Mount Pinatubo

 There's a thing, some sort of

eruption

on my skin

and it

vibrates

 

every time the autobus bounces

and the chickens flutter

as if, dreaming, they are back in their shells

desiring

rebirth

 

as eagles or raptors or some undreamt-of symbol

rising

through the roof of the autobus.

 

There is a blemish,

some sort of eruption

on my skin and boiling beneath Mount Pinatubo.

 

The day is hot,

and I am dizzy,

as we go around the curve

on this mountainside which has no

guard rails

and never did.

Śūnyatā

 Sunya, reaching for your hand is like trying to recall a dream I haven't had yet,

but still you wait in the tattered chair

in the water-damaged bow-wooded house

where the bulldozers come to cry.

They shove up great golden cities out of bricks and candy wrappers

while you, Sunya, fanged monster, 

queen of the canopy, collector of 

sunflower sunshine in a woven shoe,

wait with that faintly mocking smile I sail inside of.

Sunya sister of Shiva, cigarette punk from down the block,

are you a tin can tied to the tail of the wheeling Heavens,

or Love itself

in a saffron sari,

taking my bones out with a kiss just to show your quick hand

to catch the  ball we both sway upon, under stars, in the ether, or nowhere at all?

Sunya, you are a man in the morning, a woman in the evening, 

a dolphin all afternoon

and I stand in the surf that doesn't exist

in my flesh that appears and disappears

dealing with a world that seems to be but isn't,

and wait for Sunya, summer plum winter branch marigold kat in an open window.

_________

for Dverse Poetics "the four elements." 

music: Mint Royale "From Rusholme With Love." Just try not to dance to it!

The Mountains Have Heavy Hearts

 

The mountains have heavy hearts.

The earth, like a fussing grandmother,

feeds them altitude

and early light.

Inside each house

is a beautiful girl, waiting.

Beneath each house

the earth understands what waiting really means.

My hands are like broken hinges

on a door warped from rain.

In my mind, grandmothers and mountains.

In my heart, my love, rushing. 

I have cared for a woman, perhaps.

I have cherished a dog for years.

He drowses to the touch of my big useless hand

on his back like a happy burden.

________

for The Sunday Muse #173, where I am hosting.

the art is "Self Portrait With Accordion" by Guido Vedovato

My Love Is Like

My love is like asphalt and loose gravel.
She's a fifty foot drop;
no guard rail, just a descanso.

My love is not straight,
and it's always been raining.
She is nothing but the tops of pine trees
reaching up for things that are not meant to fly, but suddenly, do.
_______

 The Perfect Love Poem, for Kenia at Real Toads. I have used comparison.

Note: a descanso is a roadside shrine.