when you came
and the sea was night
oh come
be with me always
o Boat—night and day at sea
your touch
at last I speak
singing
round
creaking
laughing at me
because you are kind
my heart can grow
because you love me
I do not need to know tonight
the foghorns hare aroused me
from the dream
I drift on
away from sleep
away from sleep
in you—in me
thinking
o Earth
living constellations
and dark
and the blissful
the murmur of your holy name
awakening in my heart at last
o joy
the fulfillment of my deepest
sweetest
sorrow
perhaps I can never return
my way is with you
if I cannot reach you tonight
streets and bushes
let me be
I will sing and die
waves on the shore
the end of the sea
if you touch me
o Ram
make me mad
your love is enough
so empty
so night
be still
Heart—Night
Cloud of Dancing
you do love me
that is enough
stairs of stone
of wood
of waves
and laughter skyward
as though I die
telling me
be at home my child
my darling, my earth and look for me
I am here behind every guise
garlanded by Love’s bitter-sweet tears
asha
To Ram
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
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
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