Befriend the Wind

If you ever loose your path
(as if in the midst of the wretched wild)

Consider greeting a bird, befriending a tree;
listen to the ancient callings of the steadfast wind
that spell out the four cardinal directions ―

Then a rose would be your confidant and aide
(for you'd know to read and understand her face)

towards this place of infinite solace

_ _ _

                                                          "Howling Winds" (2014)

Winter poem

At the turn of the winter sea-

son(g)s rise to hail the Creator

The forest rumble and sway

and somber waves thunder and swell, roll over-

taken by the rugged wind

as bone-chilling squalls hurl giant

swaths of snow upon a distant harrowed field

where a seed has dropped ― to die

and bear

the fruit (of Man) ―

a prayer's unravelling to silence

_ _ _

"You fool! What you saw does not come to life unless it dies."

― 1 Corinthians 15:36

ЗИМНА ПОЕМА

(на Майка)

Край вълнолома на зимния сезон

песни се реят във възхвала на Създателя

Разлюляната гора бучи

повдигат се с грохот мрачни вълни, и падат

сломени от грубия вятър

и мразовити вихрушки запращат (вели)-

кански снопове от сняг надaлеч в разораното поле,

където едно зърно е паднало ― да си отиде

и прероди се

в нов (човешки) плод ―

една молитва се разплита в тишината

_ _ _

“Безумецо, що ти сееш, няма да оживее, ако не умре.” 

― 1 Коринтяни 15:36

traffic

"To have an inner life, to think, to juggle and leap, to become a tightrope walker
in the world of ideas. To attack, to riposte, to refute, what a contest, what acclaim.
To understand. The most generous word of all. Memory. To retain, a geyser of felicity.
Intelligence. The agonizing poverty of my mind. Words and ideas flitting in and out 
like butterflies. My brain a dandelion seed blown in the wind."

― Violette Leduc

For what it is

A kit of pigeons swirl

through the dense knotted limbs
of benumbed frost-bitten trees
black and bare to my blind eye

I see a dozen flapping wings 

 that thrust against the clasp of winter,

hear crisp-clear whips of sails at sea

midst fierce gusts of arctic wind —
emphatic flight for higher ground;
a silver cloud moored on the roof,
a reverie perhaps, immersed?
.

for what it is, is that, which isn't
and what is sought is seldom seen
or grasped in the moment,
but missed, and missed

(composite after J.M.W. Turner)

At Earth's end

Towards the end (if not a vertical precipice)
Earth crumbles to sand, emerald sea-glass glitter
amidst white heart-shaped pebbles, seashells
a blue horizon strings, attempting to disappear
the Ocean breathes in violent gales of wind.
"It's not cold. It's windy," the Galicians joke.
And it is both! believe me. Glorious, breathtaking
as only the End of the World could be.
At Cabo Fisterra.

 _ _ _

Tangled [in] words

I get tangled in words
run aimlessly between reason

and consequence.

There is a notion of getting [it]

                                in the word for-getting

and giving [all there is]

                                in the word for-giving.

I figured that the other night

drifting at the water’s edge, waves

washing my weary senses.

There is a point where a thought

 needs to be verbalized. Then I speak

in the words of others, or perhaps

it's the other way around?

However weightless, I am not a bird
nor wind rustling the leaves.
I dare not
                                disturb the silence.

Tapestry from the enchanted forest

Counting time

This road ends at the old sea-

wall wedged beyond the possibility

of going any further. The options left

are to fly, swim/drown, or turn back

seek the mountain. There is an uneasy

sense of sinking when surrounded by water.
Perhaps all endings feel that way.

The hourglass broken open(

Tumultuous winds and high seas

have smashed it against the age-

old battered shores. Time languishes

present, and equally absent here.
Its vague pulse counted by the dying waves

counter-intuitive to one's heart,

lost to a sense of direction.

There are roughly ten-thousand grains

of sand in a handful, sometimes enough

to measure an entire minute of life.
Trickling now between my fingers.

In seconds.

_ _ _

tattered wings

in the tattered wings

of a coconut tree

the wind rages delirious

chatters like the mad rain
day and night night and day
dry tears of unfathomable pain
one thousand blades

prying off a soul
from a frail man's body

pain pain pain
more than sinew and bone can bear
taut twanging ball of nerves
cutting wrenching tearing
squeezing thirsty cupful
teardrops of blood-
dew to appease tomorrow's dawn

heaven birthing an angel
amid Earth's mourning

but why so violent? oh God, why
s o   v i o l e n t ?

(it was never suppose to be this way)

wondrous sound

Isn't it so, that speech starts
as a gust of wind inside the lungs,

my heart rushing skywards

in frequent audible pulses

shaping around the tongue ―

a pair of syllables, once mute

rolling off my mouth now

such a wondrous!  sound,
as I pronounce a name out loud. 

Your soft voice answering.

canon beach, oregon

                                                          windswept!

palm leaves

isn't it so, that at dawn
a young sun bursts in the leaves

of the windswept coconut trees. shreds them
to slender barbs of feathers. the tender breeze
nestles between to keep the palms in balance

amidst the blustery storm near the shore
of my sleepless sea. and isn't it so, that
the same breeze wraps around my bare
skin now as i cast my bread upon the waters
long to return home. your arms to draw me near

after the storm quiets the way i have always
imagined - the wind in my spread wings
loving you fiercely
                                                        more than ever.

a young sun rising. 
rustling in the leaves.

twirling lanterns

fierce winds from the east roamed the cobblestone streets the other night
looming the finest of sand in an exquisite tapestry. felt like crossing a town
in the middle of the desert. wordless pilgrims / you and i / time [a]bound.
the lanterns in the nearby tree flickering and twirling to the howling calls
from distant galaxies. scattered now in the dust. sparkling at my feet.

then it rained for an entire week in a day.
washed the sand and your footsteps away.


"i am a universe in a handful of dirt, / whole when totally demolished." - rumi

footprints at dawn

i hasten to the seaside

search for your footprints at dawn
the sand swept even by the night wind
i rake with my bare foot to uncover

a trace of you, beloved

but none in the last
one hundred years of solitude
(as Marquez perhaps would say)

another sun sets ablaze
parts the rue sea above the clouds
i glide my palm over the satin grains

draw wings of an angel instead
to cross this nebulous
                                                                            lifespan between

which in inter-galactic terms
may very well mean "tomorrow"
i could flood in your arms (i wish)
be at your fingertips, no?

                                                                            until then: i imagine

subconsciously true

                                                                        sometimes
i think that it is the i in me ~ 

my disposition, my thoughts, my feelings

that evoke (acquire, if it suits you better) 

the images the camera sees, and

                                                                                not my eye [i].

then i scribble about it. in simple words 

ask the entire universe for more. of the kind.

relinquish the core of my being to be delineated 

thousands of miles away, turned inside out
beneath the layers of an unknown nebula

fingers molding the void, pressing the space

to the formless shape of my blood and bones.

pure. raw real. subconsciously true.

honest. to self only. (sometimes)
and vaguely obscure, evanescent
always morphing to retain wholeness

i fragment to grains of sand between
the stones of gravity to be i. slip in the gaps.
breathe the ocean unobstructed. full lungs.

as air dies off in the sudden gusts of wind

i cannot see, but distinguish against my skin

an inter-galactic polarity drawing me near.

lately i almost come to believe it.
                                                                    almost.


kind of self-fulfilling prophecy, right?

"woman, with her very dissimilar psychology, is and always has been a source of information 
about things for which a man has no eyes." ~ C.G.Jung, Aspects of the Feminine

post # 800

gray sky - haiga

#  3*