Inviting the passing crowd into the intricate weavings
of her mind...
she sits along the curb reading her poems aloud
A torn page of charcoal dream hangs from a lamp-post
Hoping to entertain a wandering eye
Lifting here head to catch sparse cotton ball clouds rolling by..
She calls out in verse with words once held deep inside" Capture a precious piece of a day gone by, marvel at today as the breeze sets your dream aloft to heavenly heights, come now, come you dreamer's let each sweet moment come to life"
Upon the summer breeze she scribes a passage upon a delicate flower and softy sighs
A picturebook of hidden treasures appear in a sunray of light.....
dotherant's hardened mule
news of numbers and yearling's pew
ardvakians, mustering askance the dairy
frolic, adhere, nearer, when forward
finding in country
beliefs?
how have you been beaten?
never the please you say
smiteful river of dirt you burried?
startled priors, trampled by grass weavings
I shall share a terrain with newalking briarly today
in the moss groves of yourn I will a, wait
(19th century Tibetan Wangden rug)
Primal Properties
I look around at all the art I have collected
An assortment of inherited, home made and bought,
Ranging from African to Asian to Persian
With a smattering of European and American
In paintings and ceramics, carvings and weavings,
And the quality of primitive earthy energy
Is what strikes me most.
There is a refinement of technique in many
But it’s the primal essence
This technique is serviced to express,
The marriage of natural materials
And natural sensibilities
Through the transpersonal lens
Of a supernatural force
That defines it,
The definition being one of feeling/perception
More than verbalized thinking.
What is this irrepressible force
Our bodyminds create with these primal properties?
Life.
(11/18/24)
(Pema on Turkish Rug, 2023)
The Sweet Spot
Remarkably, right on the cusp
Between the tangible and intangible
Sit the old tribal weavings
Of the near to far East.
I’m sure to many
Both there and here
This subtle distinction of delicate balance
Goes right over their heads.
But to others,
Surely more than just a few,
It goes right to the heart
Which is of course the place we all long to be.
It’s such a fine line to find
Between this and that
The known and the mysterious
And yet…
What else is there worth finding
Where else would you rather be
Than at the sweet spot
Where in and out are one.
(5/24/24)
A song is heard
In the dead of night
Her tears are shining in the sky so bright
Tears of star light
Her voice is delicate and drifts on the breeze
As a jade flute sounds in the Cold moon palace
Her weavings drape the icy halls in colors
Warming up the room
The smell of herbs and tonic flow throughout the silk laden halls
As the rabit with hair
as bright as precious jade
Works diligently making the immortal cakes
The sound of cheng'e is heard bouncing through the cold hallowed halls
As she hopes this year Her loved one returns
There she sits at her make up stall
Eyes painted with blue starlight
Rosy blush adoring lips.
She dresses in her best silk hanfu
Embroidered with the fenghuang and the longwu
And wears her moonlit crown high
As she waits for the bridge to be made again
To reunite with her beloved houyi
Time's Weavings, As I Brood Upon Them
Shut inside windows open W I D E
I age 1,000 years
To your one.
The Past turns in tight circles upon the Present,
Inscribing itself in memories
Lending textures to the future,
Pains and pleasures,
Loves and losses,
Bitter, sweet,
All fall together to become tomorrow,
To break apart and cycle on again.
Outdoors, beyond a window full of November's clouds
A child runs gaily past,
While up the street, with ancient, measured tread,
A crone approaches;
Youth and age will meet and cycle 'round again.
I turn grey thoughts within my mind,
Composing poems as Significant Others
Drift in and out of the rooms of my life,
Now babe, Now child, Now youth, Now adult
Now gone.
Friends and lovers weave the warp together,
Light and shadow chase one another through the rooms,
Whispering secrets of change.
~
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snowcapped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
January reigns brutal, subzero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
~
Written from memory…no winter here. : )
I feel the fiber of our lives,
the intertwining threads of our existence,
like weavings on a loom,
join together.
As if made of the other's own fabric,
our life stories play in and out
of
each
other,
like repeated patterns,
interplayed between us.
By night eleven figures came to me
Unlocking doors that sealed shut long ago.
We travelled forward on a darkened sea
To sleepy Somnus’ cave, hidden below.
Eternal slumber gave me rich insight,
Transcribing knotted weavings made by Fates.
The desert day so soon becomes the night.
A pink adenium opens the gates.
The broadened wings of Letum drive whirlwinds
Destroying yet defining futile man.
This changeless contract Saturn can’t rescind.
This boundless desert wastes the best laid plans.
The vision fades away, the figures leave.
The Moon is made anew, no need to grieve.
I shall lay this burden down.
I give it tour our Father time.
Beyond all reason, it bends the mind.
We shall call on Father,
In seasons diverse, his manner
Flows to many seas,
Too heavy too great
For us to perceive.
Then vanity pour sine squeal
Like lusted weavings
Round your neck a death march.
It is dry portion sus offering sin.
Cast down ashes they be,
Of death, burnt shadow of spirit
Do rise like moths to flame.
Heaven's testimony ,
Is a net of pain.
Their insence weave a bitter
Web of stencheful shame.
Father forgive them their
Almond obeisance
Weapons to
Destruct the mass,
CIRUS garden,
It does burn,
Its mustard grows painful gases,
But worse the purple powder,
Rend the heavens
Stretch them out
Send my spirit burning through
Toxic snare, so
Chemical veil impart us your Sun
So we may see truth Father of all and one.
Patterns gleam in the sun
Threads lie side by side
Or criss-cross
In intricate patterns
Like individuals intersecting
Within the family
Each dependent yet separate
Blues, reds, greens and yellows complete the rhythm
Any strand pulled from this parade of colors
Reveals a gap in dreams unfulfilled
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the elegant pendant
Dropping gracefully
From our necklace’s mid-point
Giving meaning to our chain of life
How I love you,
My middle child,
You are the glue
Within life’s weavings
Irrepressible giggles erupt in play with older sister
Whispered consultations emerge from pillow sessions with younger brother
Bridging, always bridging
Giving, always giving
Know, my middle child,
Those stirring fears
Of being in between
Are fleeting ghosts
Your constant beauty shines
Like the lighthouse globe
Signaling to all
Your presence
Rejoice in your role,
My middle child,
Imagine a shimmering reflection pool
Whose immutable colors
Expand and multiply
You are vital to a whole
That is greater than its parts
And you are loved deeply
Happy Birthday, Maureen
Love, Mom
September 27, 2014
Grandma shivers,
and to warm her, I wrap
an old faded shawl
around her frail frame.
A shawl she had hand woven
many years ago.
I hold her, and while she sleeps,
she touches the worn threads.
Her fingers move over the old design,
of two faded red roses.
Her eyes are closed.
Perhaps, my Grandma's dreams
are somewhere in the past,
reviewing all her life's weavings.
Suddenly Grandma's eyes open.
She reaches out as her hands
tremble over the old shawl.
Her fingers seem to be tracing
a new design over the faded roses,
as if an intrinsically beautiful pattern
is being revealed to her.
Now I understand!
Grandma is weaving a new shawl!
Eagerly she leans forward.
I watch her pick up one old loose thread,
and firmly tie it to the new.
God have mercy on spiders
hanging in their webs
waiting for the moon
They seem condemned to loneliness
to a long sleeping in between
How they sweeten our gardens
with their dew encrusted
weavings, touching branches,
framing spaces
And, when the orbed ones
have departed in the daylight
they are not dead,
merely sleeping,
beneath the nearest leaf
waiting for the moon
The dawn is breaking
The eve is dawning
Escaping dark this evening
Now truth; dark is sleeping
Truth is key is leaving
Key to my heart, buried in his weavings
Weave dark does, crafting his lies
Light lies in discovering my oldest allies
But the weight I carry cannot be lightened
Waiting on nightfall, my senses are heightened
To make it out alive and whole
Or wholly separate body and soul
This place is poison, slowly killing
Escape or not, new places come chilling
Chilling thoughts come of my new destination
Heaven thought I, for there's no sin in preservation
Sin in the staying, curling tightly within
Within me hides coward, afraid of the dark
Deeper than deep down, it's dark in my heart.
Shut inside windows open w i d e
I age 1,000 years
To your one.
The Past turns in its light circles upon the Present,
Inscribing itself into memories
That will lend their textures to the future -
Pains and pleasures
Loves and losses
The bitter and the sweet -
All will fall together and become tomorrow,
Then break apart and cycle on again.
Outdoors, beyond a window full of November clouds
A child is running gaily past,
While up the street with ancient, measured tread
A crone approaches.
Youth and Age will pass and cycle 'round again.
I turn gray thoughts over in my mind
Composing poems as my significant others
Drift in and out of the rooms of my life,
Now babe Now child Now youth Now adult
Now gone
Friends and lovers help weave the warp together,
Light and shadow chase each other through the rooms,
Whispering the secrets of change.
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