shadorma

blessings

blessings s

consider
the reckless places
hidden in
hearts, shining
like newborn constellations
exploding the dark–

pulled apart
by merciless force,
undefined
gravities–
adrift in the orbits
of recurrent night—

what creates
these seas of hope?–light
ships sailing
on longing–
circumnavigations of
storms searching for ports

A shadorma chain for Colleen’s #TankaTuesday words, grace and style, inspired by Amaya at dVerse, who asked us to think about birth.

I’m definitely a storm searching for a port at the moment, so I’ll be around irregularly for awhile, but I won’t completely disappear.

From One to the Next (Part 2)

lunation s

She talks to
me but the voice casts
no words, just
spinning the
same sounds over and over
without an ending.

All at once
she disintegrates,
becomes air,
a shadow
overlapping itself with
illumination.

She seems lost
in a space beyond
time—alone
she dances,
an untamed ocean dazzling
color into light.

Bjorn has asked us at dVerse to try changing our point of view–I took a poem from 2018 written in first person and became the observer, watching the original narrator and attempting to describe what I saw. I think I observe situations and animals or landscapes in poems sometimes, but not often actual people, because it definitely felt awkward. Still, I think I managed to keep the original feeling.

You can see the first version of this poem here.

quintessence

quintessence s

who is it
knows my name, the sounds
I answer
to, who knows
how to call my thoughts, how to
cleave to what is not

my body,
who knows what was there
before bones
before blood,
what belongs only to me,
sacred, uncontained

For Sue Vincent’s photo prompt, above.

translations

translations s

who will solve
the sorcery of
synergies
that mirror
dreams and wishes like a feast
of dazzled delight?

A shadorma for Colleen’s #TankaTuesday words spell and treat.

self portrait

self portrait comp

Once again
I study the lines
on this face,
reflecting–
depending on the angle
both parents appear.

At different
ages both of my
daughters looked
like I did
in those black and white photos
I inherited.

How do we
become who we are?
cells that form
shapes of hands,
a certain transcribed motion–
time in a mirror.

Ammol at dVerse has asked us to write a portrait poem. In the past I’ve done a series of self-portraits in the style of other artists (with poetic accompaniment), but in this case I just took 3 recent drawings in my own style, an occasional morning exercise.

hand s