Plumeria in my hair

I followed footsteps of the Sun

to the Sea

I hear Krishna's conch

Om

Om

Om

He is calling me

My beloved roams in my heart


O Sai we sprinkle pieces of
our hearts like petals
for You to tread upon


You leave a trail of Lotus blooms

The first of March,
The day where red and white entangle
In the tradition of Bulgaria
Into a token summoning good health,
And luck, and non-material wealth
To the body and the spirit of the wearer
Be well, my friends, and fellow feathers,
Around the world, from near and far,
May fortune bring you well

My bird was wounded
with half a wing she flew
and rested on feathery clouds

The Sun was her friend
He bathed her in 5 Golden Pools
breathed light into cold dark space
and made wings from stars

She alights upon my fingers now
extended like blossoming twigs

Can you hear her boundless song?

How creative is the day
every morning Dawn
her face flushed in
shades of poinsettia pink
spreads golden wings
over the Earth
gently fanning flames of life

I plant my poem bush in
Her bright noonday rays
water flows from my
jeweled heart chalice
emotions, ideas, inspiration
flood lush fertile soil
soaking into a network of roots
reaching into beloved humanity,
this bustling world,
starry space and beyond

A tall elf stole like a Silver Shadow
past my window around 4 a.m.
in the freshly minted morning

My hubby, darling garden spirit
cherishes the dear little
plants and flowers in our yard
With care and love
he gives them their morning coffee,
fertilizing, watering the baby sprouts,
cooing sweetly over
his floral cherubims

They know his elfin footsteps
and smile happily as he putters
about in the
Wee, wee hours

My heart is yearning

As the yellow striped bee
yearns for nectar hidden
In flower blossoms
sweet *****

My heart is yearning

As the frozen earth
covered in Winter
yearns for warmth
of the sun

Brooding shadows
fall across lotus ponds
in full bloom
white swans blushing pink
sail by

My hands and feet are dyed red
with henna
but I cannot dance or sing

My heart is yearning, yearning
O my beloved
only for You

I must have written You
a thousand love notes
each stained with rouge kisses
and rose perfume
drowning in a sea of ink
ebony tears
O Dearest One
I have knocked on Your door
countless lifetimes
fragrant bouquets wilting
from warmth of my embrace

Still, the timeless treasure
of Your mysterious presence
remains bolted
beyond reach

Ocean currents are too strong
wrestling, they threaten to pull
the poor jivi under
Beloved
When will you rescue me?

Thank you

For letting me feel the sun like it was meant to shine
For letting me see the sky, like it was meant to smile
For letting me hear the sea, like it was meant to calm

And for letting me see the you,
That I’ll always look forward to.

White like the North
and the cold places on the earth
my great grandfather was fond of
over-proof *** and
caribbean sailor blue waves

His Nigerian goddess bore him
nine children
pretty little barefoot toffee skinned children
scampering through sugarcane fields
and tall tropical grasses
the lilting sound of their voices
playing on balmy breezes

My Aunt Glo remembers him well
strolling about with his switch and
stiff upper English lip
he governed the immense rural
Jamaican plantation in St. Elizabeth
around the end of the Nineteeth century

Everyone called him Pupa and his
wife Muma

I don't know much about Muma
except that her mother was an
enslaved person and that she
had to tolerate the insult of ritually
hiding her mixed children when
Pupa's mother, Lady Bush
flounced into town with her entourage

There is an old photograph of
the two of them:

Muma in white frock seated,
her eyes drooping brown sparrows
Pupa with his switch, pocket watch
and far away eyes