Oasis

Woe to the abandoned child!

Pity the one left untouched,

Dismissed,

Uncared for.

Injustice befell you,

And your eyes have been averted.

You stare outwardly

Into the desolate wastes

Of a parched

And desert-like world.

What do you know

Of that place called Oasis?

Yet you have always stood

In an artesian pool

Where waters well up

From a deep and mysterious source.

Here you have stood,

Surrounded by a delicate border

Of leaf and moss

With high, overarching palms

Bending against the hot sun

To make a canopy

For your head.

But you have not felt

The shade of this sanctuary

Nor the soothing

Of the mud

That has caressed your feet.

Again, distracted

Your eyes reach out

To find engagement

In a dry and disconsolate world.

Living in the dunes

It is incapable of nurturing

Your deepest requirements.

Hot, shimmering mirages

From the outer world

Have caught you in a spell.

Forgetfully

You have dropped your drinking cup

At the edge

Of your inner wellspring.

Is it courageous

That you suffer thirst?

Or must someone else

Deliver a full cup

Before you may drink?

And when another does

Bring you beverage,

Why does it not

Quench your thirst?

And instead

Cause you frustration

Disappointment

And sorrow?

Must you also suffer

The exile of your

Mother And Father,

Who march in an unbroken lineage

That stretches across

A withered landscape

Of guilt,

Self-hatred,

And unfulfilled dreams?

You need not be chained

To this legacy.

Stop!

Take a deep breath,

And remember.

Return!

To where you have always stood.

Awaken!

And move your toes

In the same mud

That sprouts the lotus.

Notice the pollywogs

That dart between your legs.

Listen to the frog’s

Ancient murmur

Calling you home.

Gather and eat

The ripe dates

That surround you

And bring sweetness

To your life.

Grasp and plunge

The cup of inquiry

Into the cool waters

Of your own presence.

Lift the cup to your parched lips

And take a drink.

As you gaze into the shimmering eyes

Of your own reflection,

Find the courage to dive deep

Into the wellspring of the Love

That never abandoned you.

Let Go

There… On the moss covered,

Vertical face of a giant rock,

Seeping waters emerge

From a secret spring.

Shunted through a maze

Of tendrils and stems,

The water gathers

At the moss’s lacy ends

In quivering droplets.

As if pausing to gain strength

For a long journey,

They swell and become engorged,

Perfect spheres.

In their fullness

They gather the morning light

And sparkle like liquid diamonds.

Suddenly…

Unable to bear the weight any longer,

They let go and fall

Into an unknown pool

That awaits them below.

Drip….drip….drip.drip…drip

The sounds of these pattering rhythms

Soothe my soul.

And then a revelation,

Am I not also

Just a drip on the face of existence?

On the Edge

Like sand on the beach,

I await the tidal flow of your love.

Still, prone, stretched,

In the wind and sun,

I am quiet, pensive, and yet available.

I know that soon your frothy coldness

Will wash over me again,

To inundate me,

To suck at me,

To bubble and gurgle around me.

In your ebb and flow

My grains collide and separate.

Only the sandpipers will witness this.

But they will be too busy,

Probing my fringes for dinner,

To notice our passion.

I love the way

Your waves smash me,

And rearrange me,

And clean me,

And throw interesting treasures

Of wood, shell, and feather

Upon my nakedness

This is the jewelry

With which you have adorned me

For countless aeons.

Twice a day since always,

We have met like this

And never have our meetings

Been repetitious.

Lovers must walk this place,

And so too, philosophers, poets

And people with wounds.

Children, surfers, and dog lovers

Walk and run here, too,

All of them,

Healed in one way or another

In our meeting,

Our passion,

Our freshness.

Grace

When the great spider goddess, Spifica,

Leaps from the center of her web

And grabs the next victim,

Her nimble and dexterous feet

Tumble and roll the body,

As sharp, precise stabs,

From hidden fangs,

Deliver the stupefying potion

That lowers all vital signs

To a point of unconsciousness

Just above death.

Spinnerets at the abdomen

Spray out sticky, white strands

That are gathered by knowing feet

And a white shawl is woven

Around the pale body,

While it is spun on its axis.

The encased form is deposited

Like a full bottle of wine

Somewhere on Spifica’s web,

Where it will hang, waiting,

Waiting for the day that hunger

And the sucking reflex

Will kick in

And cause Her, again, to return

And reclaim Her prize,

Draining the bottle, just a little,

Savoring the fruity, mellowed tannins

Of ‘Life-Force’

With hints of black cherry and chocolate

And a ‘finish’ that leaves the palate

Engaged, if unrequited.

The bottle, a little less full,

Is hung again on the rack of the web,

Its succulence still protected

By the husk of paralysis.

The juice will be undisturbed now,

Given time to age.

More ‘bottles’ join it,

While She goes on ‘collecting’, tasting,

And discarding the empties,

Some of them hanging on filaments,

Hollow corpses spinning

On the breeze like pinwheels.

A young boy approaches the web

With curiosity and a stick in his hand.

With a whirl of the stick,

Like a magician casting a spell,

The web is destroyed

And Spifica is sent flying.

In the shambles,

The boy, innocently inquisitive,

Discovers the silk shrouded capsules

And begins to pull them out

Of their fallen matrix.

He stacks them neatly

In a row on the ground.

Gently, one by one, he opens them

As if they were presents

From under a Christmas tree.

A bee……a moth…… a cicada…… a butterfly……

Respectfully, he lays them down

On a piece of bark in the sun

And then he leaves…

Warmed by the noonday sun,

Life awakens with sleepy eyes

And is carried aloft on wings

That unfold from a dream.