…as rippled static
on a wind wakened lake
tending tiny life
that trusts our largeness mistaking mirrors for people big in the pants of time finding the secret of grasping is holding hands with ourselves as we search our patterns and cycles for sameness
looking for certainty
of just one thing
My mind is tracing
patterns the window makes. I massage thought
with my tongue.
The tree shadow-dance
behind the window
Clouds roll by
and light comes.
You are here:
light, air, body of thought. The hungry heart
with a naked mind.
I have not walked above the ground here but raked your hills of needles, blended into the noisy woods with motorcycles and deer. Where cacophony meets silence a sea serpent cloud
slowly opens its mouth
to receive a dragon
changing into a man.
I am not alone here
in a hammock in the wind, in the wobbly hands of god.
Dog Day Afternoon
The dog follows me as if a self within always in touch though
sometimes out of reach.
When not an insistent bitch she sleeps at my feet
and beside my thoughts.
I eat the air of her dreams chasing four legged demons and cars. I paint the house with light by stepping outside the sun.
My hands reach out in water grasping for the soul of the sea. I reach out the way a fish breathes inspired by the trying,
satisfied for moving closer to knowing the flow around me. I cannot float though I am buoyant teasingly held up by liquid hands connected by the DNA of dreaming to my core being
so that I’m okay with sea inside me.
Like sensuous silk
lightly brushing by nipples, deep in the perception
of changing mood
and pin point stimulation, your granite pillar
and lava hands
break a crotch of mirror, melt breasts of stone.
The wind in my head
echoes the cooler.
I am on the slash edge
and deeply chilled.
I will delay change for now and feel sharply.
I will float inside
and eat music.
I am cycling
through the woods.
In heat, I unbutton
notice some daises
pick three to ride
in my buttonhole.
We all cycle together.
I grow wet.
The bark on the tree
I buy a wooden inlay
having four hands,
with her body,
possessing a long tongue behind a closed mouth.
the roofs of youth
to the innocent grandma days with fairies of care
and safety in a blizzard back when red blinking lights in high up towers
were beckons signaling my soul would blossom in the universe and I would know
that buttery country feeling from the earth up to the stars and I would call it love
The sound of the human voice like the bell ring of metal and crisp air under grey skies—
romantic yet ominous—
Don’t worry about contradictions. No one is innocent.
No one is guilty.
We are all misunderstood even by ourselves.
Yet when we know love
we know everything.
Awakened by wind,
thirsty and mystified
by the worm holes of truth. If atoms are probability patterns effected by relationships then truly we infuse
objects with meaning.
A keepsake is a bridge
to the inner and outer worlds. The sensations we feel
sitting next to a friend or stranger
is the reading of energy through shared atmosphere and atoms.
Our friends through cables and computer screens
are as real as the light and sound waves
we alter through thought.
From the ancient Indian metaphor Indra’s net:
Pull one thread
and all else is effected. No act or thought
It ripples through the web. Published from Didi Menendez’ Desk for Belinda & Cheryl’s Use online and print Bloomington, IL November 2008