Let us listen...

     Just for awhile
     let us silence our minds
     and open our hearts

     Just for awhile
     let us listen from within

Listen...

     not to gain knowledge
     not to formulate questions

     rather to chance upon
     sacred bonds and
     profound wisdom

Just for awhile
let us not seek information
or answers

Let us not rouse the intellect
but embrace the spirit

If thoughts cloud the brain
let them pass

If replies tingle on the tongue
let us breathe them away silently

Return to them later
but here...

here in this precious time of sharing

Let us listen

     let the words wash over us
     and seep into a still quiet pool

Let us listen.

In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.

Daily she put on shmattehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty

even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,

to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.

Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups

for her to drink the sweet
sacramental wine of fulfillment.

The story shone in her as through
tinted glass, how the mother

gave up and did without
and was in the end crowned
with what? scallions? crowned
queen of the dead place

in the heart where old dreams
whistle on bone flutes
where run-over pets are forgotten,
where lost stockings go?

In the coffin she was beautiful
not because of the undertaker's
garish cosmetics but because
that face at eighty was still

her face at eighteen peering
over the drab long dress
of poverty, clutching a book.
Where did you read your dreams, Mother?

Because her expression softened
from the pucker of disappointment,
the grimace of swallowed rage,
she looked a white-haired girl.

The anger turned inward, the anger
turned inward, where
could it go except to make pain?
It flowed into me with her milk.

Her anger annealed me.
I was dipped into the cauldron
of boiling rage and rose
a warrior and a witch

but still vulnerable
there where she held me.
She could always wound me
for she knew the secret places.

She could always touch me
for she knew the pressure
points of pleasure and pain.
Our minds were woven together.

I gave her presents and she hid
them away, wrapped in plastic.
Too good, she said, too good.
I'm saving them. So after her death

I sort them, the ugly things
that were sufficient for every
day and the pretty things for which
no day of hers was ever good enough.

Do I believe in reincarnation? No. not in the strictest sense.
But if matter can neither be created nor destroyed I think there
must be
a piece of everyone's heart still beating somewhere
in the past or future tense.
I know we all become dust, but that dust becomes someone new
and so it takes a thousand parts to make a life, not just two.
And that is why maybe you cry at the sight of daffodils blooming
because a part of you lost his mother in the spring.
And somehow you are sure that you have heard your lover's
voice before.
(I swear, they feel it, too
because a piece of them also once loved a piece of you.)
I like that idea, you know.
That we are bound to other people
by carrying the traces of these same old souls
from a thousand years ago.

I had fun creating a fairy garden
but now it drives me crazy
I have to pull every single ****
my fairies all are lazy

in synergy of sky and sea
shadowy clouds bestow the rain
the gracious sea accepts
then gives it back again

filtering through the clouds
sunshine warms the scene
dancing on the ripples
creating a resplendent sheen

endless sky and water deep
all but a seamless view
who gives color to the other
which one is more blue

allies in a great expanse
their grandeur is sublime
their waltz remains unchanged
as they measure out its time

I spent months
setting them up

those emotional "dominoes"

black rectangles on end
balanced just so
white spots spelling out

ego
    emotions
                soul

just a sharp stroke
of a tongue
on one corner
and
they fall...
   and fall...
      and fall...

they lay
      scattered
                  and
                     chaotic

on their backs
          like beetles
unable to turn

their undersides exposed
                             and vulnerable

how many times
            can they be realigned

how many times
              before the spots erode

how many times
               before it's empty inside

like dead beetles'
                       dry, brittle shells?

We travel carrying our words.
We arrive at the ocean.
With our words we are able to speak
of the sounds of thunderous waves.
We speak of how majestic it is,
of the ocean power that gifts us songs.
We sing of our respect
and call it our relative.

Translated into English from O’odham by the poet.

’U’a g T-ñi’okı˘

T-ñi’okı˘ ’att ’an o ’u’akc o hihi
Am ka:ck wui dada.
S-ap ‘am o ’a: mo has ma:s g kiod.
mat ’am ’ed.a betank ’i-gei.
’Am o ’a: mo he’es ’i-ge’ej,
mo hascu wud.  i:da gewkdagaj
mac ’ab amjed.  behě g ñe’i.
Hemhoa s-ap ‘am o ’a: mac si has elid, mo d.  ’i:mig.

that crazy man Rodrigo Duterte
best watch out or he'll end up muerte
if he keeps on being a windbag
he might find himself sporting a toe tag

Elliot, please add to the HP rules:

Caution: Don't drink and read!

Postman
and poet?

love letters in mail

Accountant
and poet?

precision, detail

Archeologist
and poet?

sifting for feelings

Electrician
and poet?

a jolt
leaving one reeling

architect
and poet?

drafting with words

Zookeeper
and poet?

singing of birds

Bus driver
and poet?

observing life's roadways

Minister
and poet?

perhaps how he prays

Lawyer
and poet?

though about win or lose
her poetry just might amuse

Economist
and poet?

Aren't we all that?
though we wear different hats
distilling things downwards
saving on words

whoever you are
whatever you choose
listen, observe
welcome your Muse!

oh pregnancy oh pregnancy
oh how you make the belly grow
oh pregnancy, oh pregnancy
a girl if high, a boy if low

you give us gas and stretch marks
an aching back and fallen arch
oh pregnancy, oh pregnancy
oh please, oh please won't you have a heart

oh pregnancy oh pregnancy
oh how you make the belly large
oh pregnancy oh pregnancy
you make us feel just like a barge

you make us in the morning sick
and noon and night
what a ***** trick
oh pregnancy oh pregnancy
oh how - ouch - ooh how they kick

they kick and squirm
won't let you sleep
jab foot in rib and dig in deep
oh pregnancy oh pregnancy
why don't you go and take a leap

There's a song...
a piece of music
I wish you could hear

when I hear it
a couple appears in my mind

they move lightly
step forward
back
forward
smooth
two as one

the music
flavor of Latin
sultry guitar
dulcet violin
breathy flute
suffuses their bodies
tawny velvet skin
ignited in a warm glow

hands raised
palms touching
crossover steps
bodies syncopated
perfectly in time
perfectly in step
perfectly together

turn
turn

his hands on her
slender waist
move softly
in rhythm
with the easy swaying
of her hips

her silky dress
floats and ripples
a scarlet river
shining under fluorescent "stars"

their gaze steady
into each others' rich
mahogany eyes
until she is twirled
back to his chest

hands still on her waist
his lips tenderly brush her neck
he takes her hand
she turns
into him again

in that moment
no one
nothing else exists
only the music
and their fiery zeal

Hide and Seek
Charles Simic, 1938
Haven’t found anyone
From the old gang.
They must be still in hiding,
Holding their breaths
And trying not to laugh.

Our street is down on its luck
With windows broken
Where on summer nights
One heard couples arguing,
Or saw them dancing to the radio.

The redhead we were
All in love with,
Who sat on the fire escape,
Smoking late into the night,
Must be in hiding too.

The skinny boy
On crutches
Who always carried a book,
May not have
Gotten very far.

Darkness comes early
This time of year
Making it hard
To recognize familiar faces
In those of strangers.

I see you
          falling
               through
                   the purple air
                       eyes bulging              
                          teeth showing
                              like a blind, hungry tiger
                                      without a sun to guide
                                             without a son to follow
                                                  without day or night
                                                       to know the alligators
                                                        on the black river
                                                       in the jungle
                                                   where the russet snakes
                                                  wrap themselves
                                                 around your mind
                                              squeezing seeds from it
                                                      
I see you falling from
     the emerald tree, first
           clinging sanguinely
               then giving in to wind
                     and gravity, toppling
                      dropping like ripe fruit
                    splitting open spilling
                   your tawny seeds sharing
                your succulent flesh, flesh
               which feeds succeeding
             trees, trees where you can

sit to watch
             the tiger
                   and
                      the
                      alligator
                        struggle
                           struggle for
                              a place to be
                                     before they fall
                                          through
                                             the purple air
                                                air that forces
                                                 out the seeds
                                           seeds spewed
                                       on the green
                                    granite mountain
                                under the sizzling
                              saffron sun.

I've often heard that karma
is a witch
but with a different start
you...
you with your blackened heart
won't see it coming,
but I tell you this
it surely will arrive...
along with a Judas kiss.

As you've stabbed others in the back
sharp tongue like a knife
karma will creep up on you
it will tangle up your life

It won't matter which face
you wear
karma knows your many
and
karma doesn't care

You'll wonder why
it happens
you'll coyly ask "why me?"
feigning innocence, ignorance
lacking remorse and empathy

you shouldn't fool
with karma, but
too late to think of that
it will strip you of your pride
you'll feel it deep inside

though
the exact reason for your pain
you may not recognize
karma can't be fooled
you'll be haunted by your lies

I likely won't be there to see it...
see justice come around
but in my heart I know...
I know you will be found

you'll get your just "reward"
as you hold the losing Karma Kard!

I've often heard that karma
is a witch
but with a different start
you...
you with your blackened heart
won't see it coming,
but I tell you this
it surely will arrive...
along with a Judas kiss.

As you've stabbed others in the back
sharp tongue like a knife
karma will creep up on you
it will tangle up your life

It won't matter which face
you wear
karma knows your many
and
karma doesn't care

You'll wonder why
it happens
you'll coyly ask "why me?"
feigning innocence, ignorance
lacking remorse and empathy

you shouldn't fool
with karma, but
too late to think of that
it will strip you of your pride
you'll feel it deep inside

though
the exact reason for your pain
you may not recognize
karma can't be fooled
you'll be haunted by your lies

I likely won't be there to see it...
see justice come around
but in my heart I know...
I know you will be found

you'll get your just "reward"
as you hold the losing Karma Kard!

A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
I execute it all for pay.
My daily trade is killing time.

I slice the day up like a lime
in sections green and silver-gray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

I'm practiced in this pantomime,
proficient, quite au fait.
My daily trade is killing time.

Like a hit man in his prime
I knock off the hours of the day.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

Yet killing here is not a crime;
it's merely the established way.
My daily trade is killing time.

No. killing here is not a crime;
it's the toll road through this fray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
My daily trade is killing time.

seven pennies
fourteen dimes
two friends visit
candy shop

sweet smiles
sharing
candy bar

She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
Warmest of garden, it saw a flower in the morning
sensitive, she was my sunniest plant


The wind is blowing from west over the river
The wind is blowing from west over the river
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The west wind turns, is blowing over the mountains
From the river above the dark sky


The city far away, the buildings tall
The city far away, the buildings tall
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
The tall fields, the green buildings
Disguise the crowds beyond the far away city                                  


The tall mountains, the fields, the sky above                              
saw a disguise of crowds over city buildings                                                        ­                
my morning, it was the sunniest beyond the west                                                             ­             
The green river she turns dark                                                             ­                               
The warmest wind is blowing from far away                      
Plant the sensitive flower in the garden

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

planets                                                
follow patterns                                    
always dancing, singing eternally                            
dying stars arrange carefully                                                                  ­          
darkness finding swirling spaces        
beauty cancelled                                        
foundations disrupted like rocks crumbling              
regretfully finding                                                          ­            
distorted pictures                                                         ­           
-spawn-
pictures distorted                                                        ­                                  
finding regretfully
crumbling rocks like disrupted foundations
canceled beauty
spaces swirling finding darkness
carefully arrange stars dying
eternally singing, dancing always
patterns follow
planets

In a dream a spider swallows a snake and
smiles
like  a
giant yellow sunflower being  kissed   by
                                                                ­ bees
                                                            ­     who
dance  wildly  with the  wind  as  it  turns
white
with
anticipation.   The  snake  charmer   plays
                                                           ­         his
                                                    ­              tune.
The  spider  dances,  rising up,  stretching,
elongating.
Her  legs
disappear, drawing   into  her  body where
                                                           ­         they
                                                   ­                 turn
into a flickering tongue that protrudes from
her
lips.
She wriggles in her dance; her tongue waves
                                                           ­         in the
                                                             ­       air to
the melody, begins  to sing a  sultry,  hissing
song.
Then
the charmer's flute begins to move, undulating
                                                      ­                  to her
                                                             ­           song's
cadence.   And the charmer is himself charmed.
He
sits
in a trance as his snake-flute wraps itself around
                                                          ­                    him
                                         ­                                     and
the  spider  looking  li­ke a  snake swallows them
both.

“My heart is so small
it's almost invisible.
How can You place
such big sorrows in it?"
"Look," he answered,
"your eyes are even smaller,
yet they behold the world."

~ Rumi

such a heavy load you have there
that chip sitting on your shoulder
why not just let it go
let it go before it's a boulder

thicken up your skin a bit
don't jump so quick to defense
nobody's out to get you
you don't have to be so intense

I hate walking on eggshells
I really don't want them to crack
so remove all those shells, brush off the chip
and cut everybody some slack!

She remembers when she first got her wings
And how she opened up that day
she learned to sing
Then the colors came, erased the
black and white
And her whole world changed
when she realized

She's a butterfly, pretty as the crimson sky
Nothing's ever gonna bring her down
And everywhere she goes
Everybody knows she's so glad to be alive
She's a butterfly
Like the purest light in a darkened world
So much hope inside such a lovely girl
You should see her fly, it's almost magical
It makes you wanna cry, she's so beautiful

God bless the butterfly,
give her the strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground
God bless the butterfly,
give her strength to fly
Never let her wings touch the ground

gently interrupted by velvet mountains
burnt sienna soil stretches through olive trees
that lift their limbs toward blue expanse
where pillowy clouds drift with ease

shadows lengthen as the sun spreads
a warmth perceptible to the view
energy and life pouring into ripening fruit
soon harvest gathering will be due

tracks of vehicles between the rows
show signs of tending that's been done
through summer's growing season
and years before when they were begun

saplings planted there with care
by tanned, robust yet gentle hands
have grown taller year by year
where now a stately orchard stands

The truth is…
              the real truth…?
                             Do people do that?

How’s my new dress?
                                             It makes you look fat.

Like my new do?
I paid quite a lot
                                             You got ripped off, dear,
                                               You might even sue.

How are you today?
Just a quick answer please
I don’t have the time
To hear of your bad knees.
                                              I’m doing fine, knowing
                                               You don’t want to hear
                                               My problems and stresses
                                               I won’t bend your ear.


A “white lie” is easier
Makes conversation go fast
Then again, you just never know
When you might hear the real truth
It could be quite a blow.
So beware

the truth is…

If you don’t want the real truth?
Perhaps you shouldn’t ask.

the formation of the rain
on the window
recasts the landscape
into a kaleidoscope
picture
a glossy eight by ten
viewed through a prism