Let It

Let it rain.  
Let it wash away disinterest, pain, 
leaving only that which wishes to be 
companion -- buoyant breeze so free, 
rustling invisible wings 
in applause at the greatness of simple things.

The Messenger

Amid the stream of daily,
a silent story winds it way
through trellised passage, arbor sweet,
and mown fields lined with hay. 
A tragedy in motion,
though the action is subdued. 
No one would ever notice it,
unless the heart he viewed: 
a heart full sore with love, alone --
four chambers, open doors
to one who might not ever walk
upon the gleaming floors
of rooms with windows flung so wide,
a hawk could find refuge
to meditate and birth its young
in sanctuary huge. 
These are the rooms where love awaits,
just behind the gaping hole
in heart curtained with tenderness
for one beloved soul.

All of Me

The personal selves were very unhappy

with their fading reception from me. 

(I'd put them away after they'd had their day

in sobering poetry.) 

Systems went haywire, emotions intense --

front and center, their battles they waged

around one lone host in one lone body;

thus, the clashing of life forces raged. 

We haven't talked much, for exhausted I've been,

too weary to peek inside,

but I already know what they want, what they need;

from my own selves I cannot hide. 

So I issue again dynasty plural in words,

affirming those queens -- and kings --

of sandcastles proper and rubber-band planes

and teenage coiffures and things . . .

those younger ones warring to be heard,

begging only to walk in daylight;

the elders -- aged memory banks

of mornings turned into long night. 

All are one and one is all --

I should never have cast them away. 

Whenever we stray from the truth that is ours,

in the strangest ways, we pay.

Fly

Sibiljan,

young rising star in the Eastern sky,

sparkling voice

of soft mystique,

rippling like clear water

over the smoothest stones,

to hear you sing

brings unspoken healing. 

Sweet, strong bird of song,

fly, fly

with your voice touch the sky

from Turkey to Armenia

with love.

Author's note:  Ani, "The City of 1001 Churches," was the cultural and spiritual hub of ancient Armenia.

Offbeat

Out of sync in every way,

body clock thinks night is day,

with self denied its reverie

and memory filed so cleverly

out of sight but deep in mind --

its divisions of a novel kind: 

by angle's angle and perspective's tilt,

contrast and content to make spirit wilt. 

Both with and against the moon body flows,

in accord with a script only memory knows.

Love's Finding

Heart's insight, aflame,

bears witness to itself,

shooting like a meteor

even where it would not go,

compelled by its own seeking force

to that place beyond words

where "what is"

outshines "what isn't" . . .

constellations laid bare,

diamonds trembling with light,

promising

forever.

Resonance

Summer bows to Fall 

The air begins to focus 

Calm, cool, crisp, clear 

Something lost grows closer

to my bones, my marrow --

just as I,

anemic with nightmares and their shadows,

feel my strength

draining away. 

Only a fool

loses strength

for no reason at all. 

But the air is keen,

the air is sharp;

and, now and then,

I dare to dream

that dignity will return.

Desert Maiden

Wind wrapped around

the silence in her heart,

casting sand in eyes

unworthy to read

its secrets.

Beads

With just a slight flight of fancy, 
mind can weave wispy stems of thought 
into a beaded chain of Queen Anne's Lace 
streaming with sunlight, dewy with last rain, 
jewel of paupers and barefoot maidens 
who know how to kneel 
before the splendor of a 
weed.

Hug for a House

New roof "bejeweled"

in iridescent blue,

embraces old stone

with warm, sparkling hue. 

House smiles anew!

The Cutting Edge

Consumed with this 
Consumed with that  
Don't say this now 

Don't do that later  
Must show up this eve 
Must meet so-and-so here  
Might offend him 

Might enrage her.  
Strings and bows  
Become knots and yokes  
"If this," "then that," and 
"I'll lose!" 
Yes, you'll lose. 
You'll lose your head, your heart, 
your soul, your shoes. 
Please them here, please them there -- 
there's an endless amount of pleasing to spare. 
But it begins to wear. 
They see you losing so much 
but they don't know how to care, 
they've not much to say -- 
because they never knew you, 
anyway.

Contrast

The tone had an alien note,

rhythm off,

and I paused,

unfamiliar --

because, after all,

I was just the same old

me.

The Hand

In her heart, not a word of his love could land;

for focused was she, intent on his hand. 

It gripped her hand as though it could snatch

all of her lost love in swift-fielded catch. 

So determined was he, so suppliant, so thorough;

yet within her, unease began to burrow. 

She kept her thoughts hidden during his verbal cascade

of "love" this and "love" that, will's desperate tirade. 

For in the hand -- now she couldn't have specified this --

but in the hand, the way it sat, there was something amiss. 

The skin, white and cool; the fingers, thick and strong;

an artist was he -- but then, something was wrong. 

It was a hand of will, a hand of strength

yet contained and complacent -- would it go love's length? 

Or would it harden and close, clenching into a fist? 

Would it ever explode, and could such a fist miss? 

Hands down, she decided:  He must let go. 

But he wouldn't, at first, when she told him so. 

She needed no more, then, but to get away --

leaving him in yesterday.

Equanimity

A tree will yield: 

Its branches bend

to drape cool leaves

and comfort lend. 

A tree will bow

to mighty winds;

no scourge of pride

its deference dims. 

It does what it must,

and it holds its peace

'midst the weak and the strong,

the greatest and least.

The Green and the Winged

Still and quiet,

hazy, lazy day. 

Hymn note sustained: 

the green mantises pray. 

The winged ones chant

innocence's mysterious psalm: 

sound transparent,

soul's refuge and balm.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WCELV_BnRnc