~entirely for irina~

in search of perfect cleanliness,
the flowering scented sense,
aura of perfect cleanliness
we write, return, close the book, and
then question our imperfections not fully
soluble, so we lift life's newly soiled loads,
and with detergent pen, erase the old stains,
for the new day's chores, begin and end,
again and again, then again,
this cycling, circling is never fully reversed
our ***** laundry, in poetry, cleansing,
but we bitter bite our own mocking laughs,
for after this poem,
comes ten thousand more
and time, with words more precious
than newly mined gold,
from the land where east meets west,
demands without surcease,
endless re and repolishing,

so by sunlight's glittering
dawn's arrival, we are momentarily healed.
but never ever more fully revealed,
and once more, in next's poem
dawn,
our own re~
cycling never ceases

Slowly slips the light of day
Across the rim of ridge, at play.

Golden in its cadenced glow
Deep ochre 'neath the bridge, below.

A fillagree of forfeiture when misting intervenes
Alas, the frolic interplay deploys her in the in-betweens.

Shadows cut by sunlight in a deftly hewn montage
Where the heft becomes the hewn and the hewn the **** fromage?

Interspersed, a flicker in the foliage on the mound
As to toy with the gestation of illumination's sound.....

A devastating show on the rim of ridge at play,
With the sinking of the sunlight in the orchestra of day.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.

in the city for a few days,
the madness even intensified,
as the United Nations privileged,
dine, wine and pontificate their
global prejudices, and review their fav
expensed account, French restaurant's
contribution to global relations warming

so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++,
take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized
transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky,
humid and putrid as garbage collection gets
suspended....

which leads to my bonus source of inspiration,
walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but
overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches
of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard!

and must be taken as given

kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is
plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions,
why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother,
(better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber,
has the oolala
moola-la!

here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits
from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun,
into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the
broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered
peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry

but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory,
it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of
all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the
man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the
diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now,
very limited...

the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps
his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher,
till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her
face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic
as possible
a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the
brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for
as long as itis permitted…

though the streets are crowded,
I believe I am the-only one, proximate
enough, to be the sole witness of said
tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded,
chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing
beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of
pedestrian's goings, separate me from them,
as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see
as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,,
squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent
a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is
now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left
bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke,
and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench,
slumped
and stumped
this thing why me,
was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the
answer comes quick, this a warning reminder,
to find her, woman,
mine, and clutch her arm-too tight,
and utter words to her nonsensical,
but that comfort me, in an
inexplicable wordless way…

She lost her turquoise locket
in the basin when she was a child.
It drained into Red Lake,
her mother swore.

It takes ninety days
for one drop to drift
the length of the Mississippi-
a season of carrying loss
before the salt claims it.

She combs her heavy hair,
to unravel the hush of forgetting,
each strand a river-line pulled south
toward the gulf,
where Mishipeshu waits in the dark current-
copper scales burning, eyes cutting the water,
his breath the drag
that tears what we love
into the mud.

Her hair startles me,
snagged with **** and silt,
a sheet of drowned paper
staining her shoulders.

She still wakes with soreness
from phantom breastfeeding
after her son was lost to her.

She swims the river of memory,
arms open, finding him
for a moment-
his face flashing like minnows scattering.
Her hair glints with their voices,
the water breathing
against her skin.

Her chest folds in,
breath torn like wet paper,
hair knotted, damp
with the stench of river-mud.
Her fingers search the nape-
she curses the river’s lie.
Nothing answers,
only the undertow’s promise
already tugging at her feet.