I know the land coyotes track
where angels tread
Down the dry creek bed
By the black root trees
twisted by a century's wrestling.

I know a place where lightning struck
and arches still
On a rose red hill
By angled roots,
naked to the fire's purpose.

I know the nights coyotes' cries
and angels' cross
At the moon's slow drop
From the naked dark
silent by my noise and therefore fierce.

I do not seek forgiveness
in this empty place:
Just lightning,
And the fierceness of Your face.

---

May the boundless knowledge that time presents and space allows illuminate the native perspectives of your original face.

I know the place where there is no face,
Lightning's blaze, broken trail or thunder's crack,
Where the slow moon's drop on a dry creek bed
Is not the walk of angels or the dead.

 

Prove it.

 

---

May the boundless knowledge that time presents and space allows illuminate the native perspectives of your original face.

I am the Immaculate Conception.

Thanks M!  I would love to get to know some posters better.  Where I work now we would all be considered mad.  Mega conservative.  Owner of the company has lunch at the White House.  Tolerance is an ugly word.  Big Brother watches the net so I can only post from home.  Sorry for the delay. 

 

I learned the balance game in El Salvador.  Lovely place.  Great people.  U.S. gov paid me to build a school.  I shook hands with the head of their military.  The woman who ran the school was the highest ranking woman in one of the major resistance groups.  Shaking hands with both reps was an experience.  Strange to look in the eyes of someone who can make you disappear and the U.S. would never raise a fuss.  Strange to work for two foreign bosses who would kill each other on site given the right circumstances.  Both were wonderful and charming people, in the light of day.  Nothing classified here, just personal perceptions.

 

Maybe a new and great poet will come out of that school.

 

Thanks all for the poetry.  Don’t pack it in.  Don’t pack up and go home.

1235813:

Maybe a new and great poet will come out of that school.

 

Thanks all for the poetry.  Don’t pack it in.  Don’t pack up and go home.

 

Please. Are you referring to that little girl? Oh please.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on Jane.
Dear Jane.
Dear sweet, kind, good Jane.

It's all over me again, I'm mad, Mother,
You give your son too much intoxication.
I love you, I adore you, you are just too
Outrageously, impossibly beautiful.

Jane, darling? You are the unknowingness. Face it.

Oh, and Balder? I'm not playing with you. I hope you get it.

Oh, you have no idea!

what are you doing up at this time of the day? You are in your castle, sitting by a roaring fire in the great hall.  The servants are all asleep, your three headed dog snores too....if you call 911, you will get me, and I will be cross.  At least, around these parts, there is only me and the sick ones.....the ambulance is coming again, even as I write.....little old sweeties, fall out of beds at times like these, hips break.  If only you had come into my life sooner, I might have avoided all of this.  I could be sitting on a fine cushion, sewing a fine seam.

yours always,

The Unknowable....Jane.

 

 

---

The fabric of my life is the cloth with which it is my responsibility to polish the lens of my own perception

Happy birthday, dear sister Alexandra,
Oh you, to whom I send my poems first,
Because you are the only other one
I can always trust to read them kindly.

There is nothing here.

Never was.

Never will be.

Only you.

balder:

Prove it.

 

Did you wish to tussle with me, Upstart?
I'll split every atom in your body.
Come on, move just a little bit closer.
I want to remember what you looked like.

There is one thing you need to understand
Before I mulch you with every other
Living thing in the entire universe.
All else will pass. My words will never die.

The unknowingness, indeed.

 

Tonight I am a charwoman

Cleaning rooms for the Guest.

 

Actually, I am trying to pretend

I am Rumi.

Really, that, above, should read: Guests.

Five of them are coming tomorrow afternoon.

Breakfast Burritos, and fruit salad and my famous muffins…

A gala all weekend long.

The Big Land Fair

And movie makers.

 There are a lot of towels and sheets to be changed.

I don't recall Rumi mentioning the work involved.

 

Alas, demoted, as only a mother can,

 My sons, my princes,

Are but princes of the mop

Under this half moon.

They are complaining,

One heaving deep bronchitic coughs,

And believing further medication would be the answer

To his woes.

The other complaining

After cross-country running ten kilometers

And playing soccer for two hours,

He is spent.

 

To work, I say, to work.

 

I feel, as a charwoman,

I can take poetic license

Creating verse from petty details

Void of rhyme or rhythm….

okay, I readily admit, this is a fake poem.

but so what......

 

Unknowingness indeed---

Tonight I am Cinderella,

Her evil stepsisters

Their horrid mother too.

And well, add in Rumi, a modern incarnation:

As a woman in dangerous times.

---

The fabric of my life is the cloth with which it is my responsibility to polish the lens of my own perception