Cool, Smooth Arms

Is the day done? Has the sun spit its last breath of fire into the clouds?
Does the venomous gargoyle clinging to the edge of the earth
Still dribble rust-speckled rain?
Is the air still swirling with dust from the bustling movement
Of vagabonds in a mad rush?
Is the moon, with its soft, calming light, on watch at last?

I am ready to be wrapped in the cool, smooth arms of the night.

Stray Dogs and Hummingbirds

A glass of fiery young rum tastes right at just past eleven
On a hot November morning, air thick after a wild rainstorm.
Haze hung lazily over the grove, like loafing young men
With little else to do but swap stories and drink.

I let the electric liquid slide down my throat,
Its invigorating fumes igniting my thoughts
And awakening me, burning away the wax
Encasing my vision and obscuring my thoughts.

I could see everything now. I could see watermelon pinks.
I could see almost-black greens. I could see taxicab yellows.
I could feel the lick of a stray dog's tongue on my bare feet.
I could smell the perfume of banana tree blossoms in the air,
Bananas as tiny as fingers and tasting like ice cream cones.
I could feel the breeze that traveled from a boulangerie,
Miles from this place, and I could feel it kissing
My neck with the aroma of fresh bread just baked.

Looking down, there was a stray dog
Licking my toes, and I reached down to scratch
His scroungy ears as he looked up at me.
I offered him a taste of my rum
But he recoiled and scurried away.
It was then that I spotted the whirring
Wings of a tiny, bejeweled fairy,
Hovering around a flower.

There is no more delightful sight to be seen than this,
I said to myself, as it stuck its needlelike beak
Into the blossom's cup, and drank deeply.
And I lifted my glass, filled again by a smiling
Woman, and drank with the hummingbird, as it,
Swiftly, hungrily, deeply, purposefully,
Without any care except for the moment's pleasure
And the nourishment of body, heart and soul.

Space, Measured

What is the measure of space between two people?
It can be recorded in kilometers or inches.
Yet what does this distance, air or water, matter?
Nothing could matter one bit less to me.

What was the measure of separation days ago?
Hundreds of miles over roads and borders.
Worse, no clarity on your whereabouts,
Your new destination, your situation.

Whispers and rumors spread about you,
Departing suddenly, suddenly alone,
Running in hurt, or was it freedom?
But off nonetheless, gone for good.

I was shocked when I saw you,
Not states away, but three feet,
On a chair by that same door,
Close enough to reach, to touch.

So there, just arm's length away,
You were, yet that space was
Still too far for my hand, to
Reach across to touch you.

This gap between you and me
Was not too great for smiles,
For sending silent messages
That I struggled to interpret.

Then you began, tentatively,
To close this gap, without words,
But saying 10,000 things,
And one, single, clear thing.

After acres of time and years and
Rolling across familiar landscapes
Over and over and over again,
I have come to be able to measure
The gap between a man and a woman
Without use of machinery or tape,
Just by feeling and sensing space,
What can never be crossed or bridged,
And what is only a breath and a touch away.

Was She Condemned That Day?

Fingers brushed whites, coral pinks
Passionate gifts of lime, hibiscus,
Driving their favors into the air,
Leaving traces on dappled skin.

Lit from above, she walked
Through bursting corridors,
Of shadows, and echoing
Laughter. Or was it mockery?

There, in a clearing, she saw
A trio, conspirators, full of wine,
Throwing heads back, roaring,
Over some prurient tale.

She didn't get the joke, until
One of them waved his hand,
And then pain stabbed abdomen.
She was the punchline, she saw.

That subtle gesture, familiar,
Revealed the angle of his mind.
Was she condemned that day?
Was she wounded by knowing?

Truth, unearthed, tagged him
As a false sort of friend,
One who, once out of sight,
Derides, destroys, delights.

Yet instead, she realized then,
Of catastrophic, knowing
Set her free, released her
From passion's rough grasp.

No longer clinging to
Dreams of nights together,
She could walk on now,
Strong, secure, serene.

And then he spotted her.
He ceased laughing, face
Falling, ashen. As she looked
At this cold image, she knew.

She knew from his eyes, then
That he did not despise her,
But, like brats pulling hair,
Had quite opposite feelings.

As the sun dipped lower,
Warming and shadowing,
They knew without risk,
Love cannot root nor flower.

In the Narrow

Slim glass drips
With condensation;
Potent antidote for
The hot and steamy
Afternoon alone,
Ice-cold gin and tonic
Drained now, with
Pools of tepid water
Left as the sole
Detectable trace
Of its brief existence.

Overhead the fans
Groan in rotation,
Yearning song of
These wasted hours.
Bartender makes
Circular swipes,
Erasing the traces
Of potions drained,
Glimmering reflections
Light stubbled chins
Of silent, still faces.

On such afternoons
Steam rises and builds,
And an overflow
Of tension and energy,
Must find release
In a sudden storm.
Winds penetrate
The narrow hall,
And heavy slashes
Seep over the sills.
A sweet release.

Pressure eases,
Faces lift and
Shift their gazes
To the world,
And to each other.
Air lightens, and
Lungs draw breath.
In the narrow,
Space once again,
Room to encounter
What lies between.

Concrete

Countless times I have let myself fall into dreamlike states
Only to shake and stumble back to a place concrete
Seeing that everything is at it was, has always been.
And there, looking around me and within me, I know
That change is not impossible, not unlikely, but
Nonetheless very difficult to attain.
In these moments, I realize that while concrete is far
From malleable in its hardened form,
It is not indestructible.

So these barriers made of tough mixtures of
Sand, of granite, of limestone, of water,
I may chip away at them, with chisels and
Hammers and picks and even fingernails,
And reveal once again, the bright horizon,
The vista of evergreen bristles, the rivers
Rushing, the fields of candy-pink peonies
And morning flowers of every kind,
The sweet and beckoning wind.

Concrete has always been there, walling
In my dreamlike states, keeping them
At a great distance from me, but I still
Stretch out my arms to beat it into dust,
I continue to search for tools to pulverize
Its confining, insidious resistance.
What drives me to continue this fight?
Concrete walls are not high enough
To keep me from seeing the light.

Descending

Delicate spoon perched on pearlescent plate
Albumen oozing over the hand-rounded
Mound of pink, glistening, raw meat
Pinches of parsley, fresh to the
Nose as it falls from fingers
Onto the dish of flesh
Eaten with savor
And very late.

Cork struggling to be freed from bottle
Then giving way with subtle breath
Filling stemmed glasses warmed
By urgent palms pressing
Against cool glass,
Rims raised up to
Gently open
Mouths.

Crust of stingingly hot bread cracking
As hands snap a fresh loaf into two
Then dip a steaming half in oil
Green, fruity and young,
And offer it as a taste,
Each to the other,
On a late night
Descending.

Yes, I Am

Yes, I am sitting alone
On the high, spindly legs
Of this rickety seat
Elbows delicately perched
Between pools of spill
Pretending I'm absorbed
In the dizzying back-and-forth
Of a tennis match.

Yes, I am not speaking
To anyone here, at this bar,
Just focused on the screen
As incessant chatting swirls,
Sipping from a plastic flute of
Grapefruit and champagne,
A cocktail with a name
Nobody remembers.

Yes, I am intensely aware
Of your presence steps away,
Because the timbre of your voice
Slips through the racket
And creeps into my ears,
Where it rattles the canals,
Drums an insistent beat
On each inner surface of me.

Yes, I am longing to turn
Away from the tedious volleys,
Pulling myself through the air,
A mere meter of space between
Us, and slip my hand beneath
The surface of your laundered shirt
And press against the skin there,
There that covers your heart.

Recollections on a Beach

She stood there in the
Full, blinding stare
Of the midday sun,
Shading her eyes
As light reflected off
The lightly chopping waves.

She breathed in the heavy air,
Salty as pistachios,
Letting the thickness of it
Fill her laboring lungs,
Calming her body and
Awakening her mind.

She bored her bare toes
Into the grit below,
Through the hot surface
To a strange chill beneath,
Arousing memories of a
Lost afternoon years before.

She tasted the tangy spray
That flew with the breeze,
Coating her lips, and
Sparking thirst, longing
For a glass of cold beer,
Frothing like cresting waves.

She walked across burnt sands
To a whitewashed shack,
Barely erect after years
Of battering winds, where
An old woman stood, her
Hair guarded by a net.

She gestured silently, and
Offered a bill for a bottle,
Cold and dripping as it
Emerged from the ice,
And opened it right there,
Drinking deeply, quickly.

She gulped the icy, effervescent
Liquid, bracing, stirring
Her body and mind,
As it had on that lost afternoon,
When she had wandered here
With someone unnamed, unknown.

She had met him standing
Hip deep in the salty, thick water,
Bodies bouncing with swells,
Their faces turned to the sun.
They had danced with the waves,
Not speaking, not asking.

She had grabbed his hand
To steady herself in the rush
Of a strong Caribbean wave,
Then followed him down
Beneath the surface, where
They kissed for a moment.

She had not let go of him,
As he led her out of the sea,
Onto the wet sands, across
To a shack shaded by palms,
And there, they shared a beer,
Bubbling against salty tongues.

She had walked on with him
To an even more secluded place,
Amid heavy, dark green leaves,
By a high cascade of water,
To share with that unnamed man
A lost afternoon. 

Promise of the Morning

She remembered the buoyant promise of the morning,
With sprays of sea water hitting the air like pearls,
And endless stretches of smooth sand
Untroubled by the digging feet and
Dredging hands, when sunlight softly
Pressed against the horizon
Like an inquisitive, gentle kiss.

She remembered the wild circus of the afternoon,
With laughter rollicking and voices rising
In some sort of tribal song, lit afire by
Sparkling cups of beer and the sweet smoke
Of roasting meats, when swimmers peeled
Strips of glistening seagrass off wet skin,
And eyed each other, hungry.

She remembered the urgent frenzy of the night,
When the fire blazed against the veil
Of a purple sky punctured by stars,
Setting pops and sparks into chilled breezes,
Lighting the encircled faces with a red glow,
As they joined each other, in a primal dance,
Then quietly slid away into the darkness.

She remembered the cool circumspection of the dawn,
When the fire had burned into flaky, white crisps,
And the morning breezes carried away traces
Of the raucous gathering, and sleeping
Faces were still as stones, but marked
With signs of the splendor, and all
Would part suddenly in the morning.

Cheap Champagne

Did we order champagne?
Why, when it always
Gives us headaches the
Next morning?

We did order champagne,
Cheap champagne, and
We drank it, together,
In flimsy glasses, there
On top of that dingy hotel.
The drinks were lousy
But the view was magnificent.

Did we really stay there all night?
There, in that threadbare booth,
Naugahyde splitting and
Showing its stuffing, there
In that ragged ballroom,
Which once burst with light
And sounds and soulful songs,
And witty conversation, but
That was years ago.

We did stay there all night,
In that sad, empty room, with
Its squeaking, groaning seats
And weary-eyed waiters,
Serving cheap champagne
In flimsy glasses,
Because the view was magnificent,
And because nothing else
Mattered in that moment.

Perfect Bar

Ancient city, bursting, alive
Wide avenue, trampled hourly
Shoulders against shoulders
I walked its throbbing expanse
Until drained.
I stepped off into a lobby,
Hushed, cool as a tomb,
Air still as stone,
Walls lined in dark,
Lacquered wood,
Sleek marble underfoot,
Amplifying each step.

In the corner, beneath stairs
Was a cold slab of stone,
Framed with glass bottles
Of liquids in varying hues,
And two empty, narrow stools.
A balding, portly man
Stood guard, aproned,
His eyes, watery green,
Beckoned kindly, so I
Slipped onto a smooth seat.

In the unlikeliest space,
Cramped and narrow.
Yet an oasis from the
Whirl and bustle around,
A respite from chaos,
And he, silent as Eurydice,
For we spoke different tongues,
Gestured with his hands,
To refresh my throat, and
Indeed, my spirit.

With silent wave of hand
I replied to him, and into
An empty glass, devoid of
Adornment, he poured
Clear, tawny liquid
Trimmed only with a
Thin sliver of lemon.
I sat there, not alone, really,
For he stood guard over me,
And replenished me, with
Silence and fire.

The din of the avenue
Could be barely discerned
In this cramped, narrow space,
Underneath a little-used stair.
Almost the perfect bar,
I said silently, for I had
Drink and seat and server,
But then, across the room,
Doors slid open, sunlight and
Noises flooded in,
And another weary walker,
Approached for a respite,
Sliding onto the empty stool
Next to mine.

Yes, it might be the perfect bar.

Superstitious

Generations ago there was an idea
That stars and planets and moons
Made sounds as they shifted in space
Not just squeaks and groans
But something melodious
The music of the spheres
Those old dreamers called it.

Now we in our modern wisdom
Know that this is quite untrue
Superstitious crap, in fact,
And that we cannot hear any
Music as the stars skip across
The black backdrop of the sky
Or as clouds obscure the moon.

Yes, science is quite certain,
But I have come to realize
That it is not truth which inspires
But ideas, and we all still hope
That as you turn your eyes and
Your ears to the heavens,
Someone hears your song.

Circle in a Square

The garden was a perfect square
Lined in moss-encrusted stone,
Constructed years ago, when
Such gardens were respites
From the stink of the streets.

It was a cloister, in fact,
Set in the center of a church,
Flat stones staying cool
In teeming summers,
Moss turning slick in rain.

In the center of the square
Was a circle, a pool of
Flowing water, fed by cisterns
Built by Romans, they say,
Dug out of mountains.

Around the pool were
Blossoming fruit trees,
Waxy lemons and oranges,
Whose petals pungently
Spiked the morning air.

At the bottom of the pool
Was an old coin, green
From sediment and algae,
Which still glistened in
Fingers of sunlight.

It was thrown there by
A girl, who had run through
The night from her violent home,
To leave a token there, to
Ask for a respite from madness.

She stood there, alone, on
That quiet night, draped in
Orange blossom petals,
Hoping her prayer would
Be heard in the silence.

The coin broken the still
Surface of the pool, and
Settled in the rotting leaves
At its bottom, nestled there
For many years, they say.

Although it lies there now,
Cloaked in sludge and slime,
It did carry her prayer
To waiting, listening ears,
And outstretched arms.

She escaped, they say, to
A place in the mountains,
Where the waters began,
Led by the daring hand
Of the one she loved.

Scent of Lilacs

She dismissed the scent of lilacs
As just another cliche,
For strong, sweet perfumes
Only tempted silly women,
The kind who devoured
Cheap paperbacks and cried
On the rough, greasy pages.

Lilacs also reminded her
Of wrinkled scarves around
Parchment necks of laughing
Old women, drinking pots of
Steaming, oversteeped tea,
Eating crumbly cakes at tables
Draped in faded chintz.

She brushed aside memories
Of those laughing ladies and
Cheap paperback books,
All shoved now into closets
With voices no longer familiar
And faces fuzzy like dreams
That evaporate in morning.

She had locked all of it away,
But that lilac scent persisted,
Strong, sweet, fresh,
Creeping through her cracked window,
Dancing on afternoon winds,
Throwing open the closets
Flooding the gray with light.

A Moment

It passed

In an instant,

A moment

Lily-bright,

Paper-light,

Highwire-tight.

I missed

Its impetus,

A catalyst

Cigarette-hot,

Burning a spot,

Untying a knot.

I sensed

Its residue,

Forged memories

Edgy as knives,

Altering lives,

Quick to revive.

I realize

It hibernates

Yet stirs still,

Fearfully shy,

Kindling-dry,

Eager to fly.

The Pine Grove

I will hold you there,
In the bitingly cold air
Of early March,
In a place
Where only the pine trees,
Like silent sentries,
Will see us.

I will grasp the folds
Of your old cotton shirt,
While whisking winds
Circle us,
Stirring pine needles
Around our feet
That touch as we kiss.

I will slip my hands
Beneath the waistband of
Your jeans, feeling
Warm skin, a respite
From the brisk and bitter,
Wet and waking
Morning in the pine grove.

I Have Only Myself to Blame

In the midst of orange groves
She walked for hours
To find the meeting place
From many years before.

Softly undulating landscape,
Air ripe with steam and
Perfume, fresh grasses,
She followed memory there.

There, in that open place
Between the endless rows
Of fruit trees, she had met
Someone with dappled eyes.

She could recall every detail
Of his face, the freckles,
Sandy cropped hair, the
Tiny bump on top of his ear.

His strong grasp on her hand,
Her hips, the sides of her face,
All were burned in her memory
Like hot sun on orange skin.

In that open place amid
Orange groves, she stood
For a moment, breathing in
Pungent air and memories.

She had pulled her hand
Away, despite his firm grasp,
Out of fear perhaps, or
Pride, or petulance.

She wanted to run wild
Through orange groves,
Seeking undiscovered paths
And mysterious colors.

Letting the man with the
Dappled eyes and freckled skin
Fade into the view behind,
She had run wild.

Many years later now, she
Would return to this place,
And the place in her heart,
Where he had once been.

And now, with the scent of
Orange groves filling her body,
She realized, fully and clearly,
"I have only myself to blame."

Passion and Flowers

Red dirt road
Heavily laden branches
Form a canopy

Drips of light
Wind through haze,
Leaves and mist

Bare feet feel the ground
Press into soft mud
By the creek bank

There, peeking out
Of winding, dark vines,
Are the passionflowers

Spry little dancers
Ringed in color
Play with the light

They symbolize love,
But another passion,
One of suffering

On the red dirt road
Under groaning trees
Gather them

Fill your arms
Of passion and flowers
Let them spill over


Let them litter
The soft ground and
Dappled grasses

I Will

I will curse the gulf that ever widens.
I will crave the scent that no longer lingers.
I will mourn the touch that no longer penetrates.
I will listen in vain for the notes of a song no longer sung.

I will scan the horizon,
And every inch of the soil,
For the faded colors,
The deteriorating imprint of footsteps,
The barest trace,
The tiniest sign.

I will.

Reading Hieroglyphs

Gestures and images
Evoke mystery.
Throwaway phrases
Lead to dismay.

Folded arms,
Clenched jaws,
Burning eyes,
Sudden pause.

How does one interpret
The downturned lips?
Delving deeper is like
Reading hieroglyphs.

Without context or
Guiding Rosetta,
We risk conjecture,
Or inspiring vendetta.

Look deeper, soft
Whispers suggest,
See with an inner eye
What's hidden behind the vest.

Suddenly, the jumble of
Lines and images reveal
History and majesty,
Struggle and ordeal.

As one symbol is
Clarified, the rest
Fall into orderly rhythm,
A telling digest.

At last, a message
Comes forth bell clear.
Clouds that obscured,
Now quickly disappear.

And this is what I heard:

Hothouse roses
Have no scent, you know,
Vivid and velvet
They're only for show.

Life is not meant to
Grow without soil and sun.
False expressions of beauty,
Inspire passion for none.

Do not cultivate roses
To symbolize love.
Gather those in the wild,
Tended only by God above.

Songs

People gathered
To watch the sun
Melt into the horizon,
Chattering and laughing amid
Waving grasses,
Groaning frogs,
Crying birds.

Hand wrapped around a
Tumbler of whiskey,
She watched
Their silhouettes,
Heard their mingling,
Yearning songs,
The songs of change.

Tipping glass upward,
Drawing whiskey
Over her tongue,
She felt the fire
Move into her body.
She watched the light
Grow deep orange,
Burning red,
Straining against the
Movement of the earth,
Until it slid,
Helplessly into its grave
For the night.

People clapped and
Cheered the dying sun,
Then dispersed,
Looking as ghosts
In the growing darkness
As they left
To embrace the night.

Whiskey wet
Her lips as she took
Another deep draw,
Leaning back to
Eye the glowing,
Burgeoning moon,
Breathing in the
Sweet air of cooling evening,
By the soft shoreline,
And then she heard
The rising, powerful
Song of the night.

In the night,
There is no silence.
It is alive,
Loudly, clearly,
Without distractions
Or diversions,
She could now
Hear its music.

Experts In Basement Water

Everywhere she heard the music,
Xylophone sounds,
Permeating her thoughts,
Enticing her to
Reach out to him,
Tempting her to try to
Salvage what was broken.

Innocent, this music seemed.
Nevertheless, it was a trap.

Bell-like and rhythmic,
Arranged like the irregular
Sounds of a heart murmur.
Each note would trigger
Memories of his skin, his
Eyes, twinkling at her,
Not in tenderness, she
Truly understood now.

Whenever she heard the music,
Aching would rise in her gut,
Telling her to reach out to him,
Even just to, one final time,
React to the sound of his voice.

Burning, Fueled by Air

During the hour between
Darkness and first glow
Thoughts will grow
From deep soil unseen

The seed pod germinates
In the stirring blood
The primordial mud
Where prudence terminates

Desire pushes up and through,
Burning, fueled by air,
All senses suddenly aware
Of what the body must do

Hands reach across the divide
To touch warm skin, soft hair,
Eager in this hour to declare
What the soul no longer can hide

Pressing against limbs and tongue,
Heat smolders, intensifies,
Then, at once, demystifies
Secret lyrics the soul has sung

In that hour between night
And first gentle glow of day
The soul knows what it must say
And what it cannot possibly fight

Pots of Mussels

All the narrow streets
Looked the same to her
A brightly lit sky
Sun bleaching stone
Air dry as old letters

Looking up she noticed
Geometry and biology
Confluence of influences
From residents
And uninvited guests

Lattice work and glass
Fashioned from hexagons
Quadrilaterals, triangles
And tiny squares
Shapes rather than symbols


These hard-edged designs
Became beautiful in abundance
Rows and rows
Became like jewels
Dazzling in reflected light

These jeweled balconies
Were softened, she saw,
With lush tufts of greenery
And vines spilling over
Mingling with hanging laundry

The streets of this old city
Were not all the same, no,
She saw that now,
They held secrets and shouts,
Stigmas, sorrows, sins

As she approached a corner
Powerful scent of the ocean
Embraced her, and she
Was stirred and drawn
By salt, by flesh, by flower

There, a tiny cafe
On an ancient sidewalk
Six tightly placed tables
Serving only mussels
Steaming in wine and herbs

There, she stopped her wandering
The endless searching
For a bare table and rickety chair
Simple pot of fragrant shells
Young, red wine, crusts of bread

Thousands must have sat
At the same corner, of this old city,
To rest, and nourish,
On these tender hearts from the sea
Full of the juice of life

Quietest Hour

Slow, careful steps
Narrow path
Broken pavement
Winding course

Quietest hour
Moon obscured
Dark ahead
Dark below

Remain upright
Continue forward
Into the nothing
Where something waits

Ears prick up
To pick up sounds
Rustling leaves
Slumbering frogs

Eyes adjust
In the inky black
Pupils widen to
Measure the surround

There in the darkness
In the quietest hour
On a broken, winding
Path she walks ahead

She learns the terrain
She deciphers the sounds
She finds sources of light
She becomes one with the night

Qualms

At times I find it difficult
To stay upright
On the straight and narrow.

Looking this and that
Way, I see all around
The tempting things:

Still-warm eggs with orange yolks,
Gifts of red wine, ribboned,
Sweet, dark chocolates,
Wrapped and salted.
Hot, urgent kisses
Tasted in the quietest hour,
Seem to call to me
As I walk.
And, most alluring,
Are the words.
They tease,
Beckon,
Trick and deceive.

So I walk, trying
To keep eyes on the next,
Feet bare and pressed flat
On the ground,
And pressed to my side,
Hard and firm, are
My aching hands.

But there are other hands.

There are the hands
That possess these gifts,
And cling to them,
Clutching in worry
In despair.
Of losing them forever.

And I see other hands too.

They reach around my body,
Grasping at those forbiddens,
Warm eggs and tart wine and hot kisses.
They take them
While I watch.
Unlike me,
They have no qualms.
No, they have no qualms.

Hands

Cupped hands
Hold the light
Drawing it downward
Through cracks
In the slate

Open hands
Pour the light
Into cold soil
Through stone and root
To the seed

Digging hands
Burrow into the darkness
Pushing the light
Farther down,
To meet its fate

Holding hands
Cradle the seed
Warming its husk
Feeding light
To the hungry mouth


Pushing hands
Press the seed
Up to the sky
Arranging the meeting
Of light and life

Lifting hands
Gently support
Creating new ground
To stand on firmly, to
Live and breathe and rise.

Silence

Silence is the most powerful language
It whispers and screams
Filling the empty room
With assumptions, fears,
Worries and lies.

Silence can move one to anger
To retaliation, to war,
Provoking, and even
Proving premonitions, bolstering
Feelings of despair.

Silence can, as well,
Allow feelings of love
To take root, watering the bud
With possibilities, sunning it
With dreams of the yet to come.



 

Rainshower Girl

She was light on her feet
The rainshower girl
Moving through stormy weather
Avoiding the sudden
Floods along her path

Her speed was its own shield
Against the pounding water
From slate-gray skies overhead
She moved quickly and wildly
To find her way safely through

Suddenly faced with an unexpected
Ray of sunshine amid the downpour
Bursting through clouds above her
She was startled, and paused, and
Found herself overcome for the first time

Heat and light and power
Came from an unknown, unseen perch
And pointed to high ground
She struggled to keep her breath and
Swim to this saving shore

Following the guiding beam she
Pushed through rapids and undertow
And grasped the side of the rock
Pulling herself to safety, to air,
To dry land, something unknown

Feeling dirt and grass beneath her feet
The rainshower girl
Slowed her tempo, and for the first time
Paused enough to breathe in
Sights and sounds and scents

There, in that strange place,
Warmed by the sun, above the rushing
Waters, green and fresh with life,
She could live, she saw,
In this place she could live

Table Set for One

Night air warm and dry
Silky fur of cats
Brushing the skin of her calves
Mewling an unintelligible
Chorus of sorts

Sliver of a moon
Chattering and chewing mouths
Distant honks of impatient taxis
Banal songs from a piano
Her table set for one

Cool, white wine,
Crisp asparagus, tart cheeses,
Salt-kissed fish and warmed cockles
Red, fleshy tomatoes
Crusty bread, drizzles of oil.

A perfect night
But for the emptiness of the air,
Silent conversations,
Untouched skin and hair
Coffee unshared


Then, strangely, sounds
Intermingled,
Taxi honks and cats' meows
And piano tinklings and splashes
Of wine hitting glass bottoms

She remembered the strains of a
Song, a chorus she finally understood,
About a lonely man sitting on a
Beach of beauties, watching a
Strange woman walk by

He was lonely, but he loved,
In that moment, the stranger
Unreachable, the prize
Untouchable, the rush of
Emotion filled him with life

She stood, with the courage
That only loneliness can fuel
And walked to the microphone,
Startling the bored piano player
From his waking nap

She asked him if he knew the song,
Though she did not speak his language,
And he did not speak hers,
But the language of music
Is universal, we all know

Together, he played and she sang
Blathering diners snapped to attention
Astounded and fascinated by
The lonely woman singing
About the lonely man

Her voice was low and breathy
Perhaps due to her fear
But it sounded right in that moment,
Full of longing for someone
To reach through the distance

She was not a great singer and
He was not a great piano player, but
Together they filled the empty night air
With a beautiful song, one that grabbed
And bound them all together

Despite the chattering mouths and
The clinking glasses and knives and
Honking taxis in the distance, they
Were all lonely in some way, it seems, all
Knowing the feelings of desire unfulfilled

So the lonely woman singing about a
Lonely, longing man on a faraway beach
Was their song too, and they
Could remember lost moments such as these,
Lost opportunities

Suddenly they were not alone anymore,
None of them at all, not the homeless cats,
Not the diners making empty conversation,
Nor the honking taxi drivers, nor the
Bad piano player nor his sudden muse

No, they were all bound together in that
Moment when they all realized
That they all shared the same need
To be touched and held and wanted,
By beauty that cruelly passes them by


She walked back to her table, to silent,
Stunned faces, but after a moment passed,
Sudden bursts of applause, and this
Warmed her for a moment, and overflowed
Her table set for one

Talauma (2)

Tangled arms
Outstretched fingers
Grazing the window
With each sway of the breeze

Cowering in the darkness
Frightened by the sounds
Like nails scratching
Trying to burst through

Soothed by his words
They are merely leaves
Wide, deep green arms
Flowers white and fragrant

Suddenly, winds swirl
Violent beads batter
Scratching and scraping
Quicken, an ominous song

Crashing sound
Window breaking
The long, dark, green arms
Enter the room

Twisting and falling
Onto us, shocked
Faces lit by
Flashes of light

Giant white flower
Cupped hands holding rainwater
Descends from its roost
Landing on the bed

Strong perfume
Fills our noses
Capturing the air
Captivating us

"It is alive!"
I scream out to him,
And he answers,
"Yes, but it protects us."

I breathed the
Potent fragrance
Deeply, filling my blood
And I understood

Great white flower
Passionate, clean, vivid
Conqueror of senses
Master and shield







 

Talauma (1)

Together they stood beneath the wide, heavy branches
Of the old tree
For scant protection from the rainstorm

Slashes of warm water ricocheted
Off the deep green, waxy leaves
That were like outstretched palms
Trying to cup a drink from the sky

With steam rising from the ground
And hanging thickly in the air
The heavy scent of the creamy white flowers

Strong perfume
Sweet and lulling them both
Into indolence

"Why is it that you can never find a taxi in the rain?"
He joked, water dripping down his cheeks
And into his mouth,
Where she kissed him
Interrupting his laughter

There were no taxis to be found for sure
In the middle of an island farm
Where they had walked for hours
Under bold sunlight and a cloudless sky

In this place, the sound of a motor was rare
Replaced by amphibian croaks
And flapping wings of insects and birds
So tiny they could be mistaken for insects

Time seemed to slow
They sipped fiery rum from small cups
And ate bananas that tasted like ice cream
They smelled the blossoms of the old tree
And walked toward it to see
If it still bore fruit

There they stood, trapped for a few moments,
While the clouds emptied their load
Filling the air with steam that would
Catch, then release,
That intense perfume

They would never forget that scent
But realized that they could not take it with them
For if you remove the flower from its stalk
It withers and browns
Some things must exist only as you
Know and feel them in that moment

The Jade Tree

The leaves of the jade tree
Are fat and succulent
Skin shiny and smooth
Filled with juices that trickle out
If you press them too hard
Between your fingertips

The constitution of the jade tree
Is very hearty and strong
It drinks very little water
Surviving on mere drops
That come infrequently
From spare, quick storms

The arms of the jade tree
Curl inexorably
Toward the face of the sun
Making elegant arches
And seeking its warmth
Its light

The progress of the jade tree
Is measured and slow
It takes many months
For it to twist and bend
To adapt to changes
And give birth to
New growth

The soul of the jade tree
Is very quiet,
Speaking little,
Asking for almost nothing,
Only drops of water,
The light of the sun,
Gentle touches and
Fresh air and space,
So it may breathe
And live on

Velvet Barstool

Small, darkened room
Paneled in colored papers
Rimmed by low cushions
In the center
Like a nestled pearl
Was the bar
Shaped like hands
Cupped together

I slid onto
A velvet barstool
Rich, plush, deep
The fabric latched onto
My silk skirt and
Pushed it aside as I sat

Bartender offered only a hint of a smile
Her hair was unnaturally platinum and
Pulled tightly away from her face
She placed the menu before me and
Slyly twinkled as I stifled a gasp
At the outrageous prices

However, I came to this bar
To drink, so I ordered
Some exotically named concoction
With gin and herbal liquors and lime
And as the bartender withdrew to
Mix my cocktail
A man sat on the open stool next to me and
Asked if I minded if he smoked

I said, no, because this was a smoking bar
In a city and in a time when
People did not complain about such things
Being bothersome, and he smiled, and
Offered me one of his cigarettes.
This being that sort of bar, I took one,
Placed it gently between my lips, and
Leaned in to accept his flame

Drawing in a bit of breath, I tasted
The tobacco, an expensive local brand,
And somehow it felt right, and after the
Initial head rush I felt relaxed
Just then my cocktail was placed before me
By the silent, smirking bartender,
A drink cradled in a tall, slender, exotically curving glass,
Liquid blue and shimmering in the light above,
Light diffused by the swirling smoke from
Our shared cigarettes

I struggled to adjust my bottom
Against the thick, rich velvet of the barstool
And leaned awkwardly toward the lacquer bar
To take a sip of my cocktail
Without spilling it
Like any clumsy bumpkin would do.
It was icy, crisp, but echoing with sweet fruit
And gave off a slightly floral perfume that
Tangled with the scent of the tobacco


Around the room, on the low cushions,
Sat men and women, mostly talking in hushed tones,
Sipping their drinks with
No looks of pleasure on their faces, just
Expressionless, leaning close to each other
To speak so that no one might overhear them, and
Not making eye contact with strangers.
They were almost to a one dressed in black,
Trenches, trousers, slim flat shoes,
Pale faces, mussed hair, a bit bedraggled
From the cold, driving rain outside
Cheeks starting to thaw and flush
From the warmth of the bar and the
Fire in their glasses

I sat there silently as well, slowly drinking in
The scene, the
Gradually inhaling all but a smoldering nub
Of the strong English cigarette
Offered by a stranger who smiled,
And taking at least one hour to consume
The most expensive cocktail I have
Ever encountered in my life
I would say that I enjoyed it all very much
Despite the solitary nature of the experience
And the steep cost
But it wasn't exactly enjoyable
Only deeply imprinted on my mind
A silent pause, a respite on a
Cold and rainy afternoon,
Trapped for an hour on a velvet barstool
Smoking cigarettes with a stranger
And passing the time