come

come,
come to this house,
where you can see
doors, windows
and walls
like any other;

come,
knock on the door,
or ring the bell,
or just step right in
without a sound,
walk away
when you feel like,
in silence,
or with a stomp, or a snort,
ignoring what's around;
or just pause for a moment,
to nod, smile
or whisper goodbye,
flaunting all that you found;

come,
come to this house,
where there's nothing,
where there's something
called me,
where you can leave
and take away
all that you find,
and still not take it all,
nor leave,
anything behind.

whale song

I'm not looking for nectar,
for anything,
like even the gods and devils did

yet, today, all I can feel
is a deep churning
of the ocean
inside -
this sliver of skin
rolled, twisted,
and pulled,
breath heaving
against waters,
this way and that

strings of an emptiness,
plucked and stoked
into a silent song -
the song of a lone whale
laboring through murky waters,
where heaven meets
and greets
this one blackened,
blessed earth.

I wear a sari

the first time I wore a sari,
was for you,
to see the woman I had become;
yes, it was a long time ago;

a sari pleated and pinned
with joy -
the joy of belonging
to someone
other than me;

today, I don't wear a sari
that often,
and when I do,
I wear it for me -
to feel the woman I am,
with love handles et al;

six yards of skin,
wrapped around skin;
pleated and pinned
with a slowness of being,
and a deep pang of something
I can never call my own.

a new shape of love

i'm tired of heart-shaped hearts,
that make it easy
to speak of and show love.

love is not a short-cut,
an embellishment,
a reckoning,
or a hurried swish
to make everything okay.

love is a heart
without a shape;
it's pointy, ragged,
tattooed, crumpled,
squished, torn,
chewed, stretched,
and worn.

so let's speak of
and show each other,
our love,
a new shape of love.

the sword

don't come to me
so I listen to you,
come to me
because
you want to listen
to your own self -
to that voice
which stands out
like the last note
in an ensemble,
the one that sticks
like a two-edged sword
in the centre
of your heart,
holding you
even as it
slices you open
into a profound
wakefulness.

the one place I know is home

I carry this shell
wherever I go -
paths drawn out,
poised on the edge
of uncertainty,
trails forged
by a will
that will not rest,
curling up
into themselves,
even as they unfurl,
and unfold,
where every step
leads me
into that one place
I know is home.

communion

go into that dark cave
where all your fears
come alive,
where you are clawed,
mauled and gorged upon
by that one inescapable fear -
to stand alone,

and then,
if you survive,
crawl out and rise,
to stand with me
like two trees
talking through their roots,
never once losing
what's precious to them,
yet dancing in the shadows
of their tree-ness.

untouchable

I make mandalas
with flowers
and leaves
and shells
and presence.

I never stopped to think,
to question
anything,
as I made them -
there was no need.

and then suddenly,
in an unruly ocean
of teeming thoughts,
a mandala formed
where my eyes turned in;

a lady was creating a mandala
with flowers
and leaves
and shells
and presence;

adding things,
taking away things,
as she pleased,
and yet, every petal,
leaf and flower,

remained unchanged -
beautifully whole,
alone, a-part and together,
forever touched,
yet untouchable.

from the other side of nowhere

I feel the footsteps
like growing drumbeats,
announcing
her stolid arrival -
she walks on still water;

I hear the howl
of a lone gutteral voice,
curdling the quiet
with her soul-full intolerance -
she speaks with
swords on her tongue;

I smell the singed skins
of hunted corpses,
feasted upon, then discarded
upon a blackened earth -
she smells of
a forest on fire;

I see the fangs
unfurled
behind her clenched lips,
holding back all apologies -
she holds the silence
of utter wilderness;

I watch the silhouette
of a lady
draped in black,
owning her skin,
for not being anyone
other than who she is -

the woman
from the other side of nowhere

invisible

some day perhaps,
when I reach the end,
I won't look back,
at the tracks I left
on this still, empty sand,
I'll run like the dingo
into the wildness
of myself
and everything there is,
not wanting to stop
and stand astonished
at the patterns
dissolving
into themselves,
or etched into the grooves
of a history
that must be owned
at all costs,
some day perhaps,
I'll just crumble
and settle quietly,
into the stillness
of this empty sand.

and there are words

and there are words
that strive to reach
somewhere,
stopping and looking around
for a way,
like those furtive eyes
of a cat perked up
on its perch;
and there are words
like those free giveaways
at shopping counters,
more of the same
you may not need,
and there are words
like a coat of varnish
on those deep grains
of seasoned wood,
covering up the wild scent;
and there are words
that flow effortlessly
even as a tiny trickle
of rain water
along the mud,
wetting our toes,
and connecting us,
wherever we stand,