chimayo

its been years since 
I’ve thought of you

it occured now 
when I
smoothed out Two Gray Hills 
wool carpet

lured into red sunsets 
splitting pure white
dazzling yellow light 
from the center

remembering cold january mornings
weaving our way past snow lined adobe

gathering blessed sand, red chillis
seeing Navajo weave their magic

we purchased magic
rolled it into our passion
ate our dreams
carried it on our journey 

toward separation
warp, weft fibers glistening beside 
sage induced fires 

curling new mexico stars
pressing desire's surface
smoothing out Chimayo 

breathing shuttles click clack 

memory scissors escape
toward edges of you
screaming on fifth floor
suicide watch time

drawing up

It is not our job to remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves
Like the trees, and be born again,
Drawing up from the great roots.
 - Robert Bly  

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slow down the world

Women laugh, cut, cook, stack fruit, chat,
Gossip, feed fires with kindling and charcoal,
Chop meat, caress greens, forget their troubles,
Remembering families far away near mountains and rivers
Under a sheltering sky.
I don't know and I don't care, said a laughing market woman,
Pouring batter into tin cups for baking
Confections and coconut balls above her fire.

moon metro

Moon Metro subterranean subway car sped through optical tunnels.

Outside, an old Turkish man wearing a crumpled white hat walked with his wife.

She is his noun. He is her verb, her action.

Just get to the verb, he whispered.

Their language is filled with autumn browns, yellows, greens, golds, sparrows, blue jays, and love’s doves.

Far away on Memories Street, a street of regrets spilling potential, Passion danced with Death.

Moon Metro picks up speed hurtling through space-time.

Silent, salient passengers wear sad eyed desire.

They crave sleep in a tyranny of sheep-less-mess. 

 

never written

There are poems
that are never written,
that simply move across
the mind
like skywriting
on a still day;
slowly the first word
drifts west,
the last letters dissolve
on the tongue,
and what is left
is the pure blue
of insight, without cloud
or comfort.
 - Linda Pastan
yama bato  Read more…

*

Here is a book of tongues.
Take it. (Dark leaves invade the air.)
Beware! I now know a language so beautiful and lethal
My mouth bleeds when I speak it.
 - Gwendolyn MacEwen  Read more…