The Pond at Dusk

The pond opens to receive me once more,
a multitude of tiny arms
holding me loosely,
and folding me in.

This water
rocks me like nothing else on earth,
caresses me,
its tendrils soft and silky
as baby’s hair,
brushing my limbs
as I float

looking up at dusk blue sky.
These little waves
whipped up by the breeze
fondle my breasts
and my thighs
as no human hand has;
unresistant
I let the water have its way
with me,
licking my fingers
and nibbling my neck,
gently slapping up between my legs.
And I don’t need to work here,
no one waits for response
or asks for one;
this is not a performance.
Here I leave all personas on the shore
and just lie with the lake at dusk,
my playful wet lover
dark and luscious as black velvet
and as deep
as the long low moan
of the loon.

Colors
My parched soul drinks in
the vibrant colors
of the desert –
strident reds and
deep blues,
gentle pinks and
brilliant yellows.

Harmonizing hymns
of thanks
to blessed rain,
they flower,
as my body strains
to step in rhythm
with the color-laden pulse
of nature.
I cannot help
but think about
a man of color,
beaten
black and blue.
A witness with the world,
I watch in horror
as this man of color
writhes in pain
beneath a rain of blows,
no blessing here.

The lizard
on the rock,
sensing danger
does his push-up dance
to reestablish safety.
No such reflex
is allowed
the man of color.
Any movement brings
a swift and
punishing response.

A world of colors
listens, as
the twelve pale voices,
color blind, deny
the raw red color
of excess,
and ask us to believe
not
our own eyes.
A city bursts apart
as seeds of rage
blossom into
conflagration.
Colors deeply
out of balance
can no longer
blend or mend.
The black sky mourns
and I retreat,
finding solace
in among
these massive rocks
and twisted branches,
wind-blown sands
and arid mountains,
finding it
within their power
somehow
to produce
colors
in profusion
and in peace.

Rain Stick
At home in Los Angeles
I have a rain stick.
It sits next to my piano.
Turned upside down,
it trickles tiny beans
down the hollow stick
to imitate the sound of rain.
In the desert,
just the sound of it
quenches and heals
some primal thirst.
And here,
in my New Hampshire abode,
I awaken to the real sound
of water hitting leaves
of countless trees,
and I understand the thirst.
Parched,
I listen all day long
to this tuneless melody.
It soaks me deep
and I begin to feel cleansed.
I think upon that rain stick,
and my yearning for this peace,
for the moisture in the air,
in the ground,
in the eye and in the ear.
The trees drink it up
and so do I.
I take a walk
in the mist,
and my skin sings
songs of thanks
to wild wet rain.
Prayer
I beseech
these wise old trees;
I ask
if they can heal
this still red
wound,
gaping
in the depths
of my being.
The fertile female
is no more.
Seven years
have passed,
and I can just
barely
touch the pain
I hope these trees
can hold
for me.
Streams of tears,
unbeckoned,
blur the curves
of branches bending
in the breeze.
These trees,
enduring wind,
snow
and fire
surely can
cradle
this one woman’s
unconceived
motherhood.
Rock me
while I weep
for the children
never born.