My sea aqua eyes, Your ataraxes,
tides that take You cool deep,
to where love be balm
upon heavy heaving breast...
I hold You when Night sparkles silent,
rose comb braiding Your hair,
You smile with satisfaction, calm sweet,
Unviolated by nightmares dark rude,
Your eyelashes ease soft,
My fingertips follow smooth beauty hue...
J.A.B.
You have yet to see the bountiful ornaments in my orchard.
Perspiring perfumes of the passion we play and preview,
Weaving wonderful whispers of the wishes we ought to do.
Let me show you the silky thread of our poetry,
As I wear your handwriting all the way
Down to the very slopes you dare to kiss,
Demanding my eyes, to stay stoned into your hazel soul.
What my thoughts could do to your tempting traps, to your luscious lats—
When my lips could read the rhythms you bleed through your throbbing teases,
Braiding beautiful ballads on the nape of your neck,
Surely , an invitation for an appetite,
Oh, beauty of a beastly back.
Darkness swells like salty Black Sea
Ebony moods that tarnish a breeze
Pickled words and a soft sour smile
Really absurd how alone in a crowd
Energy zapped and perspective flawed
Soul feels trapped and sadly lost
Sunny songs traded for songs of moon
Indigo eyes braiding light cursing too
Onyx soul embracing painful feelings
Needing to know there is holy healing
plaiting my hair
tantamount to braiding three plastic slides
it is thick and unruly
with several minds of its own
determined to lash out in all directions
to prevent this catastrophe
when it gets long enough to ponytail
I put a rubber band around the ends
and use garden shears to lop off the length
sometimes breaking the shears
Call me low birth, make what so fun,
No pink birth, but a proud man’s son,
Fate-bestowed be my birth,
But built I’m by self-worth,
Dare, who’s here ever what I’ve done?
_______________________
Translation | 19.10.2025 | birth, fate, pride, worth
Note: This verse is taken from a Sanskrit play, Veni Samhaar, by Narayana Bhatt of 9th Century CE. It centres around the story of Mahabharata. When Karna is questioned about his birth-- not as blue-blooded warrior, saying that he is just a son of a chariot-in-charge, not a full-fledged kshatriya warrior, he responds with this verse. Veni Samhaar means braiding of hair, a vow taken by Draupadi/Bheema to avenge an insult by Kaurava cousins. Here is transliteration of the text, and feel the force of the Sanskrit verse:
Sootah vaa soota-putrah vaa
yah vaa kah vaa bhavaami aham |
Daiva-aayattam kule janma
mad aayattam tu paurusham || Veni Samhaar ||
"golden light braiding branches"
fluid leaves cascade in avalanches
Quote: "golden light braiding branches"
Inspired by: Autumn Library, by Daniel Henry Rodgers (2025)
We were once rivers,
braiding through each other’s lives,
carving valleys of shared wonder.
Now we float in bubbles,
soft-walled sanctuaries of sameness,
drifting past one another
with eyes turned inward.
The more we seal our edges,
the less we feel the ripple,
of another’s breath.
In the hour when senile summer breathes her last,
The vim of her ego births a somnolent child.
Rising forth from the yawning pit of newness,
Dyed with shades of seasonal confetti,
Fall rises with a spectrumed diadem.
October reigns with a high degree of splendour,
Braiding strands of leaves with threads of gold.
Within this sanctum
of breath and bone—
ten trillion anchorites
mimic their devotions.
Bacteria threading
blood’s vermilion rivers
braiding holy water
into the cathedral
of now.
Their alchemy transmutes
starlight
into the wine of existence—
decanted
from Orion’s mythical vine.
Viruses—
those threshold wraiths
between being
and unbeing—
inscribe new verses
in the living gospel
of our chromosomes.
Fungi a cappella
in mycelial tongues
through marrow’s moaning chambers
decomposing resurrection
from each small death
we die.
We are not hosts—
but cantatas
still composing themselves
in light.
Each cell—
a verse rehearsing resurrection.
Hark:
your pulse conducts
this unseen choir
where mortal breath
becomes immortal song.
And in this sacrosanct
communion of kingdoms,
we learn
we were never “I”—
but a constellation of prayers:
timeless,
boundless—
Bacteria
Viruses
Fungi
Me—
becoming
one.
River makes its final clunk
Between
Hills
Rolling boulders like turtle shells
Empty of their mouths and hearts
River bent
Flailing legs and neck
No longer reflects
The sun and moon
From water’s absence down its back.
Turns her terrible brittle head
From me
Teeth gnashing on the spools of willow
To her memory
When mud was forest
Footsteps
Croaking with frogs and dazzled with dragonflies
Ringed in a halo of cold fog.
We are dying
Together
Not angels nor even demons
But conquering visitors from a desert
Who brought nothing but the leech of desert
With us
Covering the entire Earth with insatiable thirst
And hunger
Kings and Queens for a day
Destroyers
Of those ceremony drums
Of gods and plants animals and language
When we lived as One
Gift
Strummed through the harp of gratitude.
Now, I seek a forgiving signal
From perhaps a divine wave
Coming from the dying Mother
This way
You poor skinless fool
The fire shall burn behind you
The entire Earth and its people
Which is all the things that flutter
Crawl walk and sing
"An empty bowl
With a spoon beside you."
I consider my hair my crowning glory
it is very very long blondish and straight
and I pamper it every single day
so, it is soft like baby hair
I have smooth and silky shampoo and conditioner
different types of scented detanglers
leave in conditioners for an extra silky feel
brushes and combs that will not break my hair
I wear very little makeup
just pink lipstick, blush, eyeliner and mascara
'cause I like a sort of natural look
I love how my hair blows in the breeze
and how it swings in dance class when I twirl
people tell me how pretty it is
even strangers will stop ask what I do
to make it so nice (I give it love)
some even say is it real
and I say just tug on it and you decide
since a little girl I have had long hair
I have pleasant memories of mom brushing it
sometimes, even braiding it
but nowadays, I just let it be long and straight
that's what I like . . .
Ongoing rows of trees
branches reaching binding
crawling braiding trunks of
olive trees capturing my senses
warm breeze glides down my
spine the ripened forestry handfuls
delightful ripeness historic scenery
as I mastered the monopoli landings
the essence of extra virgin oils pour
to perfection stored in tins we carry
them between the lemon zest aroma
of the countryside an afternoon filled
with pacifying my fancy with a charming
pinot noir settling down between the
largest tree trunks split into from thousands
of years of draping olives trees throughout
the hillside magnificent magnitude strength
balancing heritage while embracing culture
saving the old country the vanishing Puglia
For Us
Like divine visions, they dance
and bouquets of roses are tossed over their feet…
No matter what they say, it consummates as poetry
and chills might run the spine…
They construct bridges
and go on to design dazzling towers.
Crowds gasp!
They tell and re-tell the legends,
braiding the fabric of generations…
They wander wonders
and inspire creativity…
They see rainbow lights ringing round souls
and look up with awe to glimpse heaven’s glory!
(c) sally young eslinger 5/28/2024
Thanks be to God…
“You showed her your love by bringing her into the world, now show it again, by softly walking away.“ ~~The Poet~~
I wonder who is holding her soft hand.
I wonder will she ever understand.
Why it isn’t me braiding her hair with a soft touch.
Will she ever know that I love her so much?
As a newborn so soft and warm, it broke my heart,
To know that I must give her up, and then depart.
I wonder who is cooking her favorite meals.
Playing dress ups, watching her stumble in their heels.
I wonder who has loved her all these years.
Softly held her and dispelled all her fears.
Who is it that tucks her in softly at night?
Tells her stories that bring her so much delight.
I wonder if they cried on her first day at school.
Who taught her to swim in their back yard pool,
And dried her with the softest of towels.
Who gives her piggy- back rides because they are pals.
I wonder who hugs her softly and tells her of their love.
And who teaches her about our Lord above.
My heart breaks softly, and I swear to stay out of sight.
My love is soft and true, I know I don’t have the right.
Robin Wall Kimmerer is the creator of the blessing for today
(She’s also the author of ‘Braiding Sweetgrass’…by the way)
Her thought which, for us, is more of an allegory
When she says:
Maybe there is no such thing as rain;
there are only raindrops,
each with their own story
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