Fishing Silence

              

              North of Limoges

there is a pond

a lake really

with shiny carp

big as mermaids

silvery skin

with puckered lips

caught with hooks

they gleam

glorious

trophies

in the sun

for tourists

who sleep

in tents

don’t speak

French

do take

photos

to capture

awe

in all

airiness

North of Poughkeepsie

the Hudson River

eddies brackish

anemic carp

big as infants

muddy skin

with puckered lips

caught in nets

squirm

until cradled

your thumb

in its mouth

pacified

snuggles

your frozen

heart

fears not

the air

as you

carry

 your child

to fresh

waters

carp painting from public domain

carp fishing photo, Barrytown, NY 1984

(I am second from the right in the top photo,

third from the right in the bottom  photo.)

   

Of all the loves mine to cherish

 

I felt love in the thorns that scratched

my hide until I bled running through Indian

Forest barefoot and alone the trees my

home away away away from all the worries

grown ups silently shouted.

I felt love in the musk of ancient walls

left witness to weep into the moss

that watched civilization torn asunder

through dark ages and enlightenment

and two world wars.

I felt love in the sky and the stars so close

they tickled my ears as they whirligigged

over the Rocky Mountains spinning stories

and songs the brook babbled into lullabies

by my sleeping bag.

But of all the loves mine to cherish

none compared to the wild child wonder

I felt with my boys from the womb, to my arms

to my heart torn by thorns as they ran

into the forest of the world.

Urban Worship

trash bins rattle like Buddhist temple bells

calling to morning devotions

coffee water boils in chant

each burst bubble releases a prayer

meditate upon transformation

as beans transubstantiate water

dodge the cat as I go out the door

Durga must be near

huddle with strangers at the bus stop

our darshan a holy lack of eye contact

like the sacred pause riding the elevator

our worship in the communion of silence 

                        ~*~

Not Yet Rain

We each have our own reactions to tornado warnings. Some took baths, some soldiered on at work, others baked cookies. I nipped into a nearby woodland before the storm arrived. This is that moment.

   Before a storm

   rustles restless

   clouds swirl white and grey

   like flamenco petticoats

   above the pines

   my mind quiets

   listens to trees’

   hushed reverie

   as I wander

   drawn to silence

   as to Siren song

   into the woods

   where the air rests

   thick with the musk

   of not yet rain

 

             ~*~