FIVE

Years since last I'd done so,
I took leisure at leaning back against
the only remaining oak tree
left standing in front of my
grandmother's house.

I've often returned to this place
in hopes that her spirit might
somehow impart wisdom
unto me, whilst I stood
beneath the branches
which shielded me from
the sun of so many
youthful summers.

I took note that
the winter winds blowing my hair
across my face reminded me
of a passage I read
just hours before,
so I closed my eyes so that
I might have a few seconds
to take in the sensation
of being connected to
the author.

My pleasant musings were
interrupted by the sound of
dozens of geese flying overhead
in typical triangular formation.

Quilting was Grandmother's passion,
with the "goose triangle" being
the pattern she most liked
to utilize in her designs.

"Quilting is an artistic representation
of the relationship between
love and life, not just fabric and
thread; warming you from the
love put into each stitch, not the
heat generated by the covering
of the body," she wrote beneath
a colorfully decorated sketch of
a quilt she didn't live long
enough to complete.

As the geese passed without
taking note of my pleading
gaze, I whispered into the
chilled air "let the Dakinis
guide you," and hoped
Grandmother would
also pay heed to my request.

The sky cleared of the passing
birds and I waited still
for an answer. I noticed then
a lone goose circling widely
above me, left behind by
the others. I forgot for a
moment my want
for answers and instead
took pity upon the creature,
relating how I, too, often
felt lost in my solitary
travels.

Connectivity in experience
of both animal and man
is ever present, though
our eyes have been
blinded by our own conjectures
of dominion. Yet had
Grandmother often
directed my sight towards
proof that our
steps are in unison
with the movement
of the Earth and all of
its inhabitants.

I silently prayed then
that the abandoned
traveler would let
the winter sun
act as compass and direct
her towards those who
had long sense flew into
distances unseen.

Hearing then a single call
from the direction of the
deserting flock
came one single bird.

Her wings rising and
falling in what I
imagined was fueled
by both instinct
and divine purpose.

Both geese began circling
the area just above me
and i left the protection
of the familiar tree.

Stepping out into
the clearing, and with
voyeuristic view,
watched the dance of flight
between the two.

Only seconds fell away
as the birds came closer
together in flight.
Then, without sound
of call heard, the two
took leave into the
opposite direction of
the gaggle of geese
which now they were
separated, albeit
together, from.

I watched as they closely
raised wings and height
in unison,
in search of waters
and refuge and smiled
at having witnessed
their elopement.

After coupled minutes
elapsed, I walked back
towards the Oak, put
gloves in pocket, then
placed my fingertips
upon the bark and felt
a sense of peace in
knowing my answer
had been given.

If we are ever to find
the partner which
leads us safely to
water, who forgoes
the safety of that
which is the norm
just to ensure we
are not lonesome
nor without nourishment,
we must first allow
ourselves the freedom
to fly alone in deserted skies.

Faith that our wings
will not tire before
we are joined in flight
will grant us the pleasure
of feeling the warmth of
sunlight upon our backs
as the wind carries
us onward, if only
until the moment
when our companion,
at last,
arrives.

MISUNDERSTOOD PRAYERS

My accent has never been indicative
of the location in which I was raised.

My tone inflections have lead others
to mistake my identity, at times
even my ethnicity, until such
time as they laid eyes upon me.

So perhaps when I prayed,
God didn't recognize my voice,
confused me with someone else
or the droning noise
of a demanding world
discomposed his comprehending,
as it seemed he confused my plea
for a "happy ending," to mean
each time I loved, I would
invariably thank God
it was "happILY
ending."

Certainly God could not have thought
that I prayed for this solitary
existence, that what I desired as
that happiness spanned such a short
amount of time. Or perhaps God
thought he knew my mind better
than me. Though I focus on
introspection, I've never really
got comfortable with myself
internally. So maybe God put
his plan into action rightfully,
without my consent nor my
approval.

Or perchance God didn’t want to
be responsible for my downfall
from grace or wrongfully thought
my heart was invincible, but his
faith in my strength was misplaced,
as I truly am not that strong.

They say you shouldn’t
question God’s plan,
but I confess, sometimes
I wonder if tales of his omnipotence,
failed to take into account that God,
like so many others,
simply didn’t understand
my accent.

Bali Coast

When weathered skin marked like scars from age
is stretched across arthritic bones,
I still will want to warm your fingers
with the heat I've known
from clasp of hands in silence.

When pillow rest beneath grayed hair
while you dream of youth and spring,
the sunset upon your face
will be as breathtaking to me
as those nights we spent off
the Bali Coast when first we fell in love.

And though my heart might fill with grief
as our life together comes to a close,
I will voice no regrets, nor goodbyes,
rather I'll whisper to you the poems
I rehearsed while you slept
in my arms throughout these years.

I will shelter you from every hell,
I will wet your lips with ice,
No outer hate will affect us,
As we'll be hidden from the world,
Lost within the gaze of each others' eyes.

ONE PIECE OR TWO

Looked up from the pan of fish
I'd been up frying until nearly 3am
to ask if she wanted one piece or two.
But before I could smile, she said
"I can't stand bitches like you,
thinking we need for you to save us."

I looked down at her two sons,
about the age of my own daughters
and back up to eyes filled with disgust,
trying to diffuse the situation
and asked if she'd prefer to get it herself.
Turned the tongs backwards & reached out,
and she slapped them out of my hand.

"See, that's exactly the shit I mean. You can't
explain yourself so you just pass it back off
to me." So often we are steeped in our
own histories and too consumed by animosity
to eat what's given to us by those
who can't see beyond what they're offering.

I thought to tell her I'd been on the receiving side
of a similar shelter food line, but there are times
when trying to identify serves only to further
divide the lines between yourself and those
who are in need

So rather than turn it back to
a story about me and what I'd been through,
I simply picked back up the tongs and said
"I'm just here to serve you, so ma'am
what will it be, one piece or two?"

She bitingly asked "why can't I have three or four?
Your fat ass planning on taking some of this home
with you?" And I thought to tell her how I'd saved up
money for weeks, went without life's pleasantries,
took food from my own freezer and
cabinets to ensure a shelter with no funds
had enough to feed everyone in the line.

But the point of servitude is not
in attempting to garner the gratitude
of the people in your line,
rather it's to give selfishly and many times
there will come no time for hugs and thanks
no photo opportunities, no warm feeling
from the community that you feel led to help.

So, again, I said "one piece or two,"
as I placed four pieces upon her plate,
whispered to her "now this is just
between me and you" and winked.


She smirked at me and took her time
to move down the line,
before she took her tray
and sat down in the corner
with her two young kings
following closely behind her.

I looked from pan up to
the next woman in line
and asked "one piece or two"
and the line moved on and on.