I still dream you hold my hand
as we walk across the pond.
but its surface was clean and unharmed by filth.

Your lungs were never deflated
and you would breathe so graciously.
I waited so long, my hair has grown
& your emerald eyes
had a lust for life.

I wish I could conjure your spirit when
they say how much they see you
in me.
But I'm left empty in the midst of all
they could never see,
I've grown up, but I'm never free
of the child you held in your arms.

I don't want to spend my life being haunted by a woman
that never fought her own ghosts.
Cancer is not a demon, it is an illness
and the zodiac you were born as
should be the only thing to touch you.
But still those weakened cells
took your body as their host.

Now I mourn you in the reflection of ponds
and wait for waterlilies to bloom in the place
of your face.

now I wait for your soft hands to hold me in your lap
and place a soft kiss on my forehead.

And when I think of my mother;
her poise and grace,
dresses of lace.
My desire for our souls to meet once more,
or to see your face in front of pearly gates.

—V.H.

Small and fragile
Blooming into the bright light
I want this to be small and fragile
That stays somehow, in the shadows
I don't know how to phrase it
I want it to be untouched and small
Growing into something beautiful
I want it to be infinite
Special,
Just
Like
You…

Rising from the water
like a fragrant cupcake.
Seeds floating in the stream
increasing from the wake.

Blue and purple
blooms onto to the pads.
Roaming and roaming
across ripples in scads.

Growth so pretty
and basin so new.
Lily so delicate
and purely blue.

Taos Pueblo fashion designer Patricia Michaels returns to New York City for “Style Fashion Week NYC”on September 10th to present her latest 30 piece collection at aspecial RSVP eventat Hammerstein Ballroom, 311 West 34th St, Midtown Manhattan.

Michaels was a finalist on season 11 of the Lifetime reality TV show, “Project Runway”, and “Project Runway All-Stars”, gaining thousands of admirers as the media world followed her success along with an excited and proud Indian country.

Michaels will present her trademark PM Waterlily line and her latest collection for Spring/Summer 2017. Known for her use of Native-themed fabrics, hand painted or hand dyed, cut and fabricated at her Taos, New Mexico studio, Michaels says she is inspired by nature walks at Taos Pueblo among the trees, wildflowers and water plants, and “seeds” are important symbols of her designs and concepts.

The following description is from the website, speaking of the “Modern Native” who inspires and wears her designs. “Patricia Michaels...will have a few pieces for colder climates as her woman travels to regions where during the summer the climates tend to be cold. She is a world traveler so one may made need that special look to freshen her palette.”

Those living in or near the New York area that are interested in attending can visit toEventbrite to RSVP for the September 10 event. Seating is limited.

We wish Patricia Michaels and PM Waterlily success in New York City and beyond.

According to their site, Style Fashion Week, producer of globally recognized fashion events, provides top designers a world class platform to showcase their collections. Each year Style Fashion Week presents the season's must see shows, unforgettable performances and exclusive installations. Our expansive Style Marketplace immerses guests in fashion as well as art and design. Guests directly engage with brands throughout the week.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

floating on
the pond
dragonflies zip
above me
thinking I
am an
organic substance
an algae-dipped
                nympth
my hair in fronds
the subtle ripple
of sunstreak
on thigh
like reflections of
rainbow lanterns
upon skin
my skin, puckered
from melding
aquatic escapade
is soothed in this home
of kissing koi
who welcome me
in fin brushes
bubbles on the
small
of my back
sweet as the
lush harmony
of waterlily voices
that only I can hear
as the gaze of frogs
and forest dwellers
imprints upon
the inner lids
of my
      starlit
eyes

Fluttering blue butterfly
O so sweet!
Whipping your wings
Vibrating,
sofly floating in the wind.
Bright green hummingbird
Speeding pass
directs you to nectar
from honeysuckle nearby
Ambrosia, absolutely.
The butterfly never forgets,
Memories last forever-
Since this butterfly is immortal.
Remember?
Resplendent human hands
Clasping white water lily
Gently pouring clean light, brown soil
into petals' opening
A small handful of water mixed as well
Then off floats waterlily, set down gently
On large rectangular glossy river
Having no beginning , no end.
Clear sky, all light,
Enchanted, mesmerized, humbled!
Were butterfly's feelings
To see The Divine Being
Create human girl
In the Higher realm^
Butterfly felt the new unique presence
already born as a tiny spark
And heard a voice telling the Lily
'This is how you were made'
Watching it perfectly sail away.
Now here flies butterfly!
Into Earth 3D plane
And has felt the unique spark again.




4:47am Thursday, 26th, May, 2016.

late last night i walked alone along the desolate shore
of Monet’s pond at Giverny the pale moon
sometimes obscured by impasto clouds
the waterlilies those treacherous waterlilies
screaming in agony
Saskia, Rembrandt’s wife, was there
naked and weeping, her hair and body
wet and slimy draped in orange pond algae
Cezanne crouched nearby cursing and slashing canvases
with a butcher’s knife before tossing them into a fire
when he finished he made fierce love to Saskia
who sang an old Dutch love song as he did
Rembrandt was in deep conversation with Monet
in a puddle of passing moonlight
and didn’t seemed to mind, anything
to stop her endless wailing I heard him say
Monet says Titian’s mistress is now a mermaid
who lives beneath my betraying waterlilies which is why they cry
and why I keep painting them no one makes love like her
just look at Titian’s Madonnas
Van Gogh stumbles in from a dung-filled alley, bleeding badly
from the bullet wound in his abdomen,
where the rich kids from Auvers tormented and shot him
just for the fun of it, Vermeer bankrupt and gaunt
steps from behind a tree and asks if it’s suicide or the new art
Vincent says let the people believe that tragic ending
it’s a dramatic final brushstroke to my life even if untrue
but I love the blackbirds and my wheat fields and blue irises
way too much to spill my guts on them cadmium red maybe
my left ear lobe maybe but never my guts
where’s de Kooning anyhow he yells the *******
borrowed my paintbrush and never returned it
now I’ll have to paint with the tongue of Gauguin’s old shoe
Caravaggio floats by face up caressed by the wet palms of the weeping lilies
he’s burning up with fever delirious screaming
where’s my ship where’s my ship
they’re all on the ship my paintings
my paintings will redeem me the Pope knows
I only killed one man
Monet strokes his beard like Moses Rembrandt
says it happens to all of us even our wives and
mistresses perhaps it’s the lead in our *****
it’s not suicide it’s not homicide it’s the madness of living too much
Rothko appears, a translucent ghost inside a mist salving his slashed wrist
with Monet’s pond water Mark washing washing
the healing water the Giverny water dancing with pran the giver of life
that’s what Monet was painting at the end
using the palette from the other side
pran transmitted through the wailing
of the waterlilies the siren’s song
that lures artists to their death
and then washes them clean for the next go
to pick up where they left off, alone
with his whiskey bottle Jackson ******* hurls paint clots
at Rembrandt’s Still Life with Peacocks
those two dead peacocks they’re all dead peacocks
floating belly up under Monet’s footbridge
all the color gone from their plumage
drink the water Jackson or better yet
let Cezanne rip out your diseased liver
and wrap it carefully in a weeping waterlily
and float it out into the middle of the pond
where the forgiving moonlight and the mermaids
and Monet’s eyes now dim with cataracts
can help it filter out the poison of living
too much and then you too Jackson
will make painterly love to Saskia and she will
daub your diseased body in Titian’s blue
and her husband’s gold and Vincent’s sunflower yellows
and send you back into the world
where you will continue to splash us all  
as we lie flat on the ground hands and legs intertwined
our faces and bodies your canvas more willing than ever
Jackson, you’ll turn us into a unified field of smashed hues not just from here but from where you stand one foot on the other side
get us all raging drunk Jackson in that myth you longed for
splatter us in the tinted mess of the mystery you raged at
and had to settle for drunken oblivion instead
drink deeply the mystic-hued water of Giverny
Vincent and Paul and Mark and Jackson
and when you come back
spit it out on our parched souls

Look
a beautiful thing
casts
its shadow
once it has
decided to stay
and take form;

A beautiful thing you are
finally casting
your shadow

HUMAN HISTORY 2: LET'S DANCE
(A few words of acknowledgement: While these are my ideas and thoughts, I drew heavily on the story of 'Waterlily', written by Ella Cara Deloria. The discussion between the two Sioux women described below are drawn from this book. Her book beautifully details the life of 2 Dakota Sioux women and with them the customs, beliefs and beauty of the Dakota Sioux people. I am deeply in her debt.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'Let's dance.
Lets dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.'
-D. Bowie


I.
'Hao, Kola!'
'Hao, Kola!'
Greetings between two
darkly tanned men, black hair
long and waving erratically in the wind,
their deep black eyes smile
and embrace these two warrior friends.
'Hao, Kola!'

II.
Out in the open prairie,
under an intense blue sky,
a few sharply white clouds
float in contrast against it;
two Peoples drew towards
each other for a ceremonial sing,
as was customary before the Great Sun Dance.

Ill.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
'Hokahe'. 'Hokahe'.
Dakotas and Omahas meet.'
Hokahe' floats on the fresh morning breeze.
Colorful war standards wave and
flirt about gracefully.
The Omahas have come to sing.
The Omahas, proud, magnificently bold.
The Omahas, self assured in painted red face,
wearing heavily fringed buckskin white,
brilliantly adorned.
With war standards and lances held high,
the Omahas were a breath taking sight.
As there on the prairie's lush green grass
Omahas greet Dakotas with ceremonial song.

IV.
Two Dakota women overheard talking:
Blue Bird: 'You met them?! What are
white people really like?
Are they gentle, kind, as their
skin would imply?'
Smiling One: 'No, they are very hard, very
stern and dull towards each
other. They pass each other without
recognition. Very unmannerly.'
Blue Bird: 'And what about the children?
How do they play?'
Smiling One: 'Oh, this is so sad I would
say. I don't understand the
reasoning behind their ways.
These people actually detest
their children. You should see
them; slapping their little one's
faces and lashing their poor little
buttocks to make them cry!
Yelling and screaming at them
anytime of the day. I have never
seen children treated this way!!'
Blue Bird: Deep in thought, hugs little
Water Lily. She feels sick with
sympathy for these unknown
children. Only crazy people
teach their children like this.
What makes white people act so crazy?

V.
The Sun Dance time has arrived.
All the different Peoples, Tribes.
The Dakota, Teton, Omaha
make good on their vows
to the Great Spirits,
renew the hopes of their families
for peace and plenty from the land.
And they danced.
Looking straight into the sun,
because they knew it was what made them one
with the world and each other.
And they danced.
Time itself was lost in the sun
and new life was begun.
And they danced.
Danced around and sacrificed on
the clean cut pole,
blessed and made holy
just for this ceremony.
And they danced.
Till the sun was thrice Earth eaten
and moon time rose full in the sky.
But now on a different scene
and a People from so long ago,
who in their naked skin,
danced and howled at the moon.
Howled at the dead and the living.
Howled and danced,
danced and howled cause they were human.

VI.
Alone,
orbiting on this blue-toned Earth
I want to ask:
When will we, today’s humans dance?
Dance in global community?
Dance on the lush green grassy plains?
Dance on high hillsides, howling at a full, lush moon?

VII
'Let's dance.
Let's dance.
Put on your red shoes and dance the blues...'

~~written 10.1.98~~

The numbing light dims to black,
Car lights replace the dark and you tremble.
Like rose petals in the wind,
You waver and eventually collapse to the pavement.
The pavement is your destiny and future though.

Crates too massive to lift surround you like a canyon,
Vanishing those blazing car lights from your eyes
You take in everything like a breath of icy air,
Brief and crucial.

The hollow note echoes to stillness,
Infectious beats take their place and you sway.
Like a cottontail in the summer breeze,
You lean from side to side, finally standing tall.
And the standing transforms into your grip on life

Ships swerve towards you like starving crocodile,
Blocking out that deep bass.
You tread carefully like a waterlily a top a pond,
Almost  imaginary but real at the same time.

Your bones rattle around inside your thinning skin,
The light shocks and shakes you
And the car lights reappear, taking center stage
Like the moon in the sky..
You shiver and spin around,
All that you see is your future.

once we were human
in each other's arms
we were shown mysteries
we could hardly fathom
and we held them to our hearts
now we’ve lost the music
and sold our souls to the stars
what ever happened to the thunder
and the calling of the true
in static water
i saw my own reflection
in moving shining waters
i learned about the essence

sentence me to this willow tree
and i’ll be bound for silence
swallowing the marrow
you neglected all the violence
sister of the wilderness
sister of the sea
respect the aging waterlily
and tie your hands to me

come now what are we doing
forever running around in circles
i am choking upon these words
its not their fault
wisdom is stolen
and made to fit in a box
our hands are like flowers
eaten by a fox
we cut off our clothes
to make room for the world
and disguised our souls in nothing
feelings suspended we rear-ended the world
stood upon bridges waving at girls
shreds of starlight
reflect the falling carriages
sadness and birth are beyond our marriages
same story told throughout the eons
our personal feelings are diluted in the sea
just as we could no longer hold on
our shadows found the ground
and we floated down to safety

Poison surrounds you, encasing you in the sweet smell of death. Rebirth. A new morning. Spring has sprung from within, however premature. Skies, screens and smoke.

Taught to leave the past behind - we carry it with us, and invite it in through the cracks. It slips in like smoke. Screens. Skies.

The sky is a putrid colour of green. Escape it. Delve into the baggage of our past. To blue skies and longer days.

It's fake. A screen. The skies. The smoke.
Hazy green and lily stench.
Poison surrounds you, the smell no longer sweet but sour.

Resting gently upon a film delicate as the spider's silk,
the rose-tinted angels offer their peaceful tune.
A poet watches in peace with men of his ilk.
Finding beauty in the light of the moon.

A frog's cry echoes to a swan song's swoon.
Still, the angel floats idly with grace,
its romantic flair lighting the lagoon.
I grow warm and a smile graces my face.

Oh sweet waterlily, fire in my eye.
I pray for your light. Let it never die.

sandpaper reflects our damages
radio stations weave eternity into sound bytes
yet one bite is enough to give you rabies
so back the F@$! up
and listen to your luck
allow for music to flow effortlessly
unglue yourself
from the tragic and stuck energy
i am logic forging itself
in a fire of shiny metals
petals of diamonds
remind us of collapsing realities
undiscovered colors
and passages out of this dimension
into etheric waters
surface temperatures
are rising like lightning
from the ground up
find trees to hug
jumping from knees to feet
and hands to mouth
round them up and get out fast
sound is music
infinite tunes
dancing fumes of vaporous intent
sent from heaven
let me at them
remind me of the sediment
and the contract we signed before dying
high as a waterlily
proud as a wasp
rested and assured of our death
your sentence is fragrant like a vagrant
stamped with burning jettison
turning reticent
hesitant to accept this love
as gifts from above
rub our souls and polish our hearts
i am tired of these games
training wheels may save lives
but a hundred miles later
she ate her last waiter
sore as a dancer
with a heart of a champion
our uncles were dandelions
sired in springtime’s basement
i choose medicine
not this heady nonsense
resume your poetry
and abuse yourself not me

Katydid lover, your ******* form
slips nightly into my bed,
rubbing my limbs with a love song.
A waterlily corolla my pillow,
and you, the charm of a colibris,
drinking from my *******.
You lift my gown of gauzy film,
my wings emerging from
webbed sleeves, spider legs
from mist-net stockings.
Then, suddenly, we’re together,
held in this sticky, perfumed cloud,
hoping the rain will never wash us apart.

sentence me to this willow tree
and i’ll be bound for silence
swallowing the marrow
you neglected all the violence
sister of the wilderness
sister of the sea
respect the aging waterlily
and tie your hands to me

If, in the golden Bengal,
At the crack of dawn,
The rainbow from beyond the skies
Gently alights upon the wings of a butterfly,
Smiling all the while

Then what shall befall
As the day softly wanes,
In the twilight beneath the veiling horizon,
When evening tenderly embraces the earth?

Wandering all day through the villages of Bengal,
Across the vast wetlands, fields of rice,
From door to door, along the wild paths,
Through shaded groves and verdant forests

Amidst the gaps of flaming Krishnachura trees,
On that very path,
The midday red fairy peeks through with a playful glance.

The dark Mathura clouds paint the sky,  
As the graceful Giriya ducks spread their wings,  
The vermilion-touched woodpeckers tap away

While the sunbirds sing their melodies,  
By the edge of the waterlily lake, beneath the banyan tree,  
A contented farmer's flute releases the joy within every heart.

And none other than the blue fairy  
Leaps out of the monsoon pond,  
Only to descend into the courtyard  
Woven by Bangla Mother's enchanting, tender touch.

So too shall the golden sun descend at twilight,  
With a gentle smile amidst the evening's enchantment.  
At the close of day, it will offer to the moon in pure bliss
Its crimson garland of red water lilies!

The roses are doing wonderfully well.

Nothing and everything grows
it's like watching a magic show

as the sun appears the waterlily rears
up and blooms
the orange tree, and funnily enough it's still a brown sort of a tree and not orange at all
I digress
the orange tree is in rude health along with the apple, the fig , the peach and the plum, the time will soon come for chutneys and preserves to be put into kilners for the winter months., that's if I don't scoff the lot first.