Air Chronicles: Poetry Collection

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The Mothership

 There is a space

Resting parallel to the breath

Where the Ocean spreads her skirts over my legs…

And the sky-mirror

Dresses my thoughts in Holographic hues.

A silver Spectre circles overhead

Creating ripples in my mind-frabric…

Folding the ruffles and lace into wispy patterns.

The sweet juices of seashells overflow as we all undulate together…

Is this really happening?

A flash of light skips across the puddles of my memory,

Then sinks deep…

Finding a bed in the soft sands beneath.

All the atoms in the air freeze temporarily,

Savoring the moment…

Looking at us with just a little sass.

The potential gurgles in my belly as my bones awaken

And my fingers stretch in a gentle greeting.

A cumulonimbus passes by,

Losing pieces of itself staring at us.

The sterling canoe dips its toe in the light

Reflecting a receptive port in my Smile below.

Not even the Cerulean breeze flirting with the ends of my hair

Can compare to the cheeky glint of the shimmering Mothership.

A Sylph Lover

 I have tasted the citrus, laced in bows under your collarbone

I have fondled the knots and woven new poems into your throat…

And danced with the devils, dusting your shoulders.

I have spread my thighs for the Viridian sighs in your verses

Spelt out when you commanded the skies to Hail

Our entry into their domain.

I’ve known all the storms etched in your brows

And remembered Cirrus forests I’ve forgotten till now.

I’ve tugged on the mare’s tail and watched her kick her heels up

Molding my worries into skinny streamers.

Even Lisa has forgotten to smile gawking at you and me

 Orbiting the planet like satellites

Rubbing our shoulders against the late-night cigarettes

And chemtrails stretching their pallid arms wide.

You’re a clear echo in the Garden

Speaking a language in silicon and blue garnets

With blazing roses sprouting from the end

You open your doors to me and I run up the red carpet

To an old Home, asking me where on Earth I’ve been.

Starseeds have planted themselves firmly

In your drifting eyes… I try to match their strides (worlds apart)

I jump from footprint to footprint until the thunder kicks me out

Rattling around my skull the way you did when you cuddled the Great Lakes

And kept them warm, raising their blood a few degrees.

Celsius, preferred a new scale,

To measure your great reach.

And there is just a rustle left now

To remind me of your touch.

How to Become a Sylph

 Find art in the arcs

Of lightning and shade

Touch the soul of a hurricane

Envision a new name for

The way the Canyons yawn at the maw of the sky

And let the winds lend you what it means to be alive.

Allow yourself to be Breathed.

Canaries at the Community Poetry Reading

 “Step back a little,

Get too close

And you might fall in,”

A few feathers say

As they float down.

I am usually sensible,

So I take the advice

And scuttle back

A few feet.

The cauldron

Is night-deep

Like commitment.

I don’t want to

Throw myself in

If I don’t get anything

I want back.

Can I take it back?

Once they see me

I trill too much

About how they

Can learn to hurt me

If I acknowledge

I’m easy to read

But hard

To understand

Even with the cage

Over my mouth

Worry

Is like a sandbag

That soaks up

All the juices

So the canaries

Can’t drink them

Or burst out

At the wrong moment.

I spent a whole summer once

Erasing footprints

And standing in a mirror

In the dark

Raising my nightgown

Above the knees

Thoughts skinny-dipping

In new fonts and personalities

That could be lifted

With two fingers

From all sides

But without too much

Of a risk

If they were dropped

Or confused

For baggage.

“The weather is warmer now,”

You say

As I stand on the precipice.

“We’ve made a lot of progress.”

I fell through that empty sky before

And my beak

Got stuck in the earth

Green and decaying-

The little Lucifer

That became

A vacant shell

For anything else to crawl in.

For this to work

We can’t always

Sanitize the

Donation jar

With suggestions

Or mold

All the messages

Into public services

Other than

Learning how

To distill a lifetime

With steps

We can walk down

Ourselves first

Like dreams

And oceans

That soak the sand

After we’ve nested together

Warm and nebulous

And I step out of the cage

And hope for a branch

 Migration

 A shot in the dark

Grumbles over the treeline

Echoing the hunger gripping our bellies

We are silent

Feathered Trojans

Borrowing our piece of the heavens

But heaven isn’t here

As we choke on the milky trails

Tightening their dappled scales around our throats

The miles eat at our wings

And we circle as the winds change

Engraving teardrops in the sky

Then we bank hard

Headed toward the weathered tail

Of the last Condor

To the One with Air in Their Soul

 To a being such as this

The gales and gusts are always speaking

Art and music nearly weeping, to emulate his Bliss

Nothing escapes her eye

Cat’s paws* and cyclones line up their busy spins

Swirling obediently under her direction

In their keeping

I will never feel the sting of Anemone*

Or so the Victorians claimed when they created bouquets of Forgotten Love* and Sweet Nothings

He makes me feel free

Tugging me waist-deep into bright horizons

Spanning eternity’s length

Her touch is a sweet brush

Crafting sigils in my heart

And naming the memories

With Them I become a cloud in my mind

Knowing every lightning strike (like a lover)

A guardian of birds in flight

Violins will climb high mountains

Snapping their strings against the peaks

To sing with him for just a minute

Her heart is still

Much like the will

Found in whistling wind from the canyons

Their inner being is a gentle breeze

That alights on my shoulders,

And lends me its wings.

Note: 

(1) The Anemone flower in Victorian Floriography symbolizes forsaken love

(2) Cat’s paws: When wind touches still water it creates big ripples that are usually darker in color… some people say it looks like a cat’s pawprint.

How A Salamander Mastered Lightning

When I first began my mission

To foster fire and ambition

I chose to master with precision

The divided nations in my Soul.

I watched a marriage take place

As fire danced across the earth's face

And there was even a cake

With layers in the blazing ocean

I saw how the future union of earth and sky

Collided to become a lunar lullaby

Throwing their child miles high

Creating new light amongst the planets

I became obsessed with the dance of opposites

The possibilities were infinite

But still infants, not initiates....

Unable to spread their wings just yet

I was still too weak to direct my vision

My mind was split into ribbons

Not united, but in scattered prisms

Too undisciplined to command attention

So I took notes to the side of the stage

Learned that everything has its place

And how to keep my passion engaged

Without it dimming or stretching too far.

I wiped the lava off a mountain's chin

Meditated with the deep sea vents

Focused on the heat from a distance

And learned from the sky's detached wisdom.

I became a catalyst for potential

Learned to control my own vessel

Made my mind into a temple

Of pure will and intention

I did not become cruel, but sovereign

Made my mind firm, but let my heart soften

Really nurtured the garden

Of power under control

Then an electron whistled past my ear

And a proton became very clear

Positive and negative spheres

Begging to be joined in matrimony

I became the host of a great event

Looked inside my heart and found the contents

I would need to build and cement

The metropolis of art in my vision

I felt an idea start to rage

But controlled it like a sage

Directed and balanced on the edge of a page

Of a new chapter

Then it happened.

I mastered myself completely

And a lightning bolt went ringing

And the atmosphere was singing

With Connection ecstatic and clear!

Pure will arced in the dark like a branch

Became an ark ferrying a chance

For the birth of a new romance

Between licking sky and hungry land.

I was the essence of a receptive space

The lens and path for light to trace

Its body wielded as a naked flame

A singularity striking where I decreed

I became the great Chancellor

Telling the sparks to stay or wander

Made my will the great conductor

Lighting electric chandeliers

Many magicians have come and go

"Masters", leaders, CEO's

Offering gifts and shiny tomes

To equip them with my secrets

First they wanted to control the fire

But couldn't harness their own desires

Wisdom, patience, and electric choirs

Burnt to oblivion in their minds.

They wanted endless power

But couldn't even spend an hour

Developing the inner, not just the outer

Selves, left naked and shivering

But what they fail to understand

Is that the power is already in their hands

To create or destroy entire lands

And they do, like small children.

So when someone asks for my teachings

I incline not to gifts or loud beseeching

But to those who foster the inner weaving

Of Passion and Mastery in their Souls

 Monet on St. Vitus

 Yonder 'round the fiery sky

Blessed with stacks of solar coins

Frisking past the sordid night

Whirls lovers' dance-impassioned

Fatal shoes blush'd crimson red

Flushing sweet Her victim's death

Fastn'd by the fanged bite of

Scarlett Rose and Clementine

Clouded eyes and fevered brows

O'er branching swords and squashes

Swirl to Sainted clarinets

Near Vitus Gargoyles nesting

Tambourines and violet climes

Paint grainy wines past Harvest

Brush Monet against the dome

Bohemian and setting

*Notes:

Tarantella: "The Spider" dance formed in Italy allegedly caused by a spider's bite... causing mass hysteria and dancing. Received its name in Italy.

St. Vitus' Dance: St. Vitus is a church with famous gargoyle bird statues... but is also the name of a strange phenomenon that occurred across Europe 600 years ago where mass hysterical dances broke out. Another name for Tarantella. Though originally thought to be caused by a spider's bite, modern interpreters attribute the illness to ergot, a fungus found on grain

The Day the Winds Changed

 A little ichor leaked off the edge of a curb

A child stepped over the anthill in the dirt

A bee landed on an ice cream cone

And the woman admired Him while on the phone

Someone on the bench talked about sunflowers in portraits

An artist gave her skyline some lilac voices

I think 3 people tried to herd the startled grey rat

To a new home farther away from the busy tracks

Something vestigial regained its feet

Because we chose to carry mugs for our caffeine

We still had to climb the stairs out of the subway station

And take the kids to soccer practice

But the tortoises sailed on the high tide

Of a kind sky when we smiled.

 Hummingbird at the Red Tent

 When they gather and tell their stories

My wings build fairy circles with concentric rings

Little portals hovering in both my ears

Dipping their beaks into juicy flowers

And drinking up the teachings

        Just like my violin’s G string

That sings without the horse-hair on its throat

When the others play Pomegranate hymns

I too find my voice humming the notes

And starting to vibrate along

 Note: The Red Tent was a place where women would once gather during their menses, pregnancies, and even births and illnesses. It was a space created by women for women alone.

The Night the Ships Landed

 The night the ships landed

I was eating soup at the kitchen table

Doing crossword puzzles with a worn-out pencil

Then the doorbell rang

And a small child stood on the stoop

Standing near the silver saucer like a tiny spoon

I guess I expected bells and sirens, maybe a military troop

But was pleasantly surprised by a private rendezvous

Telling me it was great to meet face-to-face and asking for a bite of the stew

 Kites at the Ends of Our Love

 Our love drinks sweet tea

And wraps its wings around us

Reclining on the porch swing

Your voice is a honeyed rosary...

I love to perch on its doorstep

And sit counting the beads

When our bodies blend and give birth to new Siddhis

I tie strings to the tails

And watch them flutter in the breeze.