later, we each do our part, blessing
the efforts of our children and their children,
*hoping fervently that we are not too late.

High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
  is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.

Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.

Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.

Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.

With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.

Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.

Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.

From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.

Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.

Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.

Sweet tamarind pods stick to the warm black tarmac
where fortunate doves wander about in the shade,
trilling to themselves, and each other.

Either something strikes them as funny,
or they just love their easy lives.

Certainly, they sound so different from their
modest cousins, cooing sadly in colder places.

Born here in Paradise, these birds wear blue
eye shadow every day, and not just on weekends.

Late afternoon finds me in their lazy midst,
hair wet and curling, sand stuck to my bare, tanned feet.

Seated beside you in a bicycle rickshaw,
eventide of your last New Delhi day
gathering itself all around us.

Silk from my sari encircles my head,
shoulders warmed by a winter shawl.
Your heavy beige mantle and dhoti,
frame a man as tall as a tree, at least to me.

There is no need for words.

I may have been singing a bhajan to you,
just quietly, as shop lights came on
in the deepening blue.

Perfection finds us in the briefest of moments.

Wherever you are now, timelessness
governs friendships formed
in the Land of the Veda.

One beam of morning light
blesses a simple kitchen apron.

Standing here, and only here,
the whole world is made
of small, white petals.

On a day much like today,
infinity became my home.

East reaches out its petaled fingertips
meeting West in the center of the garden.

If only we knew then what we know now.

Trust the generations.

We are here to breathe. And to love.

You know the feeling, dear
Lover of Words.

Sounds of syllables
rolling through your mind
like deliciousness itself.

Sometimes it's just the sound, then a glint
of meaning smiles at you, inviting you.

Lifting it gently, like a sleeping child
you listen for potential phrases,
sentences emerging from within her dreams.

Tuck the covers lightly
around your new poem child,
and may the Muse of Words
favor her, and you.

Arrays of stars land softly
on this thick bed of pine needles
under your graciously reaching tree,
and we see impossibly blue, miniature
flowers with centers of infinite white.

Tunneling underground, more
have been born over the decades
since you planted their mothers and fathers
by hand, here in this garden that has become
a secret woodland, even in the middle of town.

Full heart to full heart,

                                   Clear quiet mind to clear quiet mind,

                                                 Ocean to Ocean.

                                            Blossoming with Light,

                                                  The Pink Lotus

Resides in Readiness

Patient, Happy.

Feeling good
in my skin
today.

Like a
well-scrubbed
potato.

Junction point
of your
head and heart

It was all you had to give

And you gave it anyway

Swiftly moving clouds modulate
the light coming to closed eyelids.

Today, with God's grace, I know
what it is to be my own
true north.

Clear sun on the bedroom wall,
Doves cooing secrets outside.

Here in the kitchen,
bright scent of orange oil
as it’s skin gives way.

I'll open just one today.

Once a place of crossing,
  on this sensuously and
precariously warm
February day
I have come to be still,
and to watch, and to listen.

Shadows of trees,
so immensely tall,
stay oddly motionless
under green river water,
even as the surface
moves and swirls
carrying itself ever onward.

Leaves and mud are newly wet;
walking is softer, soundless.

Below the path winding upwards,
melted ice sings again as water.

I drink in its sound, soul diving
heart first into perfect, liquid treasure.

grey white
sky colours
deepen
into being

*we are not forgotten
we are always loved

If only temporarily,
the Milky Way
took up residence
along my spine today.

I can still feel, and even
see it, softly glowing there
although I know, rationally,
it chooses to live elsewhere.