Colors of Trust Collection

Posted by JC at December 5th, 2010

It is monday, ten
PM
and I sit alone with you
pacing around the room
and throwing things.

You
are the wind
and you have teeth

I let you wash over
me, a tempest
in a living room
I smile, and pour
the teapot.

You
are the wind
and you are free

Perhaps I dodge
a book or two
some pillows,
mismatched socks
but the words still
catch
and hurt

You
are the wind
and you have teeth

a cup or two
and the storm rolls over
you breeze
into my arms
and start to rain

You
are the wind
and you are free

and ask me
“why?”

Posted by JC at December 5th, 2010

You sing to me here
with the tongue of the wild
mountain,
you sing and I listen
nodding
knowing the song
as my own
feeling that language
born of my blood, my bones,
my ego

I hear you sing, sing
the words of glory, of triumph
of wisdom, of power, of
the self-crowned. I
recognize
the tune.

You sing of failure, of doubt, of death…
in the tongue of the mountain,
they speak only of the not-we
the true language holds
no room for personal
failings

We ride the winds, crumble
the ramparts of the earth, drink fire
from the core
and make furrows through water
to dwarf worlds
our ancient life
revisited
for a moment,
a hint of the mastery
of the Mountain

played in song.

Posted by JC at December 5th, 2010

We dined in deepest desert
on dried apricots with honey,
rode two matched Arabian stallions
down arroyos, over dunes,
slept naked under stars
in the cold desert night.

We sailed six seas
on a tall ship manned
by only you, and I, and love,
rode up each crest,
went down each trough
and lost ourselves in warm salt
sipped and lapped…
saving seven for some other day.

From dragon caves I rescued you,
you won me free from satin chains.
I bribed the guards, you knocked them cold
we warmed ourselves in frozen rain
and walked through springtime flowerbeds
and jumped in autumn leaves….
We laugh and love with snow angels
and cocoa under ebon sky,

and wake.

You hold your coffee, I
am lost in memories
of moonlit dreams,
and hide my face beneath the pillow
grasping fast
to grip the fading shreds
of memory
the whisps of love-lost fog
that fade
just like the steam from morning coffee
just like our early love

I drag myself from bed, and take
the coffee that you offer,
drink
sweet black
and watch the steam expire,
too old inside
to laugh at that damned irony,
remembering when our love was sweet,
and we drank the coffee…
bitter.

Posted by JC at December 5th, 2010

I sat near God today.

She was two tables away
in the non-smoking section,
drinking iced water
and blended kona coffee, black
with real sugar. She
smiled at me
over her biscuits
and gravy:
a tiny woman
with mocha skin
and brilliant white hair
cut short.

She had age marks on her face
but her eyes were like a childs, in
constant discovery, and her lips
were thin
and used to smiling.

She should have looked ascetic
in her pure white, embroidered with white,
and studded with white,
but she didn’t, no….
She looked like somebody’s –
no, everybody’s grandmother,
all rolled up in one:
kindness and loving
and no patience for
dissembling.

I sat near God today.
She smiled
… and I smiled back.

Posted by JC at December 5th, 2010

White curtains
filter spring day.
Sterile white walls
echo
footsteps
and the whirs and beeping
of technology.
White sheets
white pajamas
white skin
all
identical
shades
form a framework
for big blue eyes
and raven-dark
blue-black
hair,
a thin face,
a narrow face
that smiles,
but is
fragility
made flesh.

Each day
just one bare
hour or two:
brushing hair,
telling stories
of day to day life,
tales of working
and eating
and resting
and reading,
of sunsets on water
and wind in the trees,
and of rainbows;
and a gentle hand-squeeze
or hug, on the good days
before the nurse pulls me out,
after the all-important
promise:
to return
soon.

An hour or two
sounds like a lot, to some people,
but it’s nothing
on twenty-two or three,
with no one
but overworked nurses
and hurried doctors;
trapped
in a small white room
on a small white bed,
alone.

A shelf full of books
and a pad of paper
are no real substitutes
for a walk in the park
or an ice cream cone
or cloud watching,
head to head on a hillside
with a loved friend,
but outside of an hour
(or maybe two)
those
were
life.

We take
a hell of a lot
for granted.
Precious moments
buzz right past,
tasted briefly and tossed aside,
forgotten,
unsavored.

Take
a moment
through her eyes,
every precious memory
golden, glowing,
well-thumbed:
relived again and again,
each
an old
and trusted
friend, safe
and secure.

Years pass;
little girl grows up
more slowly than the rest:
the flame of life
burning too hot inside
feather-light frame,
pale,
fragile.
A few days a month
in fresh air and sunshine
each experience
new
and unique;
three days a week
merged with a machine;
poisoned lifesblood pumping through,
made clean
staring out the window
or at sterile
white
walls.

No friends visiting;
how can you make friends
in sterilized space,
surrounded by the sick
and the dying?
Only family,
and them not often enough. I
come when I can. The look,
the glow on her face
when I step in the room
… it breaks my heart.
I want so much for her
to be free, strong, well.
She lives for these moments together
and it hurts like hell:
she shouldn’t have to,
I
should be able to help, to do
something…
something.
She’s only eighteen.
She doesn’t deserve this.

The withering bloom, she called it.

Apoptosis. Programmed cell death. Natural,
but out of control.

Six
months
to live.
but she doesn’t know that.
but she feels a change.
She stops hoping for a cure
and decides to live
her last days.

Fireworks, up close,
with me; not alone and muffled
by hospital windows.
An ice cream sundae.
Ordering her own food in a restaurant
for the first time.
A dolphin show,
her first kiss
(George the dolphin. She
fed him a fish,
and asked him to dance).
An arcade.
Planting flowers.

The ocean.

“I saw the ocean today.
I’m not afraid anymore.”

By her side
holding her hand
her tiny
warm
hand
into the night
as she sleeps without pain
and keeping it warm
when the rest begins to cool
and outside,
the snow she prayed for
falls.

Posted by JC at February 15th, 2010

(a friend of mine was joking a couple of years ago that she didn’t want to work the next day so she was going to do her “secret tribal snow dance” so she’d have a snow day. Something about the idea caught me, so I wrote something about it and sent it to her (on the fly, no edits). The first was “too dark, I’m in a cheery mood”, the second was “still too dark.” The third was “there we go!”. : )

————————————————-
Tribal Dance
————————————————-
feet bare, she stomps, twice, hard, compressing white
powder into ice; sharpened fragments score
pale skin,
powder tinged red — blood offering
to the Gods of White.

The wind whips, frozen from the northwest, screaming into her hair, a wild mane spinning
as she spins, wild eyes, frantic footsteps still precise, dancing rune-marks
on the thin white canvas:
GROW!
She sings the storm, dances the wind, orders the blizzard forth,
RISE UP!
She commands the drifts, the piles, the white dunes sparkle
beneath hints of pale moonlight
seeping through the clouds
that she has
summoned:

Thunder Snow

————————————————-
On the Landing
————————————————-
She shuns socks, despite the cold.
Her feet, bare, scarce touch the frosty stairs –
wind-like, her passage near invisible, but felt.

At the base of the steely mountain, she peers out,
calling to the iron sky, faint hope growing
as white dust piles
and vision blurs
she shivers, dancing in place, toe
to toe, so long as she can stand;
longing for imprisonment,
searching
for freedom

and with a touch of hand to steel
she celebrates
in fire.

————————————————-
Snow Day Prayer
————————————————-
Across the city, the sky is grey, but hearts
are warm
and hopes shine brighter than any mere winter’s excuse
for a sun.
Across the city, in living rooms, and bedrooms, and basements
the children stand in pajamas
and warm socks
looking out windows
watching the blanket of white grow, sparkling, across town.
No school! No school! A day to play, a day
of freedom, no more classes, no more books, no more…

Across the city, the sky is grey, but hearts
hold hope.
Cigarettes burn, and coffee steams in contrast to snow
blowing ’round.
Across the city, in living rooms, and offices, and coffee shops,
the teachers sit, relaxing
full of smiles,
watching the blanket of white grow, sparkling, across town.
No school! No school! A day of rest, a day
to regain some lost moments, and spare some dirty….

Above the candy store, the sky is grey. A heart
beats fast,
and hope is more than just some passive thing, a fire
that grows.
Above the candy store, pajama clad, no socks, one woman
dances, wild, laughing, smiling the widest smile, one brighter
than any mere winter’s excuse,
her fire
is a directive: so eager, sky to please this beauty
dancing on soft carpeting, seen faintly through grandmother-made
curtains
it brings the children freedom, brings
the teachers rest, brings
itself before her, bowing
for her blessing

and she laughs, while Hakuna Matata plays on;
she never admits to her…
…well, you know.

Posted by JC at September 8th, 2009

A man’s soul
is like a filter. It
strains out the big chunks,
pain
and anger
and suffering, sure, but also
the little things
the petty annoyances
and distractions
are muffled, to be blissfully ignored.
But after a while, it gets full.
Clogged. Soiled. Stained. Dark and hole-ridden
and the tiny things grow big
and the big things, they become
“business as usual” — the normal course
of everyday
life
and
you just
get

tired of it all.

I need to change
the filter. A soul-change, not
so easy. I cannot have coffee while I wait,
or get a free wash; a done-in-twenty-minutes job
this is not.

But I have
a plan.
It’s so simple it feels
like f*cking genius,
but maybe I’m just
spinning
my wheels
again.

You want to hear it?
Of course you do, or you’d have stopped
at line
one. But you know,
you’ve probably
heard it
before.

Wake up early.
Go for a walk outside, spend time
with nature
and the sun
and the wind.
Eat a breakfast of fruits and vegetables,
and thank them for life.
A fast shower, scrubbing hard, making skin
come alive.
A calm day. No politics. No news.
Wu-wei. Be
the river, which flows around
the rock
without notice.
Work immersed
in calm music
and smile softly.
When work is done, seek nature again: river
or garden, shore or hillside; lay down
in the grass
or on the sand
and watch the sky, yes,
like you did
as a child.
Breathe in fresh air.
Be nature’s friend.

A long, long bath
hot water seeping into you, washing out
soul-pain
and warming you within
and then sleep, early.

Not that different
from what your mother probably said
when you were a kid.
But we lose track
of things like that
in busy lives
immersed in a churning vat
of negativity
and pessimism.
I know I have.

It’s crazy, really, I suppose.
But maybe it will work.
I’ll let you know…

I’ll let you know.

Posted by JC at March 26th, 2008

You know, I
regret not going with you to sit beside the fire and write
poetry into each others eyes with words
made palpable by heatshimmerair and rising pebbles on skinsuddenchill
of winterbreeze through suddenly
open
doors
gusting the fire
rustling magazine pages
taking the steam
off hot cider
or chocolate
but nothing touchesthesteamthatisrising
from hot shower massager,
after,
or from your skin as gel and hand and breast birth foam, our
dawnchild, aftermath and precursor both, or from fingertip
sucklingcircling firm pink cherry, ripening, foam-kissed, aurora backed,
or black cherry dampveil, dripping with diamonds and snow,
twin gleams catching light
and refracting it
to wicked,
wicked smile,
while temporary masterpieces
sculpted four hands free-form,
slow as sandstone
wind
and rain
forces of nature
gliding curvesandbendsandfoldsandplainsandhills
and heaven
and earth
seashell delicacies; fingertips trace eartwistsandturns (stomachsfollowalong)
and soft breezewhisperssecrets and tastes of
hot cider
or chocolate
with cinnamon
cream
chin rises fingersfalltrackthroatslide
pulse
beats
beats
beats
and hand ladles waterhotwater
rinsing away the masterpiece, forgotten for what lies beneath
flushing pinkredblush reveals pale birthscar, fingertips pause
to pay homage and honor as navelkiss
and handscup
and lipsmovedownbareskinfreshshavento
taste
firm
nectarine
fresh, hot, sweet-tart, skin taut
and finally yielding, parting under fingerpresstonguepressure
and juicesfreedforlapping
tasting
notenoughtonguehastens
and handsinhairsqueezepullpress drown
in heaven-nectar
lipscapture peakofstem
and catch
and tug
and shake
and tonguetipracesforthback
hot breath out
hot breath in, tight vacuum seal
while sticky fingers
slip past peel
in search of secret
sacred core
and more
and more
and the oceans rise and fall; hot water floods white tiles
hot nectar floods dry throat
splashandcrashand
shiver
quiver
quake
pink legs on overdrive
remind water of foam
rekindles bubbled bath
and face pulled up from nectarine
forced into kiss
sweet juices
drip two chins
and heat two throats
and breathislostformore than moments, thorough
neardevouring
hungerbeyondmanskenn
unsatisfiable
two legs, pinkflushed by hot water and rushingblood, still shaking, reach out
capturewaistandpull
intent
unmistakableinwickedsmile
and shielded eyes
and in the fingernails
that damnednearscarbutwhocares
and handspushback
as nymph is born from foam
and sends to foam
the lion, her tormenter,
arms pinned to porcelain, legs trapped beneath,
flush deepens as she takes her stance
astride the newly conquered
and demands
herjustdue
as nectarine
descends
ripeopenedwaitingdripping
surrounding
clenching
too-thick
eyestearbreathgaspswhole
body
shudders
easing
down
easing
down
easing
no more, rushing forcing taking stealing away
her just due with unstoppableforceandtearsstreamfromjoynotpain and
beard-hair tickles peachscentedbreast
and manhandsrakevanillascentedback
and waists dance side to side to side in unpre-
dictable syncopated circleovalspiralshakes;
pale tiles relive the flood
as hotwatertorrentsteamsplashes
with each new nymphly possession, each fresh
arching of lionsback
stateoffloorforgotteningripof
redblackwhiteredblackwhitefirelifesparklingcrystallinelifeexplodingmirrorthrustandmore
oh, more,
gods, more!
theworldexplodingintowonder
and thighlocktightens
and nymph slides down
to lie lion-entwined
and fingerstouch
and gigglesweet
and laugh
at the destruction left behind
and just… to laugh
and smile in sheer joy
and coasting
on the aftermath
of sunfire.

I regret that night,
not sitting
by the fire: tasting
only faint,faint bitterness;
not glory.

Posted by JC at November 10th, 2007

(Full title: productio totius substantiâ ex nihilo sui et subjecti–the act of bringing the entire substance of a thing into existence from a state of non-existence)

I stand
Alone
atop the mountain
gazing down
at the raging seas
beneath
me.
The sky is black
with thunderheads
and the lightnings
dance
to suit
my
mood.
From the sea
before me
by my will
alone
molten rock
bursts forth
forming
a new
mountain.
I raise my arms
and call
the arctic blasts
the icy winds
of the frozen poles
to blast against
this ring of fire
and the rain
beats down
upon it
and the lightnings
sear
its crown.
A symphony
of natures
vast
capacity
for creation
and
destruction
and I
am
the
conductor.

 

 Ex Nihilo Subjecti [0:46m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

Posted by JC at November 10th, 2007

To live
as does the leaf…
to grow
in the appointed place
caressed by breezes
bathed by rain
warmed by sun
the Way of the Leaf
is peace….
In an age yet to come
an age long past
when men
and women
live by the Way
the bravest of all
who will not harm
who will not raise hand
who hold to the way
and in that time
a circle fifty thousand strong
surround a madman
arms linked
singing
reminding him
of the great man he once was
and could be
again
if he returned
to the way
shielding the city’s escape
with their bodies
standing before the fire
singing
fifty thousand leaves
sighing in the breeze
and falling
unprotesting
before the hurricane
that the city
the Way
the people
escape
and live.
To live as the leaf
falling from the branch
at the appointed time
unprotesting
floating
to the ground
slowly
gently
gracefully
as the leaf lives
so does it die
enriching life
returning to the earth
the Way of the Leaf
is Peace.

 

 The Way of the Leaf [3:02m]: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download