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Showing posts from October, 2018
22. Blessed solitude
Slouch through a desert of disinterest,
mouthing conversation, doing your best. In company solitude becomes an abyss,
sinks into a squirm of loneliness.

Look for places where solitude is blessed, a tent in the rain, in the wet caressed.
A log cabin high up, in a cover of snow:
huddle next to the crack of a fire and glow.

But then you stagnate, get caught in circles, not a merry go round in a mental circus,
but a churning that twirls into a drain,
turning to solipsism that clogs the brain.

How then to navigate in the interstice,
of self and other, to build a solstice,
a tipping of yin and yang, dark and light,
a flow of the sole that shades the bright.

Alone together, not fuse but alloy, share and care, in ginger joy.
21 Mother 2
Rancour stored and bottled up to leave her indifferent and cold to failure,
life’s inequities, and being snubbed.

As when in suckling she cared, he bit her breast and later
threatened and drove her scared.

That job she failed to get, from jealousy of what she could,
the capacities she kept.

Publishers who could not come to grips with the treasures of her work:
A drawer full of rejection slips.

The community that failed to feed from the deep of her thought, avoided her,
to satisfy a simpler need.

Victim of the sharpest of intelligence, that failed to find resonance, she now
provokes antagonism to gain response.

And when the latest conflict is left behind, anger cajoled, prim lips, and balance regained,
she casts about: what new diversion to find?


20 Mother

Wrapped up, a hallowed hump, head haloed in shining shards,
absence gleams in her regard.

Reaches, gropes at a void, clatters fingers to a cup, engrossed
as if in ultimate surprise of matters.

Carefully shuffles forward, nudges her mind ahead,
balances, trembles her head.

To the rhythm of a te deum tune, the peace of a pace that slows.
In her stillness eternity glows.
19. Dream song
At the foot of a high rise, topped by a penthouse posh with glass,
where once a tended garden was,
a plot of green, beleaguered by a bunch
by unruly bushes that hide a riot
of sparrows, now cowed into silence.

In a white dress, frilled, hair loose in the breeze,
eyes closed in tilted face,
in easy swivel to please,
she lisps a popular song,
munching a macro microphone.

Two garden gnomes are asway on the tunes, a plaster angel waves her wings and croons.
18. Sister (Paris)

Paris is an aviary. Birdy people peek,
from behind the trellis,
ironwrought in etiquette,
on Haussmann’s blocks.

They smooth their feathers behind glass, in the showroom
of a café, perched on wicker chairs,
or crouching in cubicles,
huddled in collars and conclave.

In the middle of that, my sister, you also are there, balanced in
your sway, billowing in white.
In your light, sublunary step,
you descend in the Luxembourg.

Together with the rest of spring, in the garden manned by feminine
statues, where daffodils press up
in purple, a giggle of white,
or a saffran shout of glee.