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.