Cuenca Dear, A Question

In a hundred hours not once 

did I feel unsafe, or unwelcome 

familiar streets, even when

-even in, the moments I was lost.

Lost,      but welcome.

Your lit up churches, foundations and towers

                 Highlighting what has                been and what could be.

Your street sweepers come out while the band is still playing,

and in our listening to the heavens

we turn around to find

cleanliness     in     the

clean lines of your brickwork

the curved lines of your stonework 

-you never quite understood the culture which birthed you.

In 6000 minutes 

I indulged in,

every aspect of your kitchen

with eyes, and smiles, and a tummy that grumbled - I sampled,

And sampled also your

artwork, the museos

of a thousand years.

The museos of ayer,

Sometimes your sculptures

weren't yet standing,

But I recognized the shape

Of what's to come.

Your center boasts

a pledge to preserve

You for all humanity -but

in all the love you gave me

none came with a touch.

How can I help preserve you

if you won't share with me a partner?

Welcome,       but lost.

20/30

Of all the things I've seen,

nothing more beautiful, than the galaxies

of stars on the mountains of Medellin,

And though I knew it to be a dream, squinting just right I could see

the constellation of your hand in mine. 

Gray things that climb from the depths and tear down walls 3.3.14

The first time you

watch an octopus climb

a wall, take steps, use

flailing tentacles to travel

across the boundary of the two worlds…

Ignoring it, ignoring all that is real, known, righteous, ignoring the boundary,

That world, becomes this world, becomes one world, becomes ours…

So too

As I stumbled

medieval alleyways old gray

brick, rough cut, smoothed by

time and primitive tools.

I was taught that castles

were a thing of the past,

of another time, another

world, and it is so, yet

the cobble stones are wet,

and the wind whips around

the corner, and the garbage

is rotting and I am

there.

So too

When I in my

madness round corners, manic,

talking to myself, dancing, conducting

the invisible choir, the chorus

symphony, melody, harmony

rhythm in my steps along

the cobble stone,

and much to my surprise

my inner tenor, is echoing

off these castle walls.

I stand shocked, I stand delighted,

It takes a moment to

recognize that tentacles serve multiple functions with the same

purpose –to propel.

And similarly the heart can play a

rhythm, aligned with

a world outside it.

So I was propelled forward

to meet my match,

and in the medieval

castle walls, gray, cold

dank, I also found

warm blood, melodic, pulsing

and my heart took

the pace and lead me

round a corner, till I

saw them

A quartet of bohemians.

A fado singer, an upright bass player,

a violinist, a simple drum kit,

the castle walls the

amplifier, the church bells

the signal, the back drop,

the cobbled heart,

I collapsed as much as

I pulsated. This was

a magic

merging of worlds…

So too

Was I left

a bit larger and a bit

empty.

How to return to cleaner,

safer surroundings.

I’ve seen the sea rise up,

I’ve seen the past rise up,

I’ve seen the rhythm of my heart

played on the strings of

a bass below the cathedral,

on the lips of a foreigner

my song echoed

through eternal walls,

carried by cold wind

corridors, smoothing the gray stones…

How do I go on…

without a one to share this?

2.27.14 Music-inspired writing

1)

The Drops formulate, from the rotten wood, the

molting plaster, the exposed nails, formulates,

collides, grows larger, -then called from the Earth,

dives, to meet the maker.

The drops of water accumulate, puddles

upon rotten wooden floor, and cascade through

molting plaster, exposes the nails,

are called from some place deeper, to return to

embrace, leap from one height to the next

just a story lower.

The drops of water collide, create pools,

Ponds of deterioration on the rotten wood, tear

at the bonds of plasters, release rusting nails from their purpose,

greet, entangle, immerse in another, called

from the deep center, called from their everything,

jump to their depths.

3) 

Waltz, of jackals of jokers

of grinning hyenas of

death merchants

of gold coins in coarse sacks,

of pocketed intentions,

of delight in the putrid

smell of dusk on a warm

and dusty night, of

neon lights, of carnivores

on carnival rides, of

western cowboys 

4)

A jam, have you

seen the jam being made

It’s a rigorous and joyful

experience

-The kind that tuckers

you out

-The kind that sweetens

your idea of life

Wayward cousins coming

home, those strangers

with familiar looking faces

The syrupy part of your

heart, the veins and arteries,

condensed like

-grippy hugs

 

  

5)

I like your voice

the rhythm at night

talk me to sleep,

talk my heart to beat

talk my erratic breath

to cease,

talk my worries to the

breeze, let

them   …..  (go)