http://blackearthinstitute.org/apj/:
Lotus Witness, Whirl, and Why Waiting. (March 22 2015). Two are below, lotus witness in a past post.
Whirl
Sitting cross-legged on my bed
(the living room too cold.)
Calm breath, then brightness.
Sometimes the inner light expands, flows all round
And sometimes it’s just headlights flashing
as a car whirs by,
glare strained through pleated curtains.
Sometimes I can sense the difference
and sometimes
there is no difference.
....
Why Waiting?
Begin as creation, become a creator.
Never wait at a barrier.
In this kitchen stocked with fresh food,
Why sit content with a cup of warm water?
Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī
Waiting for a wall
to sprout a door
or me wings
How long wavering
before closed doors?
Outside the closed metaphysical
bookstore
darkness signals mystery or
exclusion.
When does patience slither into passivity,
smolder into obdurate congeal?
Outside the hospital room
silence signals hope or
endgame for my brother.
How melt the fissured
grief-barrier
that clogs my heart?
I wait at your window
but when your door slides open
I find I’m running away
to hide my haughty tatters
I’m chasing scattered heart-parts.
Rumi says “never wait”
but he can’t mean rush in self-bounded circles,
drudgery without transpicuity.
At the crossroads
see-saw of hesitant presentiments
tiptoe, barge through, or
turn away?
Or pause to breathe out wholly
to let a fresh breeze inundate.
In the resplendent early morning
ribs expand around a spaciousness.
Barriers diaphonize. Rumi trumps again:
My soul cries out:
Do not wait, surrender
For the sake of Love.
Fronting that huge unknown
can I surrender residues
and let unbounded Love deluge my heart
so I can welcome you as
brothers
.
.....
“The Traffic in Old Ladies” appearedas an honorable mention in the Best of 2014 Anthology of Kind of a Hurricane Press. It is also online at
http://editorschoiceaward.blogspot.com/. (and below)
The Traffic in Old Ladies
I’m crossing traffic on 8th and 34th
Looking for the cross-town bus,
confused by the numerous vectors.
Leaning against a rail
casual, one leg bent,
a bright-eyed cocoa-toned young man
croons solicitous:
"What's bothering you?
Hey, cum'ere …"
I don't remember what he called me
but he called, again.
Suspecting him a player in
the traffic in old ladies,
I didn’t answer. But his solicitation
propelled me to the mirror back at home.
Twilight softens the contours,
not the intensity.
Face
Not the woman who twice rebuilt a crumbling life
courageous and persistent
(some would say stubborn)
Nor the adventurer friends tap for vicarious trips
(some would say reckless)
Not the bitterness that sometimes thins my optimist smile,
the worry that tightens my jaw
(some would say tense),
Nor the laugh old friends can recognize
across a teeming room
no…
the shocked look of the curly-locked girl in amber silk
staring confused
through undulating water
wondering why
her lover
is holding her
under
...
in A Kind of a Hurricane's Four Seasons Anthology
Spring Dead
There’s a dead man in the attic.
I don’t want to go and find him.
Then I’d have to deal with it.
First I’ll pay my taxes, maybe write a poem.
Later, this afternoon, I’ll go.
Not now.
The sun is shining, and it’s finally spring.
The seed of the apple I just ate is green inside the husk,
a new tree ready to grow.
Even though Jorge cut back all the branches
of the little weeping cherry
that would have bloomed a huge bouquet,
the sap still runs up that stem,
and next year it will show its glory.
Everywhere I look
bulbs peek out,
ferns unfurl.
Who needs death today?
Five Four-plays (4-sentence prose poems after Heller Levinson) and another poem were published by First literary review – east.