Happiness herself

Happiness herself

seeks to discover moments

of wonder and love

 

Woman, it is time.

Husband, it is time.
He walks ahead of my trudging animal;
his shoulders slump a bit
from the landing of my words.

The rope slackens when he stops.  He asks,
“Are you sure?”
At my nod, he points
“Just ahead” to torches along the outskirts.

Innkeeper, it is time.
I watch him speak to the old hunched man;
his hands reach for coins
to place in eager wrinkled palms.

He returns at my breath hitch.  He says,
“The manger.”
As I nod, he wraps
“Soon, warmth” a blanket around my shoulders.

Mother, it is time.
I crouch in the posture of birth,
my belly hardens a final time to deliver
the promise by Gabriel.

I hear the cry.  Joseph says,
“A man child.”
In my nod, he whispers,
“Emmanuel” a cloth around the baby.

This is a re-posting of something I wrote a few years ago.  Merry Christmas!

 

 

She Warrior

Deployment.
Weapons anchor her girth.
Camouflage fatigues belie
the softness she reserves for her infant son
entrusted to a friend a million miles away.

And as she hunkers down
beneath desert stars in makeshift barracks
she prays.
Let him be safe tonight.

Home.
Diapers, schoolbooks, chores.
Her daily domesticity camouflage
the fierce warrior alert and poised
to guard and protect.

And as she nestles in
beside her sleeping husband
she smiles.
My sons are safe tonight.

.

For Megan. 

A Friend Across the Way

I hunker down every night
A cocoon intent on permanent solitude
to never fly again
to forget the sweet nectar of marigolds and spring birth

The last time I fluttered in hope of emergence
winter touched my fragility midair
and my wings shred
amid winds of betrayal and turmoil ricocheted

But then I heard her song
crooning over snow and frozen stream
wafting vague scents
of warm butternut squash soup and cinnamon yeast

So one morning I and Titus my black lab friend
set out on our last winter expedition
over a lone bridge
to a civilized pattern of houses and streets

And there she was walking towards me
hands in pockets and a smile wide as the new moon
on a black starry night
Hello, she said, you must be my neighbor

Photo taken at Parker Jordan Centennial Park in Englewood, Colorado, February 2015

More, Always More

If there is anything I have learned
from Job’s Yahweh, the ancient bold creator,
and Rahab, the courageous harlot returned,
it is that there is always more, so much more.

If there is anything I have gleaned
from mapping the purpose of my life
and charting divine meanings of dreams,
it is that I need to knock a door, a divine and sacred door.

If there is anything I cherish about enlightenment
as I grieve hypocrisy in Abba’s name,
and celebrate human justice and atonement,
it is knowing that the God who creates us is the same, always the same.

If there is anything I see as I gaze the horizon
at the place where the sun bids us adieu for a while,
and I am tempted to plot life’s destination,
it is that God’s divine shores extend for miles, miles and miles.

The Foolish Dream of the Alchemist’s Wife

Husband, may I speak with you?
Her eyes focused on the space
just to left of his empty rice bowl.

Do you speak of my sons?
Are they studious in their lessons?

Your sons do you honor, my husband.
Number one son is especially well-regarded.

Is this about my mother?
Is she happy and being taken care of?

Your mother is very healthy, my husband.
She is most proud of her son’s success.

Is the household orderly?
Are the servants obedient?  Is there anything lacking?

The servants are loyal. We want for nothing.
I do not deserve such a comfortable house, dear husband.

So speak, woman. What thoughts and cares
bring you to my table and time of rest?

I had a disturbing dream about the black dust, my husband,
the dust you invented to explode color through the night sky.

Recall, woman, I was instead seeking the elixir of life.
Creating the black powder was a gift from the gods.

In my dream, husband, it was the black dust of death,
used to pierce the hearts of enemies and the innocent alike.

Think, woman.  The night powder brings us the emperor’s favor
and the great wealth of traders from the south and the east.

In my dream, husband, your black powder brings destruction,
It causes children to bleed while the earth moans in pain.

Hush, woman.  No demons lurk in the marriage of fire and powder.
Your dream is a foolish imagining of female weakness.

Husband, I speak no more.
She closed her eyes and mourned
for the dual legacy of the fire powder.

Mist

Mist, she comes unbidden

She gathers scattered molecules to descend
to the forest on the lee side of the precipice
where she blurs the shadows of squirming wolf pups
until Mother returns with field mice for their Dawn repast

She weaves shawls of droplets
around sleeping lavender and chamomile flowers
to dress them for the Morning sonata
of bees and beetles and grass bursting through Earth

She glides through an open window on the third floor walkup
to sigh chills that nudge the waking woman
into her man’s arm tattooed with dragons and swords
coaxing Life’s yearning for itself

Mist, she is beholden

She listens for the retreat of Rain’s footmen
and begins to gently twirl infinite prism veils
and arcs her back in the sensuous dance of Rainbow
delighting in a brief glimpse into Heaven’s soul

A note on the photos: I photographed the rainbow while sitting at Hau Tree Lanai in Waikiki, Oahu.  The mountain mist is a free image available at 7art-screensavers.com/wallpapers/mist-0/xls/impervious-fog.jpg

Precious flower

Precious flower
I first noticed you
while I was taking inventory of a garden’s promise
after the frost finally surrendered to its mandate
of life’s rebirth

Still a tiny bud
appointed to perch on a tender stalk
you were the first hope of spring’s rosebush
and regally wore your morning crown
of a single dewdrop

A perfect creation
your maturity belied spring’s frenzy
– its pulsing leaves, seductive pollen, buzzing rustlers –
all cacophonous next to the serenity
of your simple smile

Delicate blossom
forgive my temporal distractions
as I gadded amid lavender stalks and mint clusters
I should have filled my senses one last time
with your sweet, sweet spirit

For Gail Urago (1954 – 2012), my classmate of 13 years at St. Patrick’s School and Sacred Hearts Academy.

I was fortunate to see her in May at a grade school reunion in Hawaii.  It was the first time I saw her since we graduated from high school in 1972.  She was always quiet next to us loudmouths and at our reunion, she serenely greeted us as in times past. 

She moved on this year. I wish I sat with her.   Goodbye for now, Gail.

Woman, it is time

Husband, it is time.
He walks ahead of my trudging animal;
his shoulders slump a bit
from the landing of my words.

The rope slackens when he stops.  He asks,
“Are you sure?”
At my nod, he points
“Just ahead” to torches along the outskirts.

Innkeeper, it is time.
I watch him speak to the old hunched man;
his hands reach for coins
to place in eager wrinkled palms.

He returns at my breath hitch.  He says,
“The manger.”
As I nod, he wraps
“Soon, warmth” a blanket around my shoulders.

Mother, it is time.
I crouch in the posture of birth,
my belly hardens a final time to deliver
the promise by Gabriel.

I hear the cry.  Joseph says,
“A man child.”
In my nod, he whispers,
“Emmanuel” a cloth around the baby.

House *

If I come to the window one last time
will you promise to remember me as I was in the spring
when my whispers quickened your heart
and you yearned for my hair across your pillow?

I shall grant you one last glance,
but only if you see me as the lover
you so foolishly abandoned.

* sethsnap was kind to invite fellow bloggers to write something, anything, about his photo titled “Ohio Christmas.” This is what I see.  Please visit his site at sethsnap.com.