Seeking Love

Seeking love 

is chasing the setting sun around the earth

pleading for it to rise again

Be still, 

it will come

orbit yourself

you will become the east and the west

then love becomes your axis.

I like everything about this

I like how the barista knows my name and my drink by heart.

I like the way the cold air licks my earlobes, 

and the serpentine patterns of white sand 

scurrying across the black pavement

I like the way a monkeys gaze

reminds me of my grandfather's pensive eyes;

I like those too. 

I like the way your eyes purse kisses 

when they delight in small poems 

written on the underside of high clouds. 

I like everything about this.

A Cove, One's Own

A cove, one's own

For hearts, a home

where sky and sea

cliff sides crawling with posies

meet in places

built from traces

of reassembled memories.

all is quiet, all is tender,

purling waters to remember

sips to come, from cups, were poured

by ocean waves en echelon

by providence and then beyond

by each embrace of pristine shore.

reminding us,

o’ forgotten trust

in things from hinterlands

curves of thought imbued with love

raked into hidden sands

washed away, washed away

by the Beloveds hands.

Shells by Andre Samador 

Shells by Andre Samador 

Life is Love Struck

Life is as short as a relinquished moment.
Ahhh, time, the relentless lover,
pins down our brilliant words
with slowly placed and peeled kisses.

Love struck,
we stagger from its embrace,
our lips still trembling
and all the more rouge.

Paint the world red with "this."
Upon our breast, bare the mark of both
perpetrator and victim of love;
mine is "the shape of a heart."

Pin down time and kiss it right back!

We Loved Once, When We Were Young

(July 28, 2012)

Warrior hearts leap from drunken ships
listing in the grizzly brine
waves with claws to rip the pray,
feast and vomit on a thin shoreline.

Swells roll in the wake of Neptune,
singing a lullaby, rippling the cloth
of angels, still and watching
frozen by the sea, in the froth.

Cadence in shadows in a choke green forest,
chased hard over pine needles and moss
My lover is close and bellicose
as I dash toward the pale pitted docks.

Fate the fickle savior, longing to be free,
to converge and diverge like braided streams of time…
dancing, hearts leaping, and touching, and fleeing,
in the long shadows of dusk sublime...

There I, mesmerized by silent play
between two little girls, taking turns at each others braids.
Cupped by soft fronds beneath the curve of a palm…
their calm was in concordance and apposition

Their eyes not hidden by lids and lashes,
but through the reticence,
I’d catch sun glinting off the moisture in their eyes,
like little honey dipped pearls.
How they would preen and twirl
each trestle.
Braids of time, in a long dance.

We walked with palms pressed
through pinwheels of light and long shadows,
stillness all around
except for the slow drop of the sun behind the trees.

Telling life stories in a symphony of words
that welled up from our hearts to our mouths,
hovering over our silhouettes
like musical notes
orbiting the trestles of cherubim and seraphim.

Preening and twirling out strands of curls,
fueling the light in their eyes,
which are forever warm fires
calling the other home.

Be Unwritten

I am amazed at the resilience of the human spirit. It seems we rally around the stories of hero and heroine, rescuing the soul from the tracks as the train approaches. And as beautiful as this is, there is a self-fulfilling prophesy in the drama. How poignant, that we are villain, victim, and victor… but more interesting, that we are the inspired authors of these stories. The spirit moves the pen, but the mind writes sequel after sequel after sequel. Sometimes, we should drop the pen, the book, and even the story rights. And simply be inspired by the empty stage and blank pages of the great creator. Our ink strokes become idols on parchment, oh, to release the soul from such mediums.

inspired dusk (auto-writing)

there is a moment before the sun sets,

just before the top of its crescent

disappears below the farthest edge of the earth.

it is a divine promise of yet another

smoldering spectrum of burnt orange,

crimson and cobalt...

a promise of the days last warmth

before night calls us to dreams...

before we smile,

knowing, with the reminder on our skin,

that tomorrow, the sun will come up once again,

only to leave us with this pristine moment

once more.

such splendid sweet endings to a day…

never to melt into the same horizon...

never to burst with a less spectacular display of Heaven.

this is hope, tumbling over and upon itself...

writhing like eddies, lost in the directionless winds...

this amazement is just God,

sighing into the end of our day.

(inspired by a wild deer in the woods)

All I have reminds me of all I can lose.. unless we accept that nothing is ours

Up is All Around

Somehow inspired by Bradley Cooper

...letting go of apprehension and looking up, is really nothing more than submitting to the natural condition of a buoyant mind...

There was a fish who envied the joyful expression of parched land travelers who stopped to sip nourishment from his pond. So envious, he would swim around day and night, longing to be human just to know the "real" taste of water.

"Up" is all around! It likes to be remembered.

Fractured Light

Even shadows choose to whirl
lithely in the beams,
romancing other silhouettes
seeking revelation in their dreams,

Compassion, do not hasten them,
nor wake them from repose
for in the moment two dreams alight
the awoken lover glows.

Stand boldly in love’s mystery
as slings and arrows sail,
through the strident journey 

            hush,

listen for the nightingale,

who’s song seeps through a cloven heart,
mending fragments into one;
seek the source that hides unbroken
in the brilliance of the Beloved’s Sun.

Ode to a Road Runner

(March 6, 2014)

Diamond hard headache

you have a chemical in your left hand

and the door is to your right. 

Pavement. 

Take the pavement, quick.

Oh wrinkled earth,

do you feel my gentle journeys

across your skin?

I am the unfaithful sojourner,

who deepens the creases of grief

that guide your tears to the ocean.

Lamenting earth,

Do you quake for the dead I've buried

a few feet beneath your surface

or choke on blowing ashes?

Are you immune to mankind?

Have I been the cause of your tears

that fill the ocean with salt?

I traverse your land on rivers of fear

in search of a sea of fulfillment,

while others sail your oceans of doubt

to find terra firma. 

We search for a remedy

until the search itself becomes a malady.  

I’ve buried the dead 6 feet deep into your skin –

has this made you immune to mankind.

Replaying life

in the width of a road crack.

I found love in the Philippines

Laughed with Slavic sailors

Drank with Swedish shipbuilders

All in the  Port of Inchon. 

I became homesick on Rotnest island –

I felt the tempest of history

on a train to Heidelberg,

I saw women in burkas 

doing zumba along the Persian Gulf.

I cried for him on a mountain. 

I swallowed my soulmate whole in a caravanserai. 

I forgave my father around a campfire,

I thought to write this

Here on the road –

I’m amazed at how vast

and hollow I am –

filled with nothing…

The universe follows me

on my wrist.

My time is up.

Well. I can tell you, I’ve seen some things: The Tale of Don Quixote

For Alonso, the day was sinking into dusk
But for Dulcinea, her knight was rising.
Long his lance’s shadow stretched
And thus his stories, picaresque.

He flaunts his tale of espionage,
Purring silent and clandestine
“there I sprung from camouflage
and smote these vile leviathans!”

“Oh, please don’t stop,” the gypsy cries
draining doubt from starlit eyes
From behind her fan of elegant slips
She retracts the rivets to her lips.

Alonso mounts the moment of his concupiscence
to rescue the fair Dulcinea from her diffidence.
But the windmills turn for our quixotic man
Whose delusions are rescued by a chaste heroine.

Years later a man was overheard in Cordoba...
el estaba hablando con unas senoras
"Oye musas, puedo decirte,
he visto algunas cosas."

"...mi vida se salvo una noche estrellada
por una mujer de gran belleza
que volvio a las tablas de la fortuna
aqui, en mi reino de iberica..."

Revelations Along the Path: First Soliloquy

Along the spiritual path, we delve into realms

That send tiny truth fairies to us – like wisps of snow

Polishers, sharpeners, honing stones, tuning forks

They make us sensitive and aware and yet it is subtle

The affects of the spiritual journey

Are not printed on our foreheads, glistening in our eyes

We cannot go to the physical mirror and say

I am on “on the path,”  no

They are manifested deep within and so are not visible

Not to the physical eye, not at first

Not even to one’s self.

And slowly, we become aware of this dusting of truth

We realize, we are in something huge

And if awareness of one’s “new awareness”

is not maintained with care, practice, meditation, prayer

Then everything enters; the outside world finds access

Even the base, the jealousy, the envy, the sloth…

Such deepening “sensitivity” and awareness means

Darkness is apt and welcome to follow

in the shadow of light.

If the path is toward light,

then that is the intent of your journey

That is where you go, because

You are where your consciousness is.

There will be darkness along the way,

The brightest caves have walls lined

With dark crags and holes

(*and as I just wrote this line someone’s phone just rang with their chime,

A song by AC/DC called, “Back in Black” and chills run through my body…HE listens.)

But do not believe that darkness must be your path to light

Light is the path to light, 

It’s absence is also the path of light.

For some time since this awakening

I find

Many things affect me now

The moon, the sun.

All celestial entities

I’m driven to smile at the smiles on faces of others

Acts of compassion that I witness

I see someone and I sense their temperament

Intentions, softness, intellect, heart

While I’ve not by any means mastered this

I have enough that I must be cautious

To not let ego lead me to believe to hastily

This is a fragrance before the taste

All these sensations are nonetheless

amplified

And the sounds of their essence

are growing louder

I’ve been given tools

Even with “tinkering,” I’ve become

More honed, sharpened, polished, tuned…

But there is more to occur, much more.

But first, I must realize these

Through observation

Burn with these, through prudence

And patience.

And most importantly, to do this,

To come closer to God and feel

The trust in that I am worthy

of experiencing these ultra sensitivities.

As I learn to read truth

I see it in the revelation of the message.

When I see with my heart

The true teacher appear before my eyes

When I learn to love

Love will teach me

To learn everything.

Victims of Education

I've had to sign over a dozen inane forms giving permission for and acknowledging the dangers of cooking and sewing class, gym activities, sensitive topics in life science, specific exercises for specific parts of the the body and on and on.

What a sad and litigious world...such fear...that our educational system has become so untrustworthy of itself that it kicks up a cloud of cover-your-ass minutia. Sad that, I'd never considered loopholes for litigation until I found myself entwined in the ropes of my own signature on many sheets of paper. Sad that my tax dollars go to general counsel rather than toward basic school supplies.

How about we all sign an agreement that my daughter be taught the truth; that her imagination and individuality will be stimulated in order to explore unique methods and paths to this truth; paths that allow the assimilating of unfiltered history and science and mathematics and literature offered through uncensored, 360 degree views of society and the world with which she lives...by educated, enlightened, and sufficiently numbered and enabled teachers. And don't tell me she's not old enough to explore truth - she is...she is if she can flip through the channels to the MTV video awards and gasp at a twerking child acting like a harlot; if she can know before I do the "blanks" that are bleeped out for profanity; and if she blushes during sexually suggestive scenes on network television.

Let's expose them to the truth and prepare them to be makers of history, rather than victims. Give me THAT form to sign!

My Son's 10th Birthday

Born 10 years ago today, OUR son is an inspiration specifically selected to BE. He's not mine as much as he is his own. And that's how he shall be raised, inshallah.

We ask for glimpses of God's plan for us; THAT God plans for others, IS part of our plan.

2013

My Daughters Thirteenth Birthday

Dear Camberlyn (Birthday girl)

So what do you think of this very memorable past year little thing…or perhaps now I’m not able to call you that as you round 13 years. It’s been a wonderful year in ways you can only begin to count with tears, laughter, discovery, and inexplicable joy. You’ll make 13 the luckiest number of them all!

Darling, you experienced some moments that few adults have been able to handle in their lifetimes. And you have taken this in with a gentle burgeoning maturity that seems to come from the deepest places in your heart – where secrets dwell. How gracefully and modestly you handle new friendships, your studies, and insatiable appetite for reading. I know with all assurance that your mother is smiling upon you, happy, and proud of her daughter just as I am.

I am humbled by the loving ways in which you are unfolding into a young little lady. You should know I admire you and that when you smile at me, your reflection in my eyes lasts for a hundred* heart beats after you walk away.

You’ll always have me by your side, I promise, and no one will ever make you a promise the way your dad does. I will always keep you surrounded by love and enlightenment – as you journey from your head to your heart - can you see it now sweetheart?

“..if anyone asks you how the perfect satisfaction of all our desiring will look, lift your face and say… ‘ like this’ .” Rumi