Still Life

    I am still life,
    Still living.
    Like the bruised and beaten pear
    Rejected time and again in favor
    Of the picture-perfect specimen,
    I am devalued.
    But the artist, given the choice,
    Will reject the perfect and choose
    The one with character, history,
    And mystery, knowing
    It has substance, value.
    And this pear, like I, despite
    Outward appearances is found to
    Be of the most substance.
    I — like you — may be a little too ripe, a little past prime,
    But still of value.
    No longer still life,
    We are ushered into the land of the living.


    Truce

    I see the world as white.
    Angel wings of virgin snow echo the pearly sparkle of the
    morning sky.
    Pure clouds sail across the porcelain screen of my mind.
    The lawn curtains of my soul part to welcome unspoiled
    wisps of life.

    You see red.
    Loud. Violent. Confrontational.
    Knives cut carmine across an alabaster throat.
    An uncompromising signal permitting no passage.
    Two crumbling towers weeping crimson tears after terrorist
    attacks.

    Can we meet at pink?
    A teacup rose sprinkled with dew.
    Striated summer sunrises.
    Rose-hip tea with peppermint ice cream.

    An apple — heart of white protected by a shield of garnet.
    Sepia pencil married to unsullied parchment.
    The peachy cheeks of an incandescent infant.
    Yes.
    We will meet in the middle.
    A cardinal calm upon a snow-washed branch.


    Reflections and Prisms

    Just as the crystal candlestick
    Reflects the light without,
    It also holds tight the prisms of light within.

    The tension — reflecting and withholding —
    Creates a being of breakable beauty
    Reminiscent of human frailty.

    Within each of us rages a war.
    The God within
    Rarely meets the God without.

    But when they do — nirvana.


    Morning Stroll

    Sun, laughing,
    Plays hide and seek
    With dancing leaves.

    Morning dew
    Traces the turf
    I wed to my feet.

    Squirrel curious,
    Eyes of jet,
    Stares at me.

    Trees reach
    To the fleece of
    The clouds,

    Reading heaven's greeting
    Like the blind
    Inhaling braille.


    In Praise of My Father

    In that violet-tinged time between dusk and dawn
    With cobwebs in my eyes and cotton-closed ears,
    My body lifted aloft by angels, fairies, mermaids, mattresses —
    Who knew?
    I drew a deep breath and felt myself underwater as
    Wave upon wave held me to the bosom of the sea.
    Frightened, I fought until I saw a stream of light
    Inviting me to relax. I began breathing deep breaths
    Until I was lifted aloft by that golden shaft
    Into the arms of my father who stood Venuslike
    On that Botticelli slice of paradise.
    Father.
    Earthly, spiritual — I may never know which.
    I'll love you
    Until that cumulus-laced morn
    When I will see with new eyes
    And be born again to paradise new.


    In the News

    Eternity is a series of moments strung together like
    Rosary beads, a necklace of the finest pearls, or a mala.
    To my little sisters in Chibok, Nigeria, I pray for you as you disappear
    From your homes.
    To my sisters in Nantucket, my fears are as powerful as
    The walls of water that crash over your neighbors' homes.
    To my mother and aunts, I am proud to see how you persevere,
    Displaying strength and courage in your roles as caregivers
    and grief bearers.
    To my sisters in the Middle East, I celebrate your entrance
    into the world.

    And I — I have my own demons, storms, and progress.
    Like my African sister, I suffer memories of terror.
    Like my Nantucket loved ones, I suffer turbulence from
    Forces beyond my control. Like my mother and aunts, I have
    Given care and counted loss.
    To my sisters in the Middle East, I rise above
    A history of submission and subjugation.

    Yes, we are all but walking shadows, but we
    Strut proudly and loudly our days upon the stage.
    Eternity may be counted out as beads strung upon a strand,
    But with each syllable our voices sound louder and
    Prouder until we are no longer
    Counted among the dead.
    We may be but walking shadows, but the lights
    But the flames on our candles cannot be blown out.


    Angel, Mine

    Come to me now in diaphanous white,
    surrounded by hues of lemon, violet, bright
    blue. You are the hue I search for
    in the dark winter light to cue me
    from dark corners onto canvases
    bright. In wintry cold climes you
    stretch out a warm hand, trembling
    smile, because you, too, know pain
    and will stop for a while. Stop. Stay.
    Then we'll go on our ways, waiting for that
    warm sun, that pain-free day when we will stay and talk,
    walk to the park, and mark one more day
    in the sun dome. The next day
    will come as it may, as it may.


    Floating World

    The child submersed in the stream
    To escape the wrath of the king
    Slips into a wormhole to find
    Virtual violence, streaming, steaming
    Sex,
    Bloodshed, bullies, bombs, and
    Hemorrhaging borders.
    At the end of the wormhole,
    Another king promises peace,
    Presence, and undying love.
    A birth without blood
    A life without suffering, and
    A death without rebirth.
    And isn't this what all the kings on earth ever sought?


    Your Friend

    The pain that you feel —
    Sit with her, stay with her,
    Give her a name. Invite her to linger.

    She's your guide. She's your friend.
    She has wisdom to share,
    The wisdom you fear she'll finger

    In the sands of time.
    But she'll stay with you as the pain
    Is washed away by the incoming tide.

    Don't try to run from her —
    She'll depart on her own
    Then return when you least expect her.

    She has much to speak, much to offer, much to give.
    She's a teacher and friend, though
    You fear and abhor her.

    Sit with her now,
    Meet her friends worry, suffering, pain —
    They'll depart soon enough,

    Leaving wisdom, faith, awe —
    They'll announce their own presence
    In the life of your time.


    The Innocence of Flowers

    Tansy, lily, stock, rose,
    Magnolia, hibiscus, camellia, lotus.
    They feel no pain when torn; they bend
    With the wind, the rain.

    Yet I see my neighbors' tears like dew when
    Bombs are dropped, when bullets fly.
    Their faces bruised; they don't understand the meaning of a
    Fist, a gun, a bomb. "Why?" they sigh.

    Machines don't know why we run, or whom
    We are running from. They revel in their
    Day in the sun, not worrying that they
    Are spent, and die.

    Child, old man, woman,
    Someone stands by you in the dark,
    Prays that your life will be free of further pain
    And silently vows that he will be there
    And remains with you now.


    Then Came a Man

    Then came a man who appeared a babe.
    Conceived on the breath of his father, unto a virgin he came.
    This son, this man, overcame nations
    with a smile, a kiss, a promise,
    and delivers these gifts even now.

    Wars were waged over him
    though he never sang a battle cry, never raised a sword.
    His only weapon is his promise,
    his promise — love — his Word.

    Knocking upon the heart of every woman,
    every man,
    he bids us let him enter, let him wash away our sin.

    Let us raise our voices to him till the temples fall as one
    And future becomes the present,
    The very present God, the Son.


    The Web of Life

    The web of life,
    So lovingly conceived, carefully constructed,
    Patiently tended and mended,
    So easily broken.
    Windstorm, rainstorm,
    Hasty movement, offensive tear.
    Life now disturbed, left without haven,
    This spider — my pretty, slender,
    Spring-green spider —
    Has many close friends with
    Many close webs.
    The finger that tore the web
    Finds the displaced spider living still,
    Picks her up from the rainbow filament that
    She created and replaces her,
    Whispering an apology and prayer of goodwill.
    Isn't that the way
    All humanity
    Should live?


    The Slow Waltz of Time

    Sneaking a peek in the mirror, your eyes turned to salt
    And your gallop turned to a halt.
    Your eyes denied the truth that leaked
    From every pore of your being.
    A soul you hadn't discovered
    Was covered by a blanket
    Of lines and gray bags, and sags,
    And the fact that May had flipped the tiles
    And become October.
    Turn around, turn around once more.
    Store the memories in the leaves
    Where they belong. March to a new score,
    Break through new walls,
    Flood the gates once more.


    The Candle Flame

    The answer to all
    Is in the dance of the candle:
    Sway with it.

    The answer to all
    Is in the bark of the sycamore:
    What is inside, what out?

    The answer to all
    Is in the rolling sea:
    The wave that cannot be caught.

    The answer to all
    Is in the cover of the cloud:
    Bleak below, brilliant above.

    The answer to all
    Is in the wolf's lament:
    He appeals to your soul.


    All

    Your candle lights the way
    To the present.
    Your glow reaches up from
    The tunnels of the past.
    To bring me to you now.

    Your touch draws me
    Like a soothing salve
    From dreams of the future
    To reside with you here.

    Seeing you standing before me,
    I ask what I can do for you.
    You answer in the way only you can —
    You squeeze me tight,

    Letting me know
    That by staying with you,
    Just resting with you here,
    Being part of you now,
    I am giving you all.


    Meditation

    Sapphire skies, sun,
    Magenta flowers —
    This is the hour
    I crave all week.
    A peek into
    The power of
    Oblivion.
    The melding of
    My soul with yours — the One.
    Speak; don't speak,
    Come to me
    In silence profound
    And pound
    On my meek,
    Weak
    Brow.


    The Pearl

    You realize your soul
    Is a valuable, precious pearl —
    Priceless, irreplaceable,
    A gift to you.

    Will you squeeze this pearl
    Tight in your fist,
    Afraid of losing the very thing
    That gives your life meaning?

    Will you lock this pearl
    Safely in a jewel box
    Accessible to you and only you
    For the rest of your life?

    Will you display this pearl
    Proudly on your chest,
    Dazzling the world
    With the wonder that is you?

    Or will you selflessly add your pearl
    To every other pearl
    You encounter during your life,
    Creating the most wondrous work of art
    The world has ever known?


    Move Om

    Breathe in, breathe out,
    Then move om.
    Remain present, but remember
    The present needs you to open it.
    Breathe in, breathe out,
    Then move om.
    Forget anger, hostility, depression,
    Failure, hatred, resentments, disappointments.
    Just move om.
    If everyone in the world would learn to live in the present,
    Focused on the other — friend to friend,
    Each an incarnation of Jesus, Buddha,
    Muhammad, prophets, masters, teachers —
    We could live in peace.
    The earth's fate hangs in the balance.
    Do it now!
    Breathe in, breathe out,
    Then move om.


    Fresh Mown Hay

    Fresh mown hay.
    It has a scent, a perfume —
    Eau to be bottled.
    Suppose she could capture its essence,
    Massage it on his pulse points?
    It is intoxicating ...
    Tranquilizing ...
    Mesmerizing ...
    Just like her love for him.
    She smooths the wrinkles on the sheets they share
    Just as she would iron out his memories.
    Forget the opium.
    Black diamond.
    Obsession.
    Look at me, look at our home, look at the life we've built.
    Forget the scars and the scares.
    Look at the stars and expanse of sky
    Floating free, free of time
    In the picture windows we've designed.
    Focus on me.
    I am wearing nothing
    But my heart on my bared chest.
    Wearing nothing but my love for you —
    Love like fresh mown hay.