Nothing But Color

( After Ai Ogawa )

I could hear you, breathing      
around the next curve;          
I followed, toward the turret—        
its spiraled throat carved out      
to swallow my steady ascension          
until I was nothing        
but an insect, s p i n n i n g          
without one of its wings—        
clockwise. . . upward;          
each turn identical—        
stone-walled scenery        
around a columned spine        
of ribbed-steps          
until I reached its ingress.          
         
Have you ever entered          
the wind's wildest of hearts        
in the middle of its mountain caravan        
and felt everything at once—        
         
Om Mani Padme Om. . .        
I have arrived.          
         
Midheaven, ecliptical—her eastern        
ascension and western descension          
joined at meridian's intersect:        
neither heaven nor earth—          
yet, somehow, familiarity          
opens memory's gate          
to the known unknown.        
You become a Goddess, looming        
over all you rule below;        
Creation, tiny dwellings        
upon buried layers, all bones—        
alive and gone, dreaming          
amid earthen tombs.        
         
There are no skyward secrets—        
the Gospel of Truth          
whips attachments from you        
one by one: a handkercheif  
to shield tears. . .       
a ribbon from your hair        
becomes a multicolored standard—        
a banner of letting go;          
your thoughts, weathered          
as the fortress beneath you,          
now understand how easy        
it would be        
to fall—        
         
unify living and dying as one.          
         
Being human can be unbearable;        
we scale the highest heights possible          
to breach Death's distance—        
until forced to descend        
into the dungeon of Life        
because we're still breathing;        
         
or, that is what I felt you murmur        
in the language of wind       
as you brushed by: Go Live;        
my 'kerchief, spanning interspace—        
an insect, s p i n n i n g        
without one of its wings—        
clockwise. . . outward;          
my ribbon, a kite's tail        
having loosed its string        
         
spiraling into the skyline        
where only the dead survive.          
~

 
I still remember that warm summer night,
The humidity doesn’t let you sleep,
Quick two-minute showers help but
Before you know it, you’re sweating again.
Drinking water also works
But getting up in the middle of the night
To use the bathroom,
For an eight-year-old boy, it’s scary.

The roof laminates are thin,
And when it rains it’s really loud,
You can hear everything through the house,
On quiet nights you can hear cats,
And sometimes even a mouse.
One particular night,
I got up to use the bathroom,
But before I made my way there,
I heard the familiar footsteps on the roof.
I went to the backyard,
And there he was.
It was a cat, black as night,
His eyes glowing by the moonlight.
In my head I said to myself
“I’ll hiss to scare him”
But upon seeing those glowing eyes
I let out a blood curling scream,
Woke up my grandma and aunt,
(And the neighbors) but I…
Didn’t make it to the bathroom.

I walk among the cane
where I kill her, feet still walking.
How would you know it was me
not redemption laying you bare;
girl I remember, touched as a blushing rose --
face down and wilted.
A crushed candy rock
you were drawn from
so long ago in my mind.
 
Earth gave us this: Each other.
We weep, but only from the wind
as it takes you with it.
A wagon rolls by --
the cut cane like limbs;
how gratifying are its legs, oozing  
crystal, feet left to sink lower
and run home to our barren souls.
 
We were together, and now
I push you along,
sweet, succulent girl --
a woman to be refined and purified
of your old, brown self;
bitterness killed by
a force within.
 
     .....

The house is in disarray
Drawn to life in a trail
Her toys and stuffed animals lay
All lifeless and war-torn
Memories of a 3yr old’s tale
Her bowl lays -bruised and battered
A washed-up waterfall
Full of victims of the war
 
Those brave enough to float
In her oval ringed lake
Quietness brakes my train
All is still all is quiet
I hear the minutes tick by
Those precious anniversary
Moments
That tumbleweed through my day
The house is mine
 
 
 
 

Time stands to pause,  
from the everyday,
the too familiar,    
the knowing, of one's heartbeat.     
   
Consistent shadows,
in their progression,
pass through Cottonwoods,
that urge me on,    
to sit on this bus bench,    
where paint peels,
into curls, off old pine boards.    
   
Some remain with me, catching on spiders web,  others dance
with the breeze
that takes them    
to land in a heap nearby.    
   
Silver- blue Greyhound glides by, on her way, 
(without question)    
to where, she's gone
before.    

An expected glimpse caught, from the corner
of my eye.    
The same tired looking
man, wearing brown tweed,  His face like a wayward friend, that no longer
visits.    
Stories, pieced together    
from these brief moments stored,    
in my memory that tells    
me he has traveled farther,   than he had ever planned.    
   
A downward smile    
and furrowed  brow
shows old ambition
fading    
I cannot erase the times
our eyes met, it's not
something I want    
   
His attention stopped,  grabbing hold
of the roadsigns
long enough to look
 my way     
I wonder if he,
is as pleased, to see me,
as I am, of him?     
   
Does he like, the way morning glories turn,
their blue faces
reaching high, with
determination as I do? 

White waterlilies, the pale beauty    
decapitated, the heads seemed detached from stem  
hovering, floating like childhood wishes    
and in reality; the darkness of the pond.    
Anchoring the self, in wonderment.    
Mothers words, my life's book of commands    
 a woman's adolescent need,  to be put to the sword    
hot kisses dreamed, the rapid percussion    
hard an stiff like starch, lay open the impenetrable fort.    
Familiar tune, the record scratched and worn    
the dog that sits beside the horn; obedient in need    
Bitten, taut Knuckles, as the strains of the bugle    
from the battlefield call, the cannons report!    
 Heartbeats forestall the corpses of anguish.    
Look behind? the adieu. Lingering like morning's    
soft awakened smiles. He took his leave,    
smart, in wars gold pressed attire.    
The reign's pull on his mount, that rears    
 cold, grounds fingers snatch Salome's dreams.    
Hunting diaries, scribbled old paragraphs.    
Dredging memories. but the image never lasts