Updated: Nov 26, 2021
Words harvested from a chapter in life.
A collection of poetic prose.
A little teaser:
Womb Series I
My womb is a starry sky populated by pomegranate and plum trees.
Between my legs is a vivified forest of obscene magnolias.
An uninhibited scent of life dances through her undergrowth, reminding the wise of a time when humans talked to mud
and music was made by the light of neon moons.
My womb speaks in a tongue so ancient that time has stopped inside her pine cone center.
Let it be known -
She does not live in the dictionary.
She speaks in hushed tones full of swallows,
The language is simple:
a simple yes,
a simple no.
My womb is filled with lark song. Her landscapes ache with the earthy giggles of moss and clay and,
if you listen closely,
you will hear the source of all song inside her cavernous silence.
A willowy wind winds its way, whistling through her fertile warmth.
One may wander,
in the sand dunes of her gardens.
She is not a battle ground - the one who wonders in her has always won.
My womb is the center of the Earth. She blackholes all of existence in her toothless mouth.
At her doorstep,
at the threshold,
in brutal softness she says,
"All those who enter
must be willing to die".
You covered me with tulip petals upon my arrival.
Even before my eyes could open, you bathed me in honey, elderflower and hazel.
I came here,
having nothing to offer.
And yet you held me in an endless embrace of gracious generosity - your arms full to the brim of gifts for me.
I take a breath:
My nostrils, the tiniest of entrances, become the gateway to all of existence because of you.
In the smallness of my body,
you offered the interminable landscapes of valley,
ocean and bog as my playground.
No matter where I went,
my tiny feet were always held by you.
Ground, stone, soil and dirt
- even in your magnificence you offer the humility of this bare earth.
I am a pauper.
My hands are empty.
But there is no price at your table. Your banquet is endless.
Behold the majesty of your infinite giving:
Child, mountain, breeze and crop. Star and fish live alongside the vastness of your great bounty.
I walk this earth with my naked skin and open mouth.
You meet me with cherry trees, orange groves and the great mystery of the tiny pomegranate seed.
I grow old.
not once have I received a receipt.
Not once have you refused to get the bill.
You take me by the hand
leading me through the open fields and desert dunes that you've made for us to dance in.
We whirl and spin.
I tarry and dwell in the caves of my own confusion.
I call you names in this dripping cavern of dirty lichen and unhappy mud.
I sit with my back turned,
mystified by the shadowy walls, enchanted by the nightmares, caught in the drum of my screaming, my yelling.
I turn you into a monster
and play the game of villain, arguing with crazy tongue and sunken eyes.
Then I become tired.
My voice is hoarse.
I beat my clenched fists one last time and succumb,
deep into the slumber of pacified paroxysm.
And in the quiet of sleep,
in the stillness of repose,
you show me that,
cave, lichen, fists and tears
were also a gift
Maybe I have not done a thousand things
seen everything I wanted to see,
talked all I wanted to talk,
gone everywhere I wanted to go.
But this morning
I sat by the aquamarine pond
and watched the red fox
while wild geese flew overhead
heralding the coming of fall.
that was enough.