Pyramid mountains

Pyramid mountains
speechless in the summer snow.
Someone has to talk.

asha

Between Us

if the blood red rose
blooms white some spring
lighting its obscure
part of the night

a small perfumed moon
nestled among thorns
who would protest this wonder?

I tremble before love’s simplicity

oh bitter sweet surrender
oh ever sweetening trust
even death is turned
inside out

let it pass through me 
love’s terrifying light
should I become ash
it will be enough


asha

Priestess

Having found no suitable priestess
I have become my own—
transforming
and transforming myself.

asha

Roadside oil rigs

Roadside oil rigs
metal dinosaurs in the
hot Texas morning.


asha

Ontology of Clouds

A thrown stone finds its resting
place within the grass
the egg, more than a tombstone,
must shatter first into light
what is born must devour itself
in order to survive its darkness,
its promise and its threat.

Dandelion lanterns along the path,
soon blown out, are not a loss, no
seed is a loss. In the green light

of my first summers, seeing the wild
mass of morning glories swarming
secretly over overlooked places,

I knew I had inherited a lie.
When the spirit is wounded
and the wound is deep

be gentle—in this ache,
this flare of dying light, again
and again we risk everything.
Salt stained clouds foam up the sky
it is on an afternoon like this
we will begin again with nothing.

asha

Water Brother

When I see the brown hills lying
coldly in the sly distance
or the clouds     having lost their ocean
looking for a place to weep
or the crystal drop on the still leaf tip 
                                                                   
falls—
I remember the angels
   perfumed and ancient as midnight
   new as silver of the waxing moon
who first spoke to me of death.

At dawn I went to the hill that sleeps
and called their names
      loudly    
louder and louder
until even the snakes in their dens
shuddered
     then softly I called them
      quietly whispering each name
until there was no sound at all
          but the tolling of a distant bell . . .

It was then they came—
sursum corda—
scratching the sky, reaching through
the timeless blue dream with their talons
clawing long blazing marks in the wind

and in that moment,
      sweet inconsolable water brother—
one mad despised flower
          with no petals at all/with translucent, golden petals
growing beneath the bridge/beneath the fig tree
    laughing to itself
        bird on the morning breeze
            empty of everything but light
               bloomed

asha

Re-beginnings

Seattle

Touched by your eyes, I quake. Whatever is good has ceased to flow.
I throw the poison mirror away. The walls close towards center.
Barely room to breathe.

Morning comes and again I resolve to survive the day, overcome this.
We had planned to do that. Times have been better. My flesh hurts.
I plunge back into sleep.

But the urge returns, jarring open my eyes. You aren't here.
What am I creating? Or am I just re-living-living the worst
old outcomes? There was a truth here. Sinking, my thoughts
become seeds seeking the comforting dark. Memories
are of no value. Where I am now I am safe—
between everything—away and alone
under a high cloud sky.

In this inner world of the closed flower there is a moment’s rest.
The wind and tide erase all. I do not speak the language here.
It is a comfort. I communicate through half tones, faint smiles.
Outside the petals, rain and finally a clear sky and distant
mountains asleep under their snow. Having held back
too long, I do not cry. We bend or break.
Now I lay me down to sleep.
The rain drenched petals creak.
I lower myself into the storm—
small boat, small wings—
to try the sea.

asha

Return

to the disembodied
painted faces of the inner air
the stone voice speaks
the whorls upon waking weep
the swamp of singing reeds
the growing world
turns to listen
time
delirious with eternity
sleeps on
there is no answer

in the winter sun
birds are thinking
they do not reply
I have returned
from a long journey
I have changed

the end and the beginning
stir and separate my thoughts
it is noon at my place on earth



asha
published in Sein und Werden

Life at the top of the stairs

For Fleek

Having to be somewhere—
I found myself living on the landing  
at the top of the stairs.

A thousand times a thousand times
I finished in my mind the unfinished
painting leaning against the wall.

The eight-legged one,
tiny Protectorate of the Shadows
and her silken sacks of eggs,
she alone knows the rest of the story—



asha