Beautiful Voice, sing to me once more
in this exquisite morning.
Slender leaves of the tall oleander rest
motionless, unable to follow the wind's demands
because of your song's enchantment.
Birds hang still in the air, wings extended
as if in flight, but halted in time by the
melody rising higher and higher into
the cloudless sky.
The echo of your song flows down from the
mountain, washing the valley in
joy and wonder.  Deer and bear pause their
foraging, stand motionless in awe while
forests of pine and clusters of aspen
bow to the grandeur of this magical moment.
O, Beautiful Voice, your song embraces the
depths of all being and we are breathless,
stunned into an astonishment of the sacred.
Sing!  Beautiful Voice

My ears woke me this morning.
They whispered to my brain:
"Listen to this!"  And my brain
was so excited that it woke all
the other parts of me and we
listened to Fred and Ginger
dancing on the skylight.

They were in good form.
No, not good. Spectacular!
The tap routine started slowly,
then built, then exploded.
Fred did his solo piece,
leaping and sliding across
the skylight, then Ginger tapped
into a rhythm that, at first, was
swing but quickly changed to
a graceful, flowing waltz.

On and on they danced,
effortless, mesmerizing, truly
timeless.  I don't remember
going to sleep, but when a
slender stream of morning
sun slipped past the curtains
and tickled my nose, I woke to
the distant sound of a graceful
duet.  They faded into the
blur of memory, still dancing
cheek to cheek.

Late last night, just as I blew out the last candle
and pulled the cool sheet to my chest,
I caught a whiff of your gentle fragrance
floating just above the empty pillow beside me,
and I heard you call my name in the sounds of
the stream that curls its way through the tall pines.
Sleep never had a chance.  Memories burst into the room
from all the familiar places and moments we used to share.
I heard you hum that sill song about little gray clouds.
I'm sure I saw your reflection in the starlight on the window pane.
An owl called in the distance and I thought of your
beautiful, astonished face when you first caught a glimpse
of the elegant night visitor.
As the memories floated by, gifts of grace,
I felt a tear slide down my cheek and fall to my lip.
It tasted just like the ones I used to kiss from your face
when you wept in deep sorrow or delicious joy.
O memories, have mercy.
I am not able to bear your full weight.
The wound is yet too raw.
The hour too soon.
Pass me by for now.
At least for
now.

I am the Invisible Other.
I live unnoticed, unheard,
marginally on peripheries.
I am different by color
or language or belief.
Regarded with condescending
contempt, or stinging
indifference, I am a transparent
person, a bad dream that fades in
the light of artificial reality.

Do you wonder at my anger?
Look!  See my face!
If I call your name, will you answer?
No.  I don't think so.
I know my place.
I've learned my role, and
I play it well.
I am the Insignificant Other.

I live in the patronizing shadow
of your self-interested arrogance.
It is a cold place, abandoned even
by inherent instincts to love or to care.
Deserted by decency, it is a place
where tears turn to dust and hope
dies young on the vine.
I am the Other.
I am here.