Writing the mystery

The mystery from the Muse

the Muse from my heart

my heart holds this moment

precious and wild

wild like Mother Nature

the teet that fed

you its golden milk

that sacred substance

some might call ambrosia

the nectar of the gods

the god in everything we breathe

and smell

the touch of a leaf of sage

both soft and slightly rough

on my fingers when I rub it backwards

backwards I feel I am

walking in footsteps of the great unknown

unknown each day in its small

dewdrop essence of beauty and chaos

chaos in the morning teacups and crumbs

the crumbs I pick up five times

each day, after every meal

meals I prepare for every being

In my house husband child cat dog

the dog is a puppy

the puppy is a baby

the baby is contending attention

with the four year old

attention is what I cant spare

spare time that long forgotten mystery

mystery lying underneath each glance

the constant glance of supervision of the whole

the whole story gets told through its tiny specs

a spec of sand from the cosmos

tells about you and me today

today is the day I write

writing is my love

love is everything

everything contains mystery

Tangerine and mint leaves

on my tongue

I look in the mirror to discover a new reflection

The smell of your hair chocolate and smoke

I inhale to know more of our world together

Sunday afternoon walks the mist of city

Rain Envelopes me

lanky legs alongside mine

piano fingers entwined in mine

Your gait faster

Yet there is fire in my step

Something of Tangiers or the Mediterranean

Mint growing in the garden

On a sunny Sunday afternoon

When we were young and knew

no more than now of life

Mint leaves fresh and crisp

The coolness of an ice-cream sandwich

Green tea on ice

You diving into the pool with blue trunks

we used to meet underwater

like lost mermaids of the mind

our kiss a seal on the universe

a testament to long lost love

beaches on the Mediterranean

the sun diving into the turquoise sea

that shade of blue I can’t put into words

it pulls my heart

in an island off Turkey mosaics underwater

Hellenistic? Somebody whispered Alexander.

You smiled. The great.

The great memories of summers gone

Pulling tangerine wedges apart

Orange flesh on tongue

Melting chocolate

And you thought you cared

You cared the world into being.

grey morning dawn

misty air

cat paw prints in fresh concrete

our apple trees grow small green apples

my heart grew from seeds

that bloomed for you

picking strawberries in a field

the certainty of dry earth

almost dust

a mountain peak on the horizon

white on blue

could be a painted backdrop

you smile to the moon

your pink four year old finger

lifted

to it in the blue day sky

my love radiates

a heart halo in the summer air

Leaves outstretched hands

in the wet spring.

Elephant skin dark bark in the rain.

Those wild arms in a dance

that calls your name,

today and every other.

In the wind my voice becomes a whisper.

The hum of a thousand bees

caressing your heart.

I string the universe’s beads

together one by one,

holding the sacred chalice

to my pursed lips.

Its reflection a face

of every other face.

The mirror you hold up for me

to see myself.

(inspired by Denise Levertov)

I look for you each day

in the empty house.

The rooms echo

with your hidden voice.

You are my golden ring

gleaming.

I find you in the stillness,

where I can hear my heart.

It resounds of the fullness

I feel for you.

Each season of our lives,

a stone’s throw of concentric circles

widens to the horizon,

where the tangible boundary

between time and space

evaporates.

You stand in the dark,

the light of the moon on your flesh and hair.

A silhouette in the stillness;

the fullness of night.

In this perfect kiss that spans

lifetimes,

you are the smile of a child

the ripple of the river

the dazzle of a sunbeam.

In your embrace I am found.

In your light,

I become whole.

Although you hide in secret rooms,

I have found you.

Like shore to the ocean.

Bare feet walking the sand. Water licking your toes.

What does it mean to feel the wind in your hair, the caress of sunbeams?

Your hair like a lion’s mane, tumbling down your back.

You were young once, but is that it?

An infinitesimal grain of sand spun from the universe’s creative juices.

A picture of the stars.

Your voice echoing in the lost chamber of my ears.

Meeting your eyes. Locking gazes for the first time.

Sips of a nectar sweeter than wine.

Lips on skin. Peach hairs under the tongue.

A fire in the gait. Was it mine or yours?

Is it me I am in love with? Have been all along?

The thrumming of the heart, the fluttering of dove wings

when you call my name.

I searched every island, letting the muse come to me on winged insight.

You sat on the lonely rock before the sunrise.

The last star still visible in the fading night sky.

Her name is Venus, and she definitely is not a star.

Well, what is she, then? A planet, a goddess, an apparition?

Born from a wave, a pearlescent seashell.

She is the goddess of love.

Goddess? What goddess? Who believes in that stuff?

Are you becoming a materialist?

We are talking about love.

Everyone is a beginner here.

Being in love, sparking the fire.

A flame so bright my whole soul burns.

Every single time, in your arms I am a newborn babe, a little girl.

Butterflies fluttering in my belly.

Words tickle the imagination, alighting on fantasy.

What does it mean to be in love?

Following the veins in a golden leaf.

Arteries of energy. Rivers of life and power.

Galaxies of the mind.

Watching birds in flight. Freedom falling.

Fluid moving geometry in the sky. The choreography of a murmuration.

Walking on the shore. Watching the waves lick the sand.

Feeling naked and whole, simultaneously.

Feeling the burn, the desire. To be alive.

To touch and feel. Everything.

Mother is there at the beginning

Mother is who you came out of

Mother is food

Mother is sleep

Mother is love

Mother is the first teacher

Mother is nature

Mother is nurture

Mother Nature is Mother

Mother is who I need to separate from to become me

Mother has a wound

Mother is who’s wound I must heal

Mother is who I trust

Mother is who I roll my eyes at

Mother is almost always woman

Mother is taken for granted

Mother is who rejects me and I reject

Mother is who I feel smothered by

Mother is who I am

Mother and daughter

Daughter to my mother

Mother to my daughter

May I feel all the wounds

May I speak them

May I heal all the wounds

May I heal my mother wound

May we give back to all mothers

All women

May we give back to Mother Nature

May I give back to my mother

May I give a new future to my daughter

Mother is the beginning

The rhythm of breath

The strum of the heart

Of all that is me and isn’t me

Of unity and division

Mother is the beginning of love

Your little hand

warm and wrapped into mine.

We walk down the street.

Up and over the hill,

stopping at flowers,

mailboxes, clouds

squirrels, planes in the sky.

Our pace is neither fast nor slow.

At times you trot ahead

with that funny toddler run.

Then you come back.

Searching for me.

Your wrist bones alive,

your little hand in mine.

To the clouds and drifts of grey.

There are tears in those places.

They reach for the moon.

They come like unexpected petals

of a blossom so new.

A finger on my cheek.

My eyes are closed.

I listen.

The pebbles on the shore

sing a song to the waves.

The salt and the brine

mix in my mind.

I turn to the passing.

The leaves.

The dear ones.

The questions you ask

at three years of age.

Sun rays timid

dance on your forehead.

I long for the touch

the warmth

the caress

that reminds me of a love

from long ago.

(…And it was at that age
that poetry came in search of me (1))
the words on the page
the words in the music
I was 13 and then 16
caught in a body that was
as young as it was old.
I saw the sidewalks
the people
the grime
the suffering and the beauty
I wanted it all:
to contain the world in a kiss
in a word…
the fire and the wind
the sand and the shore
the sea and the waves.

Inside my mind I began
to sing songs.
They were words
stitched together
weaving the fabric
of starry nights
of love and loss
ambition and wanderlust,
of a young woman.
There were trains and trams.
The morning bustle,
the glow of the sun on the windowpanes.
Countless experiences of love.
there was fear to be held.
A deep desire to trust.

The words became loose.
The punctuation was dropped.
It was a flowing wave of synesthesia.
It was jazz on the page.
No editing allowed.
No pauses.
Capture the moment:
carpe diem.

Note 1: Poem by Neruda