In Love With Language, For Wuji

  

He was a man

who was bursting

with effusive poems,

a boundless outpouring

of ornate articulation.


He fell in love

with a poetess,

a skilled doyenne 

of his cherished art.


His garrulous lines

sparked with passion

for her careful starkness

of expression.

His pointed declarations

yearned for the soft edges

of her sinuous metaphors.

His pen,

engorged with ink,

burned

to mark

her page.


All poets 

are essentially 

in love 

with language.


Our poetry

is birthed

from the ecstatic romance

of our lovemaking

with words.

Oestrus, This Birth

 

 I made love to the desert,

to the pinyon pines,

to juniper smoke and dried lavender,

planted my seeds there

in the springtime snow.


I sang to blue cornmeal

and Mother Spirits.

I danced to the gnarled riffs of blues guitar,

cradled myself in the music of bluegrass hymns,

slept with the ancestors, 

huddled in woven blankets.

We laughed through hardships,

warmed our hearts with stories.


We were native to each other.


Wildflowers 

of a graceful future 

blossomed from my womb,

intrepid dreams with deep bulbs

for roots.


I left these plantings,

these beautiful parts of myself,

like frozen buds,

there, on tribal land,

at the peak 

of a sacred mountain.


They tended to themselves 

in my absence.

They grew, 

with inchoate longings.


They were souls

that shimmered in the high desert starry night sky

waiting to be formed

by the magic 

of love.


They were medicine spells cast 

like lines

in the subtle poetry 

of the otherworld.


This year,

destiny bloomed,

a green shoot

in springtime.

The seed of your body 

nestling inside my rich and fertile ground;

my sweet scent 

of geraniums flooding your senses.

I am thawed,

warmed

by your raging heat.


This birth

will come

to be.








Beauty Walks

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Maybe you
were the first groove laid down.
The template.

The exposition
that became a story
in itself.

Maybe this
is the one
that was meant to be told
all along.

Our bed is a boat
on the Sea of Cortez.
The bay is silent, dark with moonlight
and the howls of dogs,
entranced by the romance
of a coyote.
I replay
within the old tape deck of my heart
Frida’s longing for Diego.

Nighttime turns and tosses
to the pulse
of Earth’s blood;
the sea.
Her tide is overflowing
into salt beds,
veins of white upon the land.

I float
in your strong arms,
safe and secure,
luxuriating in scents of pipe smoke
and sheepskin,
deliriously content.

Beauty walks
beneath my eyelids,
master works of ethereal colors frescoed
in sacred brush strokes
upon the cave walls
of my dreaming mind.

Being with you
feels just like coming home
to a place
I never was before.

His Dream

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Pua Nani. I had a beautiful dream with you in it. I had to fall through some sort of ice, maybe like sugar glass, to land in a velvety world, like petals on a flower. You were in that world. I saw others but they were slightly out of focus. The wondrous world had all the beauty of this world without the angst, I felt. I did not venture beyond the ground I stepped onto. Quiet laughters and animal sounds, sky deep and milky and still breathtaking. I held you in an intimate way and loved you. The sheets were like smoke wafting nowhere but all around our bodies. Just before dawn, I awoke. Where is this world? Good morning, my beautiful friend.

Master Shaman

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I don’t know how to describe the way

you beckoned me

with the subtle gestures

of your dreaming

back to you,

back to your tribe.

I just know

that you showed up one day,

in your black pick up truck.

You came for me,

feigning shyness in such a genuine manner

that it matched my own.

I greeted you in pale pink.

You embraced me, grasped my hands in yours,

and your wrists were adorned with silver and turquoise.

Your voice was soft and worn

as an ancient whisper,

gravelly with desert sand

and the language of the mesas,

the rhythmic intonations

of your native tongue.

I was struck

with the strangeness

of how familiar you were,

even despite the fact

that I had never really known you

that well.

Yet I felt the presence of my old love

lingering inside you like a shadow.

He was there with you

even as he wasn’t.

Like a father and son,

like Er and Judah

with Tamar.

I knew

about your powers.

I knew

you could see,

with eyes of

visionary artistry,

the invisible threads,

the divine loom,

the sacred weaving

that holds this mysterious tapestry

of life

sewn together,

as I do.

In your letters,

you described to me,

with exquisite detail and accuracy,

the adornment of my own inner corridors and rooms,

the delicate landscape of my imagination.

You journeyed with me

inside that realm,

a Master Shaman.

You were an unexpected gift,

a medicine

for my heart.

I did not imagine

that my past

would return

to claim me,

that I was still

so cherished.

When you held me close,

I breathed deep

of the warm depths of my personal history,

feeling your love,

enveloping, expansive,

doubled by its hidden twin.

Like an old lover coming back for more.
Just what fits.