lunar hymn

the moon is here,
the face
that faces us
both the part that is illuminated
or dark
or that part covered
by clouds
obstructed
by buildings, trees
mental obscurations

it is there
in all of its
limp roundness

silent cells
of brilliant brains
culture, conduit
to give it epithets
attribute intentions
to blanket it in stories
myths and science
all to give us greater

vision
at night

The same chord

I saw the purple first
Crocuses cost winter its end
And spring, newly consummated
The fog on my glasses
The frost on the car windows
Breeze biting into my morning skin
Green buds daring to show their kindness
All of the trees seeming to ache
The same 3-tone chord, sustained
-- Seek, grow, pass it on

reverse Rorshachs (an evening at the Boarding House)

his light, fabric gig bag
slips easily off of his
electric bass
he plugs in and runs scales
and funky improvisations
while the pianist and drummer
set up

their music does the same for me
as the Taoist meditation
my therapist taught me

puts a sweet flame in my heart

jazz juxtaposes discipline
with deeply felt
experience

I draw while they play
approach the bass player
during their break
show him my drawing
my gift for his --

"It's a reverse Rorshach"
I explain, two simple lines
curving together

"How so?" he asks.

"In a better world,
a psychiatrist
might try to find out
how sane you are
instead of how sick you are
a patient might look at this
and say, 'That pattern looks like
a heart
or two swans in love'"

Gary introduces himself
says we have got to hang out
sometime
I visit his apartment
once or twice
for lessons
walking bass lines

we run into each other
every 10 years or so now
East side, West side
by synchronicity
he, having shed his vocation
like a fabric gig bag
-- a counselor now

me, shedding assorted neuroses
Rorshach, reverse or not
the world appearing brighter
by the decade

hungry ghost

empty the space
of cringing
of cleaving to want
diminish until
you are a speck
that mars
the vast opaque backdrop

fill your stomach, hungry ghost
do not deny
your desire
to be whole
to live your bliss
to bow to a greater
future, caring for those
through whom
you have come
to be
you

it has been said

the rich get richer
the poor, poorer
the hawks get war
the doves
lay down in its path

why are we surprised by this?
appalled, yes
but the wind goes
where there is concave
where there is inlet
swirls and returns
to flow
or to confront itself

by fear or by desire
we all get what we expect
or what we dread

the rich get richer
the poor get poorer
it has been said
why complain?

stand, rather
witness
accept what is
then move to change

suppertime

never forget
the dog
you are
the rusty chain
that broke
underfoot
while you were looking
for another kind
of freedom

power of two

Barbara Brennan
energy healer
author of "Hands of Light"
former NASA physicist
wrote that boys
who have been humiliated
by their mothers
tend toward portliness
and a fascination
with pornography
outlandish as it may sound
it hit the mark for me
when I read it
several years ago

tonight
I listen to some Indigo Girls
I sit and journal
map out and peruse my life
in pen
as two lesbians
sing of a power
"stronger than the monsters
beneath your bed"
and it occurs to me
that there is something
I want more
than pictures
of untouchable dominatrixes
and fetish queens

I want love
in whatever form
it may come
a power stronger than
humiliation
childhood sexual abuse
and years of inaction
in the face of losing
that passion for healing
and sharing
with tangible
wounded
fellow humans

in my basement

I don't know
a thing
but that I don't know
what machines
are carrying on
in my basement

a flock of terns
in the sky
between my hair
and my chin
the quest
I am in
the promise of salvation
the dismantling
of all
of my secret
cogs

Fever Dream

The day I lay on the couch
In hypnagogic fever dream
Walter Cronkite raining ghastly energy
On my pajama’ed, five-year-old self
-- His news of Universal destruction
Burrowing into my sleep, tearing at all childhood
F oo t h ol d s
Waking me with a start
To find…

Walter Cronkite on the television
Talking calmly about some banal development
In the news

I pulled off my blanket
Rushed outside
Looking frantically around
Until I spotted the Cleveland Press delivery boy, alive
…Alive

I fell to my knees into the lawn, sobbing
“I thought everyone was dead…
I thought….everyone….was...dead...”

Not alone in this world, as if I ever could be
The paper boys, the pet hamsters, my stout little mother
Would be with me, in some form or another
Until the end of days

When Brahma will open his eyes
The dream of his Creation ended
And we will revel as One
In the worlds of our own Imagining