My heart is a sunflower.
I open to the light.
I take it in, turning to face my gift.
I stare at it in the face,
bouncing like a puppy
with sloppy big feet.
I breathe in and out.
I focus on the good,
leaving what doesn’t serve behind.
I watch. It goes through me
Like a wave. Colors changing
like the season. Some call it energy.
Breath. Life. Sunshine.
The golden thread of the victorious.
I know I am made in tiny bits
of all those things.
I see my shadow behind me
I salute it. (Although secretly sometimes
I’d rather it went away.)
I bend in the wind swaying.
Thankful I have roots.
My mind alights and soars.
I bring it back in
like a kite to center.
I hold it most lovingly.
I tell that little voice to shush.
Knowing it won’t be the last cry.
I want to hear the deep voice beyond.
It is the wind playing in the grasses.
The waves washing on the shore
The thunder beating in the skies.
It is the opening of a flower
The gaze of a child,
unquestioning, always there,
It is time to go.
I fold myself into the night.
Bobbing to the pulse of the great beyond.
When I Write
I write because it is part of me.
I write because it makes me happy.
I write, because when I do, I feel better. On those days it is as though a cloud lifts, and I see the world with brighter colors.
When I write, sometimes – most of the time – I write poetry. I feel images surfacing. I hear words in my head. I need to write them down. To give them a home in black on white. To see the undulating scribble of my handwriting. I hear the juxtapositions of sounds, the sometimes alliteration, the short and the long, the rhythm of waves crashing on the shore, the allegory, and the symbol.
When I write, I hear bells in my head. I watch raindrops fall on mushrooms. I glide under the lid of my own fantasy, hurled into a sky of rolling clouds. I ride a magic carpet on which I am truly me, more than me and also, at times, petulant me. I let the child me roam. She picks wildflowers . She smells them, and plucks petals pitilessly.
When I write, afterwards, I sometimes discover hidden secrets. I find thoughts that were seeking to be expressed, emotions that begged to be unleashed, feelings that hoped to be felt.
When I write, I oscillate between poetry and prose. I let my pen roll in its own ecstasy on the paper. I am transported to faraway lands; sunset in a dusty red desert, full moon in a mossy old growth forest, populated by elfin maidens.
When I write, I see with my ears, touch with my eyes, hear with my heart. I am called into the House of Language by an ancient muse named Synesthesia. I have been courting her since my teenage years. She is a rebel at heart, yet as old as the hills. She carries me to lavender shores, where monkeys drum, butterflies hum, and mostly everyone else dreams
When I write, I am saved by words. I am purified by the emptiness that follows. I let myself lay on the brink of uncertainty, even fear. I walk precariously on a tightrope that I tried to challenge many moons ago for the first time. Now I yearn to each day. It has taught me to take risks. Within it I see the river flowing. Through it I am shown that no moment is ever repeated. No context can be remembered so accurately that the imagination wouldn’t need to be beckoned in as an ally.
When I write, I write in the present. I write in the past. I write in the future. I write from the first person, from the second and third; I write for all the people. I write to pour myself into all my parts, to fill all my pores.
When I write, I feel my heart swell and get bigger.
When I write, I am me.
In love with the pulsing ripples.
In love with the waxing flush
of belly round.
In love with Moon so bright,
her pure face eclipsed by the earth’s
shadow of gold, tonight.
In love with creation happening
as woven within me.
In love with the smile of him
who surrounds me.
A caress so tender,
my sensitive skin responds
like the veined skein of an orchid leaf.
In love with the sun’s rays
kissing my limbs.
In love with the deep blue sea
crooning us to sleep at night.
In love with the flowering trees,
whose fragrance fills the night air.
Magnolia, plumeria, jasmine, orchid.
I am in love.
The boy walked down the street
With his hat on backwards
A bit of a belly
And fingers busy pulsing a keyboard
Downcast on the pavement
The highway screeching by
Fast moving capsules
A truck rumbles
In the summer grey
A yellow schoolbus in a dead end
Orange poppies cupped inward
Outside the smell of rain
Wet dust gathering in the air
As the blue lavender sways
My name is Hans
And I am dauntless
A cowboy lost in space
With a drum in my heart
And a beat in my head
Skipped, I pace down the street
Remembering to exhale
I count the petals
And slowly finger the possibility
That lost highways tear through
Cities in the afternoon humdrum
My mind backtracks
To the flowers in the morning
Luscious rose blooming carnal coral
Carnivorous in the odorous softness
I find the dead end
Yellow on black
A diamond in the stillness
I say deliberate
And the book closes
Leaving us all wide-eyed
On a journey to the land of skipped beats
In the nevermind of nowhere
Where tomorrow never happens