In my house of open windows

SallyMann

~

“…. for a conditioned love loses its infinity, and in losing its infinity love is no longer love. In short, the highest expression of love as found in Hafiz’s poetry – is for love to create another perfect in its composition, without any bounds or conditions, infinite and completely, eternally free.”

~

her waist

that God

created out

of nothing

is so slender

none created

can embrace it

In response ….

In my house of open windows

When you enter the garden

and sing to me of your sorrows

in harmony with the songs

of the night birds

I weave each sorrowful note

into a carpet of prayer

for us to lie on

praising

our Beloved

~

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Photo: “Deep South” by Sally Mann

Translation of Hafiz by Peter Booth

“Dante/Hafiz Readings on the Sigh, the Gaze, and Beauty” by

Franco Masciandaro and Peter Booth

I send my voice out until breathless…

3

~

There is a mountain

within me

An inheritance

that has now become a polished stone

nestled in flesh,

in blood rich organ

~

A nameless sadness, it nestles close

real as the moon’s rise,

born within

a pit in the stomach

a seed in the heart

~

“Take this strange sorrow from me. It is bottomless,” I cry

as I walk up and down

the mourning side of my mountain.

~

At the top of the mountain

I yodel like a fool…

sounds and sobs issue with spittle and tears

I send my voice out

until breathless

~

But not spent

~

In the quieting down

I understand this weight is a broken seam

that can not be healed

It is the rend in the garment

of the turning in and the turning away from.

~

This broken seam can only be mended

by the flame that burns

in an open heart

~

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Artist: Johan Christian Dahl  1821

becoming Beauty

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~

Becoming Beauty

face up floating

in a sea of glass

~

Beauty lies below me

 in the elemental caprice of

sunlit patterns reflecting sky

~

Beauty circles above me

in clouds collecting salted tears

We all become the ocean when it rains

~

Beauty walks behind me

with gravity leaving footprints

Its strength the shifting sands

~

The wind of Beauty

blows quietly within me

ever seeking itself without measure

~

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The source of this gorgeous photo is unknown

Fragile still

max ernst

~

Fragile like smog shadows rifling valleys

the mountain holds its breath

~

Fragile like feverish water

the ocean aborts the moon’s children

~

Fragile like bees loosing direction

and stamens playing their last hands

~

Fragile like children born overwhelmed

by viruses perplexed

~

Fragile still

like a flower 

self-sewing in the garden

in blooming will make no mistake

intelligence in its unfolding

~

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Artist: Max Ernst

The unbearable awkwardness of three

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Doubt and Belief silently argue

as they sit upon a box

~

Trust joins them

adding 3 wheels to the box

~

giving much needed mobility

to their ping-pong debate

~

everyone’s muscles still tense

when they pass Hope or Violence

~

as they meander

around the countryside

~

looking for the exact spot

where their grief is buried

~

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photo credit: unknown

The nimbleness of intelligence

microbiome

~

How many times

will I shed raw and return?

Or is it a stronger current

amorphously assembling and deconstructing

in circuitous layers of attendance

as I unwittingly rally

behind the porosity of thought

the seduction of knowledge

~

I am a small planet

a symbiotic microbial world

my mind’s peripheral orbit

has flung so far out

in its trajectory that now

my axis seems nearly invisible

but I can still feel it…

this bright nucleus of love

teeming with life

~

Tepid fleshed, soft and juicy

I navigate through

this microbial stew

with winged thoughts

a heart that prisms lightning

and opposable dancing thumbs

exploring this finely tuned internal edge

tingling with the emotive tracings

of “new” frontiers

~

While underground

the nimbleness of intelligence

arises in quietude

fervent, listening

patiently listening

for openings of emergent steam

clear signs of the heat of engagement

~

I look “out there” from inside the swarming warmth

positioning myself in the spaces in between

practiced in resistance to the consistent hum of patterns and static

The quietude continues to rise from its circuitous path

this time through the soles of my feet

rising to the opening in my sky when I hear

“Out here! Out here! Not out there! We’re right here!

We’re all right here… playing in the fields of wild light”

~

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Picture source: Teach the Microbiome

Mamma clock

Turrell

~

You were never adventurous

insisting on sticking to interaction

proscribed a sure thing

trying to be a “good girl” but always told

you were never good enough…

I was the one thrown into the air by each season

intoxicated by a flower’s breath

building new homes out of cardboard or snow

exhuming pets I was curious about death and bones and teeth

climbing trees listening to their heart sap

nipping change from Norman’s penny jar just for the sneak of it

not caring much about showing my girl parts to the neighbor boys

my anatomy a fire fly in a jar

And there you were pushing me off

unsteady on two bicycle wheels

as if your moods weren’t the day’s bad weather

and me always approaching you with the caution

of the kid held flat out in high winds

and now you were casting me off like a baby bird

as if you yourself knew how to fly

Well…little did I know your strange insistence

was giving me more than wings

your internal Mamma clock was saying

it was time I learned to fly

sending me on my way

with all you had learned of trust 

and the red apple of your love

watching me

as I took off and kept rolling

~

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Artist: Terry Turrell

Verde Corazon

fern

~

my sleeping fingers hear night rain

they sweep wide 

opening a window

my waking skin is dampened

smelling wakened soil

~

my blood is pulsing

melting runoff

~

breathing it all in

deep as my lungs will take it

  tender buds

unfurl in my brain

without thought

~

full to bursting

~

………………………………………………………………………………………..

photo: nezartdesign

Finger prints

magdalen

~

You were imprinted on my fingertips

written as dim memory

in line and skin

~

I kept your image at arms length

or balled it into a fist

A turning away

from the violence

As if there is no real death in ascending?

~

As a child

it is true

I was taught to expect some relationship

while being impressed into the feverish tribe

of Jesus watching

~

Before me

pale lipped men

created tension

bells ringing

Climaxing

with a tiny chaste taste

~

Who clothed me

in this rag tag skin of living words?

Held hostage

~

Until

I fall pummeled and wading

in the waves of this unexpected birthing

Free now to love you simply as a man

~

A man of flesh and bread and wine

who once lived to turn the world.

~

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Artist: Caravaggio