In the gaze of the other

"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"


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Published on #rebellesociety: The Hunger (Shameless Promotion)

  
Happy to announce that a poem that grew out of the poetry half marathon, the kick start to an avalanche of creativity, was published in Rebelle Society today. I previously published the poem here on the blog but appreciate the continued support to generate views :-).

View here.

Peace,

The Gaze


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Published in elephant journal:  what happens when we surrender to yoga

  

Credit: Leslie Alejandro

Even the Supreme Court surrenders to something larger than itself. We all must give in, be a part of the fabric of an order, principle, and/or belief not only for the sake of facilitating justice to those around us but for ourselves–to be the justice. 

Labels define merely to confine. Lately, yoga has been taking a hit in the news. One Congress person dismissed it as religion that he did not want to see endorsed or foisted upon him in our nation’s participation in the celebration of International Yoga Day last week. 

Schools resist implementing yoga classes for a similar anticipated outcry despite the fact that teaching children to listen to their bodies and minds early cannot but be beneficial for adulthood when life speeds up and they, like so many, will lose touch with themselves, feel alienated, ill and angry at “others.”
Yoga is more and less than religion. The responsibility the practice teaches benefits everyone. Please enjoy my essay published in elephant journal on a singular definition of yoga, not exclusively mine, but culled through my experience.

Peace, 

the Gaze


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My Dating Site

credit: thememeguy.com

Espresso shots, Open tables, a shoulder-slunked mind in a cafe quips:
Sighed out on Dating sites with their Show me yours I’ll show you mine. 

Only I don’t want to play that Gut exhausting, Happy sapping game.
The one of Cliché’d glass cases with a mime Silently howling inside. 

The trick is this, I’m told: Be direct or be alluring, No in between.
Play the sex card or go fish, for All else covers as time wasting. 

So practically practical this world, A missing blessing, A cursory look.
Human exploration dead, Gone the way of humanities–disrespect. 

The machine pumps all now, Post people-ism, Peddling wares of wear,
Faces incomplete, Bodies disembodied, Intentions at Cross sections. 

Arms hugging an example, a harried voice, wincing thought, clarifies
That which makes him/her/it/us/them truly tick, Gather up and hallelujah.

Just once, Wanting to reply a brutal truth-biting of words honestly pled:
Not wanting to down you, Respondent, Just that friends don’t do friends. 

Can you Be a being, like me, like you? Exist with me just for a while?
Feel the feeling of feeling? In a combinatory presence, Can we just walk? 

See how the air circulates, By and between us flaring Scent and Sound.
The air does. See? In the gaps of words, We speak, While we walk 

In sensorial immemorial blind sight of touch-less touch–My dating site. 


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Beagleman

  
A man with a short face, not from chin to forehead but tip of the beaky nose to upper lip–not enough distance. The topography of his face is flat as if the effort of blooming a nose and plumping some lips was abandoned half way to finished. The eyes are photoshopped Cancun ridge of the sea blue, but paler, far too brilliant for his age in a hand’s decades, no dullness to the liquid gaze, like polished museum or Madison Avenue marble flooring–a splendorous richesse of gloss. The face is proportionate to the rest of him, distant soccer player traces of a cut angle just below the scapula, a rounded sternum suggesting the brim of a broad chest but for the expansion below that arcs convexly far more than it should beyond the belt. But the semblance of a prime physique resides, the residuals of fitness imports a belated youth to his figure. His name is Beagleman. 
A recent return from the edge of a self-inflicted, imploding dual-minded fury left him enervated and his tawny fatigued suitcase paupered.


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Writing Poems Amid Artificial Sounds of Trains and Falling Snow While Pipes Burst and Birthday Boys Skated

  

The train traveled far today so the whistle sounds faint
tired, perhaps, of the snow-muffled shrill of un-restraint.
 
A cool stove lay undisturbed, cool iron clean, all the day
while the ground leaked, forming my father’s bed a lake.
 
Two daughters slept and awoke to buy birthday boy gifts,
then flew home the helicopter, remote, controlled, adrift.
 
A husband fished for answers in a plumber’s busy way
only for rejection’s sake he pleaded dearly for his case.
 
For tomorrow can right itself in rhythmic steel drumming
and pulse below a calm repose in boredom’s humming.
 
For neither burst of pipe nor creativity’s pace may shatter
the week end’s closing call to the summer’s opening gala.
 
The hours longer and shorter still when poetry awakes
in bed the daylight long with trains, pipes, snow, skates.
 
An inspired screen tortured hard frozen bits slow falling
while thunderous trains traveled ever on, never stalling.
 
Words dry up, writing sours, turned to poetical blather
time to gather up my wits and return to other matters.

(and so ended my poetry half marathon)

 


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Another Ode to Witness

 
  
Old friend, we’ve gone this route before,
you, witness, wag shaking by the door
seeking, waiting, leaping and running
never late nor early, always just coming
arriving just before me, eagerly unsure
hot and breathing heavy, somewhat sore
when we go long and distant, you, me
running by the beach, cooled by the sea
those days we both were stronger then
me with solid knees, you, a leaner bend
back high and haunches thickly sturdy
unlike now as we hack and sweat dirty
dripping salty stains down our backs
your mouth sweating along the tracks
we no longer run, you and me, my pal
my faithful fan knee high wagging tail.
I call you witness for a nose knows all
those you wait for, scraps to ever fall
side by your keeper, quiet, ready sight
the world tethered to sense and fright.
We who savor your riches watch you
watching us awaiting the familiar cue
“Come to me, Kiah.” Let vigilance rest,
in settled dreams, my furry ever-guest.

Photo credit: Chris Clevely