perverse ease.

Confident in the  quiet.

Fueled by extravagant loneliness,

a trance-like intuition

graced his movement.

Lost in the midnight of loving

that grew like a thorn bush.

A prickly bower over the undefended grace

of frail and brittle emotion.

In the throbbing dusk,

the hunters’ time,

layers of dark curiosity.

tenderness and mercy held hands

like mourners, alert and dismally lost.

thigh bones embraced by seaweed turning,

bones of children turning thru tides

of the blood stained mother of rivers.

Nourishing rice along the river’s path.

Land remembers

politicians forget,

jungle remembers.

Buddha mountain tangled with monkeys,

spider webs glisten with sweat of soldiers long at rest

and a generation of holy children turned away.

scarred knees and elbows.

Smelling like horse and Juicy fruit.

Scrappy and unruly

Jerked, without mercy

from the narcissus blooming time

of childhood.

Into the cruel duty of moons,

blood and sacrifice.

Somewhere between second and third base,

I noticed the dark, smiling eyes

of Tommy Bryant.

The runner faltered,missed a step,

and slipped over the edge.

“You’re out”!

echoed across the diamond bright afternoon.

ride the full moon and sing themselves into wolves.

Nights of careless moody wind, mindless of what goes flying on  wild wings,

and where it falls.

Restless nights when the bed is half empty.

Sheets wind themselves into snakes,

pillows slither under the bed to hide.

The moon hangs like a yella dog,

half-starved, lost and lonesome.

Stars tumble, witless out of their delusional order.

Cygnus crowned by Mars,

Scorpio satiated on the fingers of Venus.

Dreams so darkly dangerous,

a shadow of trance is favored.

Coherence of urgent joy

knotted by Medusa into nightmares.

Black thoughts blown into cobwebbed corners

gather a malignant glow

nourishing sleep spiders,

who dine on good intentions,

small lies and broken promises.

Sorrow makes a road for sickness.

carry

winter weary travelers

to equatorial splendor

mastercard, a fickle foe.

Stolen moments of warmth

paid for with summer sweat.

i pinch the sparkle from sunsets star,

brush my lips with dawn’s light.

My face is bathed with dew,

a cloud my wrap,

deep evening my gown

I dance with heroes and amazons to music of the spheres

’til morning light’s release.

Equatorial winds combs my hair,

shape my ears like shell trumpets.

Celestial wind sculpts my form

to fit on a blue-green sphere unlike any other.

My bones are carved of mountains

skin stolen from tulips carelessly blown into an abandoned courtyard.

Entropy will choose the day I die

and I will leave no footprints.

if you come in from the cold

i’ll give you a can of spiders to weave your walls,

gather sea grass and salamanders to plank your floor.

Dream your world wide open

wind will make your windows.

You can keep this place,

make a key from your backbone.

light the candles in your eyes with foxfire

Leave your song in the wet wildness

My mother lay in the living room, barely recognizable at 95 pounds and so little hair. Strangers hugged me, as though somehow their embrace would erase the fact that my mother was dying before us. I was confused, scared, and didn’t know how to act. How does one act when their mother is dying? I had to get this right: everybody in her world was watching!

Darlene Birdwell Quintero, mother of four, dies of cancer at 38 years old. Did somebody hand out instructions on this? My heart is breaking, my mind confused, my feet not on the ground, nor can I float to the wall and plaster myself like a fly, though I wish that I could. I struggle to find a place at the corner of her bed, and lean over to see if her eyes could recognize mine. They could not. I note the increasing rasp of her breath, the decreasing frequency of her draw. The crowd grew quiet as her loved ones surrounded the hospital bed posted where the couch once was.

The heat of the mid-afternoon sun drove somebody to open the sliding glass door, though you’d not know for the stillness of the day. Low whispers wind together in a collage of unrecognizable speech. We all wait patiently for the end, each breath growing farther and farther apart.

Where will my mother go? Will this be it? Will she magically float to heaven on angel’s wings? Will the devil break earth and drag her below to his chamber of fire and swine? Will nothing at all happen?

Suddenly my mother opens her mouth wide, as if struggling for room to let air in. She sucks hard and long, her chin reaching for the ceiling, her neck outstretched, elongating the passage of air filling her lungs for the last time. She savors each molecule and dust mite in her final breath. As if singing her home, the wind chimes hanging in the old redwood tree howl while the only breeze of the day takes flight. Swirling through the trees off the back deck, curling its fingers around the sliding glass door, it makes it’s passage through the living room, across the hospital bed, and swoops my mother’s soul up on it’s shirttails, whisking her off to her new home in the Ethers.

Goodbye mom……

Ahhhhh, beautiful water Divas, guardian Goddesses of these crevices
You watchful angels over prayerful souls
Thank you for being here today
For adorning me in all of my nakedness
For knowing and loving each crevice of my body
as you do the crevices of the earth from which you flow

Dowsing me, your spirit dances the cells of my being to aliveness, infiltrating my inner sanctuary, flooding deeply into the red core of my being.

Take me. I surrender to your infinite mastery, your flowing edge a living, breathing perplexity of new life energy and ancient wisdom.

Spores open, cells divide
Universes big and small collide
A vast expanse for the inner eye
Kaleidoscope of shapes and colors abide

Flowing down my veins in a slip-n-slide fashion, laughter prevailing and spilling over into the ponds below. I am free.

On butterfly-shaped cells I ride
over the ponds edge where life’s secrets reside.
Whispering waters, a language so old,
that all forms of life understand its code.

In the stillness there, all things are created.

Could this be home?

Thirsty, I was. I needed water, was my excuse. Five more minutes in the company of my beloved, that’s all I really wanted. And here he is, my lover, my beloved, the softness of his skin brushing my skin as we walk, my senses heightened in arousal at his accidental touch. Entering into the sunlight before me, my beloved passes, and I squint to see sparks of love kissing his aura in a million streams of light, shining forth from his being like honey dripping into the ethers for all of the garden goddesses to witness. A perfect God.

Masterful lover, oh giver of life, how can one contain this beautiful creature? This wild and perfect force of freedom, triumphant as the wind itself? Confidently he strides amongst his beloved Goddesses, slowly taking each of them in, adoration penetrating deeply into their quivering branches, openly making love with each of them, his honey dripping through the ethers and ascending the garden path in front of us.

God, I’m thirsty, I think, mouth to fountain, tongue searching to stifle the unquenchable fire in my heart.

Swirling inward now, my own juiciness enlivening me, waking me up like a sprinkling of water, that brilliant inner sun illuminating my thoughts, offering a glimpse at my own magnificence.

Closing my eyes, I remember being that flower. That absolute single point of focused love, the scent of my desire pulling at his nectar, insisting that he land hard and love well, my juiciness too enlivening to resist, my love too full to restrain. Water swirling around my mouth now, falling fruitlessly from my lips and into the dead pan below.

How ironic, I think, rising up from the fountain and turning into the shadows that lead back down the path, as the flower wilts in the brilliant sun, fire and thirst too much to endure for more than a season or two.

An abandoned lover resides here, in the shadows of my heart. What will a sullen and fruitless season bare? Could this dark space actually contain a magnificent gift? The lonely crevices of my heart cry out to be explored, each line a world of its own, each curve an enchanted valley of ancient secrets, each drop of blood a night sky, angels singing from star to star.

Softening my gaze, my heartbeat in rhythm with the song of my feet playing the earthen path, I meander as my beloved, and pass once again through the garden gate, back to the place from which I came, as the flower passes back to its earthen grave, biding time in the underworld in wait of a new spring.