Worlds Away

what the nomad brought home

Queens

This is who we are.
Our secret selves at bay,
Animal instincts tamed,
We walk as wolves sprung from the underbrush
Who bow their regal heads
Under spells never spoken.
The beast within us longs to lunge
To bite
To feast,
But instead, our eyes,
In fleeting glances on the street,
Avert to hide the savage self,
And so a thousand encounters never come to be.

In this festival of near-forgotten freedoms,
The darkness alight with neon life,
My pulse pounds with the memory of what never was.
And every breath I stole before this moment
Returns me to our animal intentions
As we play at human roles.

The words you long to say,
The miles you have challenged,
The locks that I have broken,
And the silent codes that save me
In the doorways,
By the train tracks,
On the corners,
Under streetlights,
Where I find myself reborn–
Dissolve here in the instant
That our bodies
Move apart.

And though we toe the fading line
Between the fairytale of civilization
And the enchanted forest of our own destructive drives,
I know where you come from
And you sense where I’ve been,
And one expectant look reveals that
Neither of us truly lives
In this world that falls away
Behind the shadows.

October 16, 2008 Posted by | muse, Poetry, Travel, Wanderlust, Woman | , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Ahuac taita

Ahuac taitaTapestry
Hunched over your craft
Those calloused, twisted hands
So deftly scratching back and forth
Through the yet invisible landscape of your creation;
A thousand knives at your curving back
Strength, sight sacrificed for the power to
Build mountains
Forge rivers
And freeze flowers in paradise
With the simple tug of a thread.
Ahuac taita
Your wrinkled eyes, your grieving face,
Your fingers speak through the somber, silent figures that you build–
Those unmoving musicians,
Those vagrant porters
Those lonely peasants
And those wayward beasts of burden
Are far more powerful than the
Imposing cordilleras and the
Dazzling hillside pastures
That embrace your woolen outcasts.
Ahuac taita
Tell me more,
One humble fiber at a time;
I have nothing but to wait here in this place,
And I promise I will listen
To the colors, to the textures of your story.
I see the shapes emerge of
Four campesinas staring dejectedly into the distance as
The sun setting over the other side of their barren mountain
Illuminates someone else.
Ahuac taita, that someone else is me!
Where they fall to their knees in golden fields of failure,
Their heavy shawls ablaze with the jewel hues of yesterday’s abundance,
Their earthen jars….I know–
Their earthen jars are empty.
Ahuac taita
I will buy your tapestry,
This message in a bottle
That so few will ever dare to open,
This weaving, this world that you sell
For ten dollars.
But, oh, that I could give you so much more!….
To see your brightest visions come to life.

January 21, 2008 Posted by | Poetry, Travel, Writing | , , , , , | Leave a comment