REFUGE
We take refuge each in the other,
safely there enfolded,
where nothing may harm us,
no cruelty of man,
no prejudice of thought,
no base illusion may penetrate
the force that surrounds us,
that guards our hearts, our souls,
our energies as we seek our ancient union.
Storms may howl, discord may swirl,
but that which is part of the same
is safe within itself.
No force of fear, no barriers, no
haunting whispers of danger,
will survive the vortex, the refuge,
where wind and light are one.
Sister to the Birds
In a time when fantasy ruled the world
my soul jangled like morning bells
and I roamed through crystal hills and drank sparkling waters.
I laughed with the brown-eyed deer,
played tag with a big black bear,
shook hands with mountain lions
and fed my love to the creatures of the air.
I was a sister to the birds,
a feather flying in the sun.
I danced through the world on a wing
and floated through the breeze on a song.
When reality ruled the world
my soul shrank with fear.
They said I was no good,
they told me what to do, what to think, who to be.
I learned hatred, frustration and the weight of aloneness.
I longed to fly and-sat in chains,
but in my heart I remembered.
I was a sister to the birds,
A feather flying in the sun.
Once I danced through the world on a wing
and floated through the breeze on a song.
When hope ruled the world
I no longer listened to hate.
I looked in the mirror and saw the birth of my own beauty.
I heard the morning bells again,
and searched for my crystal hills.
I journeyed long and I journeyed hard.
I found my hills again, I drank my sparkling water.
I was a sister to the birds,
a feather flying in the sun.
I danced through the world on a wing
and floated through the breeze on a song.
I roamed my hills in peace,
my soul again rang with joy
but I sang in solitude until the day
I saw a boy feeding my brown-eyed deer,
hugging my big black bear,
running with my mountain lion
and feeding his love to the creatures of the air.
He was a brother to the flowers
a gentle lover of the light.
He drifted through the world on a rainbow
and walked through the sky on a cloud.
When love ruled the world,
I kissed his tears with my eyes.
He ended my aloneness with his heart.
We walked together through the dawn,
and slept together through the dusk.
I brushed his hair with my mind
and he clothed my gentle body with his soul.
We were brothers to the flowers, sisters to the birds,
feathers flying in the sun, gentle lovers of light.
We drifted through the world on rainbows,
danced through the world on wings.
We walked through the sky on clouds, and floated through the
breeze on sweet, sweet songs.
Still As Gentle, Still As Fair
Early Summer's first wind drifted through her hair
like strands of light bringing illumination
to my heart; bringing beauty where there was care,
bringing airy warmth to heavy rumination,
bringing thoughts of beauty to that terrain
nurtured silently within my breast.
I kept counsel with that wind through pleasure and pain,
knowing that silence, for now, would be best.
And finally, when this passion I did confess,
I learned that it lit my life alone;
for her it meant far, far, less.
Strangely, the light within me still shone,
and though Autumn now braces my hair,
her beauty is still as gentle, still as fair.
A Timeless, Tender Love
Time and the illusion of time will pass
before I again look on my love's countenance
in the warmth of the Florida noon sun,
before I see her light blue eyes sparkle golden,
smell her peach-fresh skin, and swim in her,
waves cascading like a howling typhoon surge.
But time's illusion is neither enemy nor worthy opponent.
Can the soul's tender timelessness be affected
by seasons, or miles, or age, or any man-made distraction?
I think not. For what is real is not bound to earth,
but flows from realms outside our narrow view.
As we sit apart, so we draw together, part of the same.
Truth stands alone, no illusion stands above,
or can stand between, a timeless tender love.
The White Tiger
Stalking the shore, a wave foams
and kisses the sand. The white tiger,
sublime, vigilant, stalks while she roams
her domain, hungry, strangely bright with vigor.
Along the shore she muses over shells
and plays with small birds and sea-creatures
so gently the sand is undisturbed, the wind dwells,
dancing across her white fur; sun highlighted features,
overtures of the afternoon, flash against the leaves,
undulating among the dunes and sea, always the sea.
Roaming alone, she seems fierce, fiery, untamed. Who perceives
innocence in her tears and understands her frightful desire to be free?
A small bird perches on her shoulder, companion for a time,
not her prey. She stalks only her shadow, she stalks the sublime.
LADIES OF THE NETS
The yellow fuzz
of the tennis balls
dances on end
like
the frightened hair
of "nigger" Farina
in
an old "Our Gang", comedy.
I’m afraid too,
but prefer the music to the dance.
The tanned
and
veiny legs
of
Middle Aged Miami Beach Matrons
tense
and
strain
as they bend their frames
and pound
the little yellow balls.
They are afraid,
but prefer the dance to the music.
Love----fifteen, love- thirty, love-forty, Game.
The mating call
of
this regal court.
The points are
recorded
the day’s
"pas de deux"
counted.
The
Ladies of the Nets
take
their choreography away
and
I take
my music.
Recorded
while the waves of Biscayne Bay suck at the shore,
and lap at the nippled cement walls.