Some Recent Unpublished Poems



Kali R.I.P.
for Marit

Beyond Black Time

Even in death she runs fast into her next life
The small of her front incisor bared
A shy glint like an ankle  displaying her feline ferosity
Amid such beauty –that dakini smile of come hither to the death of    ego
To swoop grasp and clench her prey
Stunned legions of baby rabbits, birds, squirrels and small 
creatures
Unsuspecting of her appetite for lethal play

Then dragged through your precious door on Baptist Hill.

While Helpless in the grip of  Kali claws

But delivered from ignorance

Unto a better place beyond animal fears

Into that divine palace of no return

Om Mani Pema Hum Hrih
           
May it be so—feisty diva of catdom
In death we celebrate your loyal tender and sweet contentment
The brave stance of your life force unto death
From this cosmic dance of constant becoming, may you attain a rebirth into the loving arms
Of another mother to liberate you from the swirls of samsara
Into the human realm of possibility

Or better yet, pounce into the light of perfection by default
Or special circumstance to romp in the forest of dharmapalas

March, 2012
Tsegyalgar






                                            Photo taken by me from airport transportation speeding past the Lincoln Monument


AWP Sightings


I.

Summoned at dawn
In search of Starbucks
At the Omni Shoreham
I take the other elevator
Leading to the basement
Into a dead space I see
A legion of grey-clad maids
With frilly aprons and long skirts
Descend down the stairs opposite me
to the Palladian room with crystal chandelier
I’m curious who these Black ladies are
Some crippled gripping the railing 
Their bodies ample and tangible
In crisp attire of formality
Their faces glowing

Only later do I ask myself what are they doing 
Then and there, in uniforms of another era
as they glide into the large empty ballroom.

II.

The poet gets into the airport shuttle
Sits next to me. I doubt he recognizes me
Although I’ve made his bed a few times
      at our residencies
As director turned housekeeper 
No gap in his words with his friend seated 
       behind him—
His back turned to me the entire ride

They speak of Whitman 
The bard’s magnitude and focus 
These poets question the veracity 
Of Whitman's testament the President nodded 
        to him
As we speed past the Lincoln memorial
Whose sighting I know but not for sure
When I snap the picture with my I Phone—
traveling the capital anonymous
a nodless nobody.


III

How’s the Buddhism?
She asks----

Meaning, I suppose,  I fall short
Or failed to turn the other cheek
How it is can’t be conveyed
In ordinary terms--
Aflame, through lion’s teeth a foul vapor
Hair upstanding in
Self-immolation
That I might actually be
Content in the ashes.


Awp 2011
Washington DC

Two Poems from Dragon's Crease - a work in progress

Women of Ashes


Females born in the year of the Fire Horse
Known for boldness, disobedience, lively minds
Too outspoken for marriage---
Most often beautiful and cunning
Another way of saying intelligent.
In 1966, the Year of the Fire Horse,
Japanese census reported millions
Less in their annual statistics.
The method in imperial China was two buckets
Next to the birthing pallet—
One with water for washing the son
The other for ashes to bury the daughter.

Osama’s Third Wife

She was the spinster wife
Nine years older, unattractive but highly educated
The papers say,
A university professor past her prime
It's also said she had a regal bearing and direct line to the prophet.
They had only one child.
 How amazing  he wanted her
Gave her a son that Soft spoken man
with  elegant speech that thrilled
millions of school girls
Who would then name their first born—Osama.
What did she think with an advanced degree in child psychology
When this father forbid a plastic nipple for his child
Dying of  dehydration as a violation to his principles
That man who would pose  in position favored by the prophet
In mountain caves with his Kleshnikov

The Thin Line

For David Hernandez
A grandfather whose kindness I can never repay

The fires are lit to stave
Off first hoarfrostThe harvest inWith its scent of rot mingledAmid sweetness
Overhead wing├Ęd
Cry out in joyful unison

On their way home
Below crickets trill
Las Abuelas begin the story
Stitching us to the tapestry
Weaving our fate
Into the fragile web
Gossamer threads between
Being and non-being
Betwixt between
The thin line of here
And over there
Outside time
The fires are lit
For love and
Heart’s desire
Before extinquished
In final glory
And all is well







October 19, 2016