the moon waits for me.
i become the terpsichorean,
naked, fragile, unclothed in darkness.
my hips are my cauldron.
i stir for the babies not yet conceived.
i stir for love and longing.
i stir for survival.
i wait for the moon.
and it waits for me.
The poem below by Frost is the life I’ve always lived, the road less traveled. It keeps me sane, even as it sometimes leaves me lonely in this world. Most times, lonely in a room filled with people.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
I read this piece by Yeats recently and it struck a cord.
The Lake Isle of Innisfree W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
I walk the dusty road of false time, seeking angels with broken wings. Only they know my sorrow and how unforgiving the gods can be. I don’t need their lives vicariously, my window is the same, yet I have no wings. I see through the dirt and grime that only rain can wash away, sometimes.
When the after-time comes, my sorrow will be complete. The gods will walk among us telling tall tales of how they were created. Yes, they too must answer to their gods. Their iniquities will be brought to judgement’s feet, then they will be asked, how did you nurture your creations? how did you help them to become gods?
the park benches wait for children.
lonely and longing for the weekend fraught with giggles and bruised knees,
they wait for light and dark to revolution less than six times.
that is all it will take to bring the children.
sneakered and bare feet trampling the sand.
the benches wait.
somewhere behind night the laughter awaits.
the children fold into innocence.
they brith a new future,
where race and identity merge.
the playground becomes the neutral zone.
colors are for the external world.
Undulating within dark words reaching for dying stars. Nubian night finds us inventing stories of our beginnings. Ichor is there for drink, if you want, if you dare. Venus is just up ahead, a little to the left and on ’til dusk. Endings exist at the edge of a dark multiverse. Remember your beginnings so you can live. Souls don’t find rest, out there. Ethers breathe the breath of life into entities seeking birth.
Below are pictures I took of a Night-Blooming Cereus my mother has in a giant pot by the pool. All day the buds stay tightly closed, unmoved by the sun. As the sky turns gray, yellow, then red, the bud begins to slowly move, yawning to welcome the night. No sooner than the stars begin to twinkle, the flower is open wide, spread gloriously to present herself to the night sky. The dark rays flower her. Only the dark rays force this flower to smile with regal admiration for the night.
Photo taken by zaji, 2011
A Haiku for the Night-Blooming Cereus (or, Queen of the Night)
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.
galaxy luggage found travel stickers across the milky way.
my suitcase has seen Jupiter and Saturn.
winged feet prefer clouds doubling as stones
to take me across stars flowing like waters.
i skip across clouds white and emptiness.
planet hopping is free.
so i travel light.
my suitcase tells stories
of solar flares
and black skies birthing stars.
stickers carry worlds and words.
galaxy luggage remembers milky ways.
my suitcase has seen Adromeda rising.
I am revisiting this piece which I wrote a very long time ago. At the time I’d been reading quite a bit of Shel Silverstein’s children’s poems and shortly after discovered his story, The Giving Tree. I was most enthralled with his poetry and in a roundabout way was led to his children’s poems after reading Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky”.
I eventually began reading his children’s poetry book, Falling Up. It was a fun and interesting book which I would read to my daughters fairly regularly. Silverstein’s poetry and Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” birthed the poem below.
A World Upside Out
Underneath the top of the valley
Looking down at a sky so gray
Over the bottom of the hill
Looking up at a sea at play
Inside the outside of the world
Outside of inner peace
I see the vertical horizon peeking below
The moon setting in the east
Upside inside underneath
A world on top of the clouds
The sun shines darkly evermore
In a garden filled with stars