A wisp of stardust
drifted as seeming detritus
cast from the Sculptor’s masterpiece
of suns, planets and meteors
until this cirrus of infinitesimal iridescence
merged with your aura
imbued with ancient hues
that map the destiny of kings and prophets.
Tomorrow, February 7, is the fourth birthday of grandson Rocco Bonifacio Senelly. He shall be embarking on his fifth year on this planet. Happy birthday, dear one.
How she longs for the deep slumber of eons past
so she can dream of a simpler existence
when she swam in the cool waters of a lake of her creation
whose green waters merged Pacific Ocean brine
with rainwater swirling in earthen veins deep in the island belly.
Where she emerges refreshed and baptized yet again,
her raven hair flowing over her wide shoulders and draping her brown breasts
her flesh caressed by cool tradewinds whispering her name.
But she could no sooner retreat behind this memory
than she could delay the birth of this child
conceived by a fiery seed before time was invented
when there was yet no one to worship the gods
whose only destiny was to shape all that was forthcoming.
No doula was present to relieve the cadence of her quickening.
And though she has birthed many, she is not prepared for this new one.
Its strength and persistence demand existence
with a greedy hunger for all in its path.
Her guttural moans spew fire and rock and ash and vapor.
Her contractions cause deep fissures in the earth’s crusty skin.
The heat of her pains scorch villages and forests.
Her precious lake evaporates when she exhales in fury.
Her sweat steams the sea.
Yet even as she begs the heavens to let this birth be done,
her child continues to come forth and, with impish audacity,
consumes homes and playgrounds of mere humans
and imposes its presence on the ocean most vast.
Photo from U.S. Geological Survey photos on the Kilauea Volcano
in geometric formation
in villages of thoughts and ideas
populated by dreams and illusions
images of perceived hamlets
on canvasses of poetry and prose
to soothe her restless soul
Though the storm abated
when the morning sky expelled charcoal clouds
whose light sabers summoned guttural roars
that shook my sleeping soul,
I remain cautious with dread
as I collect branches broken before their time
and leaves scattered across the path
leading to my garden pelted by hail.
My senses await the portent
of yet more of heaven’s random wrath
while my bones prepare to rattle
at the mere hint of barometric shift.
Then you bring me coffee
and bid me to pause
for just a moment,
so you can read to me
today’s forecast of clear skies,
light breezes and
perhaps gentle rain.
And you assure me that
the modest wren shall sing once more.
You are not the cirrus
wispy ice crystals
highest in the heavens
oblivious to earthly shadows and whispers
You eschew the nimbostratus
shielding the heavens
with a gray blanket of great sadness
that darkens earthen hopes and dreams
Neither are you the haughty cumulus
defending heaven’s gate with
threatening storms and floods
to earth oceans, forests and prairies
No, I fancy you the stratocumulus
in the dawn of twilight surrender
infusing color and promise
and greeting all creatures with renewal and hope
seeks to discover moments
of wonder and love