Poetry
Spring Equinox
Bethoven's Sixth

With chaos in the world, and lately in my life, I began to feel that I’d lost the poet in me, the lover of Beauty and Truth. My last two posts contained too much complaining, too much exposition on the ongoing dramas of day to day challenges. They were, indeed, a glimpse of my authentic life, but not necessarily the best of my authentic Self. I hadn’t been able to find that me in the last couple of months. My body has been out of balance, stressed, and fatigued. My brain has felt muddy and unfocused, like foreign cottony things swirled around inside my head. When the furnace in my apartment broke, an array of maintenance people, technicians, and vendors, without appointments, assaulted the peace and privacy of my quiet life for weeks. Several times I had to leave my Zoom private qigong practice group to accommodate them. I had to reschedule Sherry, my wonderful cleaner, twice. Everything seemed out of flow, staccato when you’re used to legato.

It's taken me a while, but I’m finally lifting out of the funk. I awoke on Friday, March 19, the first day of Spring, with a lightened heart. There was bright sunshine and the temperature was predicted to rise to the high 80’s in Longmont CO. The humidity, however, would be around 7%, but even that couldn’t affect my mood. I did qigong practice with my group, meditated for a while, then prepared to make breakfast and celebrate the spring equinox the way I have  for decades — listening, rather loudly, to Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, The Pastorale. This year’s version was Sir Georg Solti and The Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It cheered me to no end. I hadn’t felt that much pure joy in what seemed like forever.

This was the key: to be able to summon Beauty and Truth, even as my little life had challenges and the big world was bent on seducing humanity into spiraling fear. The key was to summon the power of who I truly am, to let my arms fly open as I air-conduct the orchestra in the middle of my living room, humming the familiar music with gravelly throat and not enough notes to my voice because to be silent in that moment is impossible. The key is to know that doing a happy dance all by myself adds upliftment directly into the unified field, where it does make a difference. Yes, falling into mud puddles is going to happen, but the key is choosing to get up, clean off, and follow my heart.

I’ve been doing some updates on this writing website. After seventeen years, I removed the France photography galleries I had put up after my trip to Paris and Provence in 2009. I also designed new blog and post pages, and I redesigned the Poetry page. I hadn’t looked at any of my poetry in a long while, and  reading it again felt surreal for me. As some of you might know, I haven’t been able to write poetry since my memoir, Rare Atmosphere: An Extraordinary Inter-dimensional Affair of the Heart was published in 2013. I’ve tried, but I haven’t gotten very far. It’s something, however, that I've lately felt is calling me back.

Bleeding Hearts, Naples FL

Slipping Through

I want the way the sun,
just before evening, threads
loose and trembling
through pines; want a nuance
slant and brilliant
as one pomegranate seed;
I want to celebrate the bend
of clouds, the purpose rooted
in a yellow moon.

After dark, I wander to that place
where trees divide, the stars
a fiery swirl of long-gone light—
I want that light.
And feeling wings unfold
an ecstasy no waxing sun can melt,
I lift into a blinding sky.

Turning Time

I
From his bronzed skin
love sparks, lighting in the glass,
the throat, my better judgment.
His scent is innocence
and complication.
Rare knowing grips my bone.
Please not now;
not this demi-man, with eyes
like polished stone.
He watches me.
I stretch my chin, work my fingers
through his black curls, begin
to cut, the way he likes it, neat
and close. Don't be shy, he says.
I know you, I reply. He smiles.
We talk of falcon gods. I memorize
his face, brush lapis from his brow,
wonder if he'll taste of lotus fruit
and wild papyrus.

II
Those eyes, our soft-kissed mouths,
that searching hand upon my thigh, a tangle
of jeans and legs and hair, the wild terrain
of intimate geography. Look at us, he says,
so close, so close, still holding back.

III
With his touch, whole decades
fall, and I am new as he and naked
as the sun. My back against his chest,
we sway before the glass. His hands
dance over me. He makes me look.
He tells me zippers are so sexy, slides
mine down. In bed he whispers woman,
and I let him curl his mouth along
the inside of my thigh, my curve of hip,
that place behind my knee, anywhere
he wants. Later, loosing jasmine
from the bedroom sill, I marvel
at my own audacity.

Sunday Through A Rainstick

I'm reading Seamus Heaney when the phone rings.
I'll tell you the bad news first, he says.
I move the receiver slightly from my ear, turn the page.
I've been eating my tongue, he says and laughs.
My lower bridge is at the dentist.
Heaney's words pull me into freer sound—
What happens next is music
That you never would have known…
and I can hear the rainstick sing. Its velvet rattle
rushes, swells between my father's words, washes
smooth the prickly forest of concern.
…angina in my legs ssshhhhh more insurance
ssshhhhh arthritis acting up ssshhhhh
weekends lonely ssshhhhh cemetery yesterday
ssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………
So what can you do? he says.
Nothing, I say. Nothing.