Poetry

She asked me if I love her.
Surely she knows
She has opened this rose
I call my heart.
Surely she knows
I would sit with her in the bitter cold
And count snowflakes in a storm.
I would walk with her down dark alleys,
Even into the valley of death.
She is my love and my muse.
And though I can’t see her face,
All faces are hers.
She is my body and soul.
She is life
To be lived
Without reservation.

I dreamed a demon
Born of my breath.
Breath that turned to smoke,
The smoke to grey,
The grey to black.
And there he was,
With a thick black tail,
Eyes of red, and
Muscled like a komodo dragon –
The demon of all lives past.
Is there a saint in the room?
Someone with enough love,
Wisdom and skill?
To transform him.
Or must I face him?
Do I practice loving kindness?
And then a piece I read says
Follow your demons.
Shall I follow him
Through the murder of his wife
In front of his eyes,
Through his baby being stolen,
Through his house being burnt to the ground,
Through dying of cancer
Through being hung for his beliefs,
Through his sorrow.
And into his heart
Of goodness?
Am I strong enough
To become that saint?
Is there a choice?

A viking in long white hair,
t-shirt and jeans,
sits alone, at a table by a lake.
There’s an Indian woman
sitting across from her
with rich brown skin,
blessed by red lipstick.
an orange and red sari
and a child that she’s
holding in her arms.
Unseen, the viking smiles across
to the mother and child;
they could have been Mexican,
or Chinese or Greek.
Across the world a woman,
in long grey ponytails
is grinning at the school choir,
as they pull each other’s hair,
tell a rude joke,
hoping the teacher won’t hear,
and recall the songs they
heard on the radio this week.
That’s how she loves us –
The Earth.