the hills roll; they mirror the clouds
that lazily scud across the sky,
muffling the sun, tearing wisps
into the powder-blue above my eyes

I am trapped inside, grass growing faster
than I will ever be free; time passing
in shadows, gasps, and pulsing hours:
bruise-black night will seem everlasting

when it comes to hold me once again,
inside a house, inside my mind I decay
and I rot, waiting for something, some
unknown glory in the light of day

but day breaks and burns me once more:
the sun too strong for my pale skin,
trees swaying, and I envy them;
I long to emulate their calm within

I am a storm-cloud which cannot soar,
my precipitation weighs me down
I long to fly, everything itches like the
scars littering my skin; my solitary frown

reflects the curvature of the fields,
meandering dandelion-speckled, corn-rowed
they become the entire worlds of
grass-chewing cows, horses alone

we watch over them, I dream through panes
of glass keeping me from fresh air;
I long to feel its breath, soak in
the sun; weave flowers in my hair.


*© Tara India.

His eyes were the black pools of a shadowed night
Drinking in all the light.
His eyes were metallic--
Silver,
Yet thicker than steel,
So that he could no longer feel.
The lies they told,
Heartache was caused
His eyes hid the pain--
To my pain were they blind--
But it was too late when he saw.

How to save a life?

                          Eyes.

Youthful ignorance wishes
    that life meant something
    external

But nothing means anything
    to anyone until one gets
    involved

Meaning follows experience
    inexperience has no place
    demanding

Maturity destroys innocence
    self-indulgent egocentrism
    encourages

Failure to find deeper meaning
    is failure to build the bridges
    connecting

How convenient to blame life
    for meeting the low expectations
    we've sown

Ancient tree, with roots deep down
Standing ground for ages unknown
Gentle giant soaring over undergrowth
Lonely, it stood there as part of history
It’s foliage glistening from fresh showers
Standing there alone without any remorse
The mossy green sheath on the tree trunk
Finding solitary refuge in the calmness
The sleepy rocks beneath, there for company
Lifeless surface comes alive with lichens
Lonely tree, standing there happy, for ages
Spreading its branches and nurturing life

I was always playing catch up
so it was known at a very young age
I would always be leaving
forging a path all my own
and going at my own pace
stopping in fascination of a flower
meditating for as long as it took
yes I knew I would fit somewhere
I knew I fitted everywhere
but I would need my own space

A book,
just pages
on leaves, whitened-
river washed,
dried then wettened again;
tears of words
torn from a heart-
his then mine, and mine again.

A book
of poems, written verse,
la poema-
the saddest lines of all,
but not all, no,
not all; not always.

Pages of Odes;
oh, the odes
to fruit,
to wine
and song
of the sea and mermaids;
the pages sing his songs.

A book
of heights
and stone,
he took us there-
a shovel in the sand;
of monuments
and ships
of drunken men and love
once loved,
and loved again.

Words
on silken thighs,
*******
and a red dress-
on a dark night
the stars and moon did shine.

A garden-
he planted a *****
into our hearts;
his dog,
it died
simply
loved too much-
Ai.

A book,
just a book
of pages,
of poems
by my bed-
dog-eared,
much read and loved;
his words ending
the saddest lines of all.

r ~ 8/15/14

I am lost.
Yet,
Something is telling me you are just like me.
Maybe
We were put in the darkness
To find each other.

the sidewalks are lit up,
sunbright, enough to look away,
into merciful shade

I keep thinking I oughta be using
this time to say goodbye,
soak in Santa Fe, burn with her

if this is my last home
if this is the summer of loss,
I should let it sink under my skin

but I dry out in the sun,
and browning isn't appealing
when I'm outside myself,
beside myself already