Author: tangledmagic

Another Chance

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If half the spinning galaxies of the universe have sun stars with planets

and

if only half of those planets host intelligent life

and

if half of those populations resemble humans on Earth

and

if half of those peoples take their lands and seas and skies into ruin,

the Great Mother of Creation must have known this would happen.

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Will this omniscient Creator gather up all the sorry star-souls remaining

on planet Earth

and

lovingly place them somewhere new in the vast universe?

Will the Great Mother of Creation give them a fresh, clean planet,

green and blue and flourishing, saying,

“See if you can do better this time”?

The Fall

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The Fall

If I send you the red leaves of autumn

press them flat inside an envelope,

will you remember the Japanese maple

you climbed in the summer’s green?

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If I mail a postcard of a Studebaker

pickup truck carrying milk cans,

will you recall the Matchbox cars

you lined up on the play mat here?

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If I ask your forgiveness for all

my misperceptions, my withdrawal,

a mud pit of wracked emotions,

will you let the light back in?

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If I place my heart in the circular present

attach my faith to the hem of the garment

surrender what’s left to the stillness,

will the mirror show me my true face?

Violet Wings

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One day everything changed.  At first, the morning unfolded as usual.  She started the water to boil, and put fragrant coffee grounds in the French press.  Took a waffle from the freezer, popped it in the toaster. It was while she was scooping cat food into Raymundo’s dish that they both stopped at the sound.  Raymundo pointed his pointy ears toward the bathroom.  She frowned, then tiptoed to the bathroom door.  Splashing sounds.  Thumps and bumps.  A grunt.

Slowly, cautiously, she turned the knob.  Opened the door a crack.  Peeked in.  Someone was in the tub.  A large someone.  A someone with wings.

She gasped.  The someone looked up.

“So sorry,” he said.  She could tell by the voice and the shape it was a “he.”

“So sorry.  I must have taken a wrong turn up there.”  He stood up.   Then she saw all of him.  His skin was a deep violet, shimmering with tiny scales.  The wings were made of iridescent black feathers, like a raven’s.

“You see,” he continued, as he dried himself with one of her towels, “I was aiming for the mountain lake, just north of here, but my hydrodetector malfunctioned and I ended up here in your bath.”

She was speechless.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just be off.  Might you let me out your back entrance?  You do have one?  Won’t do to walk out on your street this time of the morning.”

She opened the door and stepped aside to let him pass.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

You or Me?

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The one I left behind

has blank eyes of amber brown

stares at a future of days unchanging

leans forward in the wheelchair

tries to stand on legs too weak and trembling

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The one I left behind

eats from another hand

like a baby bird

lives among others who wait

for something new or different

or death

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The one I left behind

left me behind

retreated into a place

mysterious, unreachable

Perhaps he’s on a divine mission

perhaps he’s dancing with angels

perhaps, in his eyes,

I’m the impaired one

lagging far behind.

Moon Meeting

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Moon Meeting

Yesterday morning, I met the moon in Walgreen’s.  She was looking for silver nail polish with glitter. 
“I lost my glasses,” she told me.

I helped her find a bottle called “Sheer Sparkle.”

She smelled like peppermint and lavender.  Her hair was long and white, bundled up in a messy bun.  She wore a baggy white t-shirt and wide leg jeans.

How did I know she was the moon?

She introduced herself, offering me her hand.  The nail polish on her fingernails was chipped.  Her nails were uneven and ragged.

“I am the moon,” she said.

I told her my name.

Her fingers felt cool and knobby, like an autumn branch.

“I’m in pretty good shape for 65,” she said, leaning forward to look in a mirror on the cosmetic counter.  She lifted the skin on her jawline and sighed.  “I’m beginning to sag a bit.”

Then she turned with a bright smile. “Would you have a buck or two for me?  I’m a little short today.  You know—waning.”

I paid for the nail polish.  She sailed up into the sky.

Joy

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Joy

“Then did I learn how existence could be cherish’d

 Strengthen’d and fed without the aid of joy.”

                                                                                                                            -Emily Bronte, Remembrance

Joy is not where I live

yet this life I hold like a damsel fly,

delicate, light-footed,

whose touch I thank each morning

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Joy is not what I speak,

but rituals, deeply rooted,

as the stream-fed cottonwood

affirm life’s leafy purpose

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Joy flies too high to grasp,

caught on an updraft, rising

on dappled, pointed wings

a lightness sought, inspired

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Joy is a bird rarely seen,

a fleeting lift of heart

while feet mark the dance

of a foreign time-signature

Where I’m From–Again

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I am from a no-God home with

a philosophical father

who lectured in ponderous tones

a mother who only liked Christmas

because her father was Italian.

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I am from a visit to an Italian hospital

where the winged blue nuns

sifted through peaceful sunbeams.

I am from 11 years old longing for that cloistered peace.

I am from a knowing there was more than

the right pleated skirt, the red ribbed sweater.

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I am from a meditating neighbor whose

tiny apartment hummed with a velvet love

that I coveted, and so learned the practice.

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I am from locking eyes with a living saint

whose gaze changed me forever.

Slight figure in orange robes, she opened

my first chakra and my heart.

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I am from chanting God’s names

with a thousand souls

the rising divine vibration of the universe.

Pete

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Anywhere I go, the songs follow me.

The man was a giant to my five-year-old eyes.

Tall and skinny, with a long-neck banjo

he threw his head back and sang,

hopped like a cricket around the stage.

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Camp songs carried his imprint.

We told Aunt Rhody

her goose was dead. The Midnight

special kept shining its light.

While he was blacklisted,

his songs rang like the hammer.

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And then it was all about

overcoming, and equality

and bringing ‘em home

from Vietnam. We were

singing. I taught his songs

to the next generation.

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How we all came together

on the river, once sewer water,

then a swimming pool.

The songs sailed up and down

the Hudson, sailing on into

choruses while he swapped songs

by the Sloop Club’s wood stove.

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Handing down clothes to his

granddaughter, visits to

the log cabin above the river,

cowering under Toshi’s gimlet eye

her sharp words, no nonsense

for her who managed it all.

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The song of a man threaded music

in silver strands through my living days,

the score of a life of giving

a shining pattern of humility and power.

Spiral

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On the spiral of life, on the rising side

I’ve rested in heavenly peace

The downward swing, an ocean tide

When pain and anger beg release

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On the spiral of life, in arms of prayer

My soul’s Companion rests within

Or sinking, enters hollow nights, where

solitude and sorrow win

One Saturday

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I sing the joy of free

Of an empty day

A Fuji apple sliced

A cup of rooibos tea

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I sing the joy of made

Of plum batik cloth

A humming thread

Pieced squares into braid

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I sing the joy of sun

Of a window warm

New book on lap

Answering to no one