The Reflection Pool

Where I have lived,
the open space of desire is Red.
The desert laid out before me,
a human figure, in suggestions
of Red,
of rose,
of pink,
of scarlet,
of magenta,
of salmon,
of flesh.

The pigments are bathing in light,
delicious light,
delectable light.
The pallete of erosion is hues of Red,
is running Red water, Red river,
my own blood flowing with the current;
my devotion cascades Red.

This landscape can be Read,
flight of words,
flight of feathers,
Red-winged Blackbirds are flocking
to the river in Spring. Perched on
cattails, they squawk and squawk;
in the sun’s light, they glisten.

Native tongues.
Adopted tongues.
I want to converse in the language of the
desert, to translate this landscape
of Red into an expression of heat that
quickens the heart and gives courage
to silence, the silence that screams.

I yearn to master the language of Red,
its dialect of obsession.

Red cries out for the body.
Open the veins and they bleed Red.

Red is hot with rage,
too hot to touch,
a burn of the hand, quick to destroy.

I know my anger as lightning,
its searing power capable
of blistering skin. The reactionary
stance of Red lacks wisdom.
It hurts more than heals.
To fathom Red is to witness devastation.

As I played Solitaire for the 157th time,
I began to wonder if this isn’t
how meditation masters feel, finding
small comforts in the repetition of
movements.

Shuffle     Shuffle     Shuffle
count     1 2 3 4 5 6 7, 1 2 3 4 5 6, 1 2 3 4 5,
1 2 3 4, 1 2 3, 1 2 , 1
Black 7 on top of red 8 on top of black
9     Ace of spades above

count     1   2   3            nothing
count     1   2   3            nothing
count     1   2   3            red 6 on top of black 7
count     1   2   3            2 of spades     black 10
on top of red jack

over and over          until     no moves
are left to be made

Shuffle     Shuffle     Shuffle

is that like sitting on the cushion for the
157 time?      Breathe in     breathe out

thinking

breathe in          breathe out

thinking

Repeating until you get past needing
to control  the emotions of
thinking and feeling

Each master just there through it all
Shuffle     Shuffle     Shuffle
Breathe in     Breathe out

And then do they get up from
their work and go about their
day the best they can until
they each get to return to
their seats, the turmoil of
their lives, and find a few
moments of comfort again?
Do they?

I sleep each night with
the light beside my bed
on, so fearful of that
velvet curtain and what
it may bring.

I walk though in the dark
hearing the cries of
souls lost, searching for
their own places in this
harsh world of human
desires and jealousies.

This one of mine, possess
it I may not, sails the airs
wailing for my place and
my gifts before the flesh
has rotted from our
human forms and our
souls stay lost forever.

Step lively on this eve,
this night of all souls.
The fate of the stars
cannot be undone and
still I search, still I wait.

 
 Knees soiled, cold, and wet
 arms outstretched in front of me

 my forehead has a red patch on it
           centered
 I wait
           prostrate
 I wait
           repeatedly
 cold, wet knees, bruised
 I wait
 and still you elude
 every hole I try to stick you in
 square pegs through round holes
 dinner stuck between my teeth
 simple diets of lessons
 in living, waiting, breathing
 prostration
 waiting
 mourning  the life of past
           - wild - thoughtless - cold
           -never quiet - always
           moving - quick

 past lives mirror the 
 heroics of red wheel barrows
 and dead decaying leaves
 fallen
      lifeless
                winter's long underwear
      spring's light coat
 waiting for a new beginning
 that new life     promised by you
 but it doesn't feel new
 its soggy
           unexciting
                     heavy
 on shoulders and 
 wears out my bending back
 its not the world but it feels like it is
 is it?
 rather than an answer
           verbal
                     obvious
 the weight sets heavier
 on my shoulders
 hints given
                hints taken

 I wait
           unchanging
 I wait
           unremitting (ceaseless)
 bracing my back palms flat
 caloused and rough
                          prostration
 not cowardness     not hiding
 none of these things
 but it looks like it
 seeing me a child's pose
 in a pile on the floor
 withdrawn
           but breathing
 long in
           long out
 not wanting
           not willing
                     waiting
           sustained
                     waiting
           ceaseles

 ceaseless

Take my hand and
let us dance to
the music the world
provides us.

As night falls, we
shall strip down to
our most naked and
bare, keeping time in
the moon’s light and
sparkling of the stars.
We don’t claim your
shame as ours.

The cloaks we don
after our celebrations
are our creations composed
of peace, power and radiance,
weaved together with
threads of feeling,
of sharing,
of listening.

The vastness that lays
in the space between
grace and choice is
consequence. It is the
universe’s perfect reflection
of love, the give and
take that provides gravity’s
power as we are propelled
forward in time.

Each at our own height,
we hold ourselves in time
with the beliefs and the
values that guide us.
Expectantly, we look towards
life and maintain our
equilibrium, as if we all
are strong and our weaknesses
are nonexistent. At times,
sheer will drives us forward
through our world, orbiting
our sun and through our stars.

It’s the composition of dawn’s
light filtered by the coolness of
night’s darkness, your gentle
lines, strands of curls wrapped
around your book, and first
cup of coffee that bring this
day into existence.

And you laugh, loudly, at the book,
cracking the silence with a joy
that slips easily from your soul,
bathing the world in happiness. You
exclaim the beauty of a line and
pause your sojourn into that
other world, reading aloud to me.

These are but a few moments that
are the thighs and hips, the
waistline and the flanks, the
curves of softness in our morning.