july gathering

i keep trying to  wipe and wipe my glasses
to see better and better and better

some blurriness remains

some darkness remains

sometimes i get afraid that all this gathering

amounts to nothing, falls away so fast

my remembering always limited

but this time around i am trying

to wander this world with faith

fears gets me nowhere, not the kind

of fear that weighs on my shoulders

and makes me sick. it will come always

and it will always teach me something

i need to know, about the world or else

myself; but the magic lies in being able

to feel it and yet cast it away

to saunter

to the mirror

and do a little dance

stupid and ugly and all mine,

which makes it marvelous.

freedom that smells like a very fast wind,

even when i am being slow or still.

the moment is complicated. i understand

this is where everything truly gathers, exists,

in the nowness and right here of my breath.

but things take form in the river of time.

wind makes a shape when i find

the words for it, can tell

the story of my life to a friend.

this time around i am trying to believe.

in what i still cannot be entirely sure,

but it is something good. something

that wants me to be kind, first of all

to myself. to believe that all the work,

all the gathering, every long breath,

it is all coming together

like yarn, but better because

it is immaterial, mysterious, nothing

i can grab with these grubby person fingers.

all the love and learning must remain

somewhere in my body, and even

in the air. buzzing lightly, waiting

to be worn again. synapses always

firing, making new things

that i cannot see. everything so far

has come together and made this

moment, this me

most singular manifestation

sitting regally in stones

in the passing river of time.

and god am i grateful

or learning to be.

the rain again

Inside, rap on the speakers and two candles on my table.

Outside, the rush of wind transforms

into something else

and I stay still, listening.

Water descends

from the skies. Sound is made

when it hits surfaces: hard taps on the road

clangs and claps on tin roofs

muffled splashes from the trees.

Again and again I write the rain

this season. But I have hardly written

anything lately, just the wordless

pull of my breath, and then the

wordless exhale. I am, I am,

even when I don’t prove it.

I am, and that is enough 

for love, for joy, most of

all for aliveness.

when will the dog days be over?

 

trying to understand

you mumble to me but i cannot hear you

it is raining and the rain is insistent

rapping on the roof and roads

drops nose-diving into paddy fields

how can i hear a word you are saying

my glasses are dripping so i cannot

even see your lips move

little petals in the rain

your lips

two weeks in

sound of water pouring
onto the bright greenscape
dripping & dribbling 
through cracked streets

knocking on red tin roofs
making old tiles & walls
so wet it can seep 
right through concrete

all day it falls
beginning again
after each brief
ceasefire

the land responds 
like an eager lover
no drop wasted
the green growing greener

so green I can barely look
mango trees covered with creepers
the gutters full of monsteras
bright soil made magical 

how can I remain the same
when everything around blooms
so ferociously, is made damp
for days & then transformed?

reminder

Monswooning

where i live now

a new season

is beginning.

it is going to be different from the old ones.

and also the same, the selfsame yearning

i can never shed. 

perhaps yearning is where

i come from: all the poets are

clamoring already, telling me

histories that feel familiar,

already buzz under my skin.

monsoon is coming, season of rain,

season of fecundity & drenched greens,

heartspace grown wild & ungovernable.

season of wandering the fields 

with a lover. or wandering alone

so full of yearning you could burst

like a cloud, leave everything

soaking & sharp.

i am trying to be ready. the lover

i will wander with is inside

the mirror & inside me. inside still pools

between storms. inside a rainbox of skin.

even if i am quiet, even if alone.

i want to be fertile this season, waterlogged

with cleansing rain, growing new shoots

in the soil of me, in the soil of this

new place i have been calling home. 

i want also to call

my little body home

i want also the sky & palm trees

to be kind. i want to trust

my own aliveness

my surviveness

my lovable mess.

overgrown & growing.

come home to me. call me with love.

Braveheart

Is it worth it
to walk through
this world with
my chest peeled

open like a fruit?

I want to feel all things

as electric as a nerve

sharp as orange rind

smell in the nose.

But the hurt 

when it comes

is armored tank

against civilian child,

callous foot on fruit peel

squashed black beyond repair.

It is safe to say

I can be brave

but can I be sturdy

enough to take on 

the stray thunderstorms

I invite to my porch?

Everybody loves

their own selves, own stories,

even if sometimes it makes

for an ugly love.

In this world

I am both alone

and not, can never be

alone if I tried.

I am meant for love.

I am made for love.

Tender like the inner

segments of an orange,

beyond thick peel,

beyond paper skin,

the little pods that nuzzle

against each other 

and burst into juice

if pressed too hard.

You can press me hard.

I am ready for bursting.

I will not be numb. 

My skin has regrown

over so many bruises.

I must trust, I must trust.

I will fail, I will fall. I will stand

again, as though for the first time,

as though I have always known how.

january muses

lavender swirls

in the darkening ocean light

and within them, my body

soon to be another year older

its textures so oddly mine

even when afloat in neon dusk waves

lapped by stranger seaweed trails

capricorn szn has been shaking me awake

like snowflake darts on my small bare face

i am learning i will always

fall in love again, i will 

always learn how to

write a poem again, i will work

i will tire, i will rest, i will work

i will carry this body to the ocean

cartwheel on the sand

hold my lover's hand

on the ride back home the little pink flowers

glow under streetlights, the bar doors are bright,

the moon is the fattest droplet of silver

stuck to the black spoonful of sky

turns out the trick is to remain

bullheaded about beauty

& brave about love

despite all contrary evidence

end of season

there have been fewer words 

written down

more spoken to friends or lovers 

or strangers

there has been less work than 

I'd have liked

but also less guilt or shame

inside

the nights are long & sleepless

when I like

and closed heavy dark when

I need 

the sea is a maze of mirrors

glinting hard

in morning or evening sun

bubblegum pink 

my skin has gone a nutty brown

except

underneath the strappy bikini where

I am still pale

life is gliding onwards like a frisbee

afloat in 

a sudden gust of high wind 

alive