When I am Dead, My Dearest

When I am dead, my dearest,
and gone beneath the ground,
lay me gently in the earth,
so roots can travel down.

So roots can travel down, my love,
that break the flesh and bone,
my pallid skin, frail porcelain,
beneath the grass and stone.

When I am dead, my dearest,
and the soil my eternal bed,
when my breath has all expired,
lay no flowers at my head.

My hair will weave a firmament
of stars as sacred crown,
when I am dead, my dearest,
my love, when I am gone.

Rebirth

With the feeling of Spring in the air, my thoughts are about gardening. Tilling the soil, planting the seed, nurturing, hands in the earth. The smell of fresh turned soil brings thoughts of all the possibilities presenting themselves into my life. Hope is abundant, the sun on my face and I am excited by the prospect of new adventures.


Rebirth

Freshly plowed earth
awaits, untapped
potential of seed.

Sense of Place

Stagnant dead space within,
darkened hollows between,
where the concrete wears thin,
leaves us nothing for dreams.

Darkened hollows between,
dusty wallpapered rooms,
leaves us nothing for dreams,
frail debris now entombed.

Dusty wallpapered rooms,
what remains can't be taken,
frail debris now entombed,
brittle bones left forsaken.

What remains can't be taken,
sung prayers sweetly taunt,
brittle bones left forsaken,
hearth and stone echoes haunt.

Sung prayers sweetly taunt,
where the concrete wears thin,
hearth and stone echoes haunt,
stagnant dead space within.

Thoughts of rain

Pale lavender, orange sunrise,
breaking through cloud cover,
surfaces wet with last night's rain.
I breathe in moisture,
smell of earth and creosote,
raindrops collect and slowly gather,
rolling down the terracotta roof tiles
dropping to the ground-
plunk!
plunk!
Breaks the silence of
this crisp winter morning,
chill snaps me awake,
aware of my surroundings,
this present moment,
my surreal existence of late.
Getting used to unfamiliar surroundings
and constant disorientation,
the word "temporary"
travels through thoughts,
all things temporary,
makes me question
what creates meaning
as material things fall away,
surroundings change,
aware of how this winter
sunrise smells,
how the air
snaps me awake,
aware of the raindrops
slowly rolling
down terracotta tiles
to the earth under my feet.

The Ruins of My Temple

Despite it's condition,
the ruins of my temple,
still sacred,
soul's trappings,
entangled in the brambles,
fixing my position,
grabbing hold,
thorns break the surface,
nuances change my trajectory,
growing out,
pulling in,
dragging down,
underground,
learning to adapt,
contort limbs,
ligature marks burned
across brittle wrists,
earthbound dwelling
crumbles,
fumbles against gravity,
brevity,
as the soul
bears it's body.

By Sunday

By Sunday

By Sunday,
a thin veneer,
all that remains
of my shell
I built,
to protect myself
from the world.

By Sunday,
it has worn
membrane thin,
scraped away in layers
by life's daily upheaval,
dark forces
without and within.

By Sunday,
I feel bumped,
bruised,
rushed, pushed,
pummeled, abraded,
irritated,
discouraged, heavy,
I drag chains,
my hope wanes.

By Sunday,
I long to wander
deep in the woods,
get lost completely,
swallowed by the trees,
breathe pure,
be alone,
meditate, center,
rebuild my soul,
shore up walls,
that wear down,
membrane thin,
by Sunday.

The Gift My Friend Gave Me

The Gift My Friend Gave Me

In a cafe',
sipping coffee,
my friend would read to me,
Persian poetry, in Farsi,
his native tongue.
The paper he held,
covered in exotic symbols,
graceful curves and dots
on the blue-lined paper,
like notes of music,
played right to left.
As he read them,
my eyes would close,
to hear the poem breathing,
feel it's pulse,
lose myself in the caress of each
beautiful, melodic sound,
rolling into the wave of the next,
feeling each end rhyme.
It felt so familiar,
a primal recognition
of our ancient voice,
a soothing lullaby sung by a mother,
rocking vibrations felt
deeply in the body,
comforting the soul.
In an instant,
my mind fell wide open,
I understood, that poetry
transcends language,
it's meaning secondary,
to the repetition of sounds,
the meter and cadence,
the universal sound
of our own heartbeat,
our first inhale of breath
into newborn lungs.