Some Recent Unpublished Poems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 wingèd
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