It’s different here on the westward side
The cairns are small
or not at all
long running mounds—no one knows how many lie below.
In a dreamI see the skyso blue aboveand—grassesringingthe openingbending downtoward me—witnessesgenerationaftergenerationsurvivingeverythingeven the droughtcome upon us late.The grass remembers,covers our naked bones,draws up our misery—gives it to the skyasha
to carry away.
published in West & Mid Kerry Live
Full moon in Beaver Damn Wash
It has always been spoken of
as the grave and womb of light
this most brief day
this deepest midnight
stiffened with ice and silence.
It is crucial now that there be
harbors and pools and islands
of light, and it is necessary
that there be song
for the dead are everywhere
stricken with grief, wandering
among the birds of winter but
with song they may be comforted
and Love, on this longest of nights,
requires the giving of a gift.
asha
Eating our way out of the jungle
we quit the river we followed.
Finally there was nothing left
of the world that bore us—
nothing left of us
but our hunger.
The dead refuse burial.
Strangers now—
turn your attention
to the sky we breathe
and the fiction of escape—
fiction enough
for another thousand years.
asha
published in 300K: Une Anthologie de Poésie sur L'espèce Humaine /
A Poetry Anthology about the Human Race
How do you do, he whispers in her mind.
Take it a little further, he murmurs—
beyond this afternoon, the layers of cliff light—
gray root eyes stern in his pitch thick bush of hair.
Amid the squeaks, twitters and rattles,
the plunking sound of jumping fish,
drifting mumble of lunchers down the lake
and buzz of diving flies,
a fish strikes, bites the meat.
When I was a child I fished,
watched them glide just below the surface—
For a moment only the wind,
winding its way through the tops of the trees,
makes a sound.
Shake out a beginning, middle and end, he whispers.
The boy catches his first fish, grabs
the struggling creature into his world,
his too bright light.
Its tiny teeth sink into his hand;
catch his surprise in the inverted wilderness of water.
Fishing the lake means seeing it from all sides,
he whispers, smiling around his teeth.
asha
I have been up all night
writing and re-writing
tomorrow—
watching the stars
tick across the sky.
Around midnight
the Big Dipper is just
beyond my window.
By 3 am—only stars.
No names.
Then in the hush
just before dawn
when time slows
nearly to a stop
I see my grandmother’s dog
the one she made live outside
that entire North Dakota winter
his pleading, cold-crazed eyes
a sad, two-star constellation.
They shot him in the spring.
The sun doesn't rise.
The world falls face first
into its light, finds its mark
resumes the fiction of the day.
With regret I sense before I can see
the Holy Dark dissolve into grainy
morning. Here and there a bird
stirs in its quills. Before long
they are on the roof rattling
the gutters, pecking at the
tiles. One of these days
they will pull the house beam out
and the whole thing will fall down.
asha
When I was a girl
and hungry for pleasure
with feathers in my hair
and bells on my feet
a wild unpruned thing
a child on the run
feasting on the sweets
and bitters of love
on the full gush of all things
in a swarm of musics
and carelessly carefree
rising and falling
on each tide swimming
a slave to the moon
with a barefoot heart dancing
to the flute of my own god
I spilled blossom after blossom
to the wind with no regard
being full of my season
and the aphrodisiac perfumes
on which I fed
lips red
voice thick from singing
eyes heavy from wooing
until I delivered the fruit of the union
until I became
with the pain and the growing
the reaping and sowing
a woman.
asha
Before the final breath and night
swallowed the glow above the hill
and in the eye—
before the bloodsplash of light
pulsing with unborn and terrifying thoughts
was stilled in the gently falling hush
world to world of the quietest breath
and the last petal of a most beautiful flower fell
into the quick black stream of death—
fell down and forever from view
know this darkness that settled
this disappearing act forever playing out
within the world, this knife
around which the wound dried
was delivered by angels.
You were a splash of light
between two worlds
grooving, ransacking visions
till kingdom came
singing till you shattered
ravaged by innocence.
You were a dying man
hungry for the company
of rain soaked pines
a downed bird whose fierce eye
grew dim in the cage by the door.
Holy Mary, Mother of God—
. . . you were a curly-headed boy
stealing to the lake for an evening swim.
Pray for us sinners—
. . . stealing back to the lake for an evening swim
stealing back to lost summer.
Pray for us now, at the hour of our death—
. . . as I kiss your wax brow
at the door that is always locked.
asha
John T. Chance, in memoriam - June 9, 1934 - February 1, 1992
The floor of my mind is littered with words—scrawled, scribbled out, crumpled words. I hear them whispering to one another—shifty, resistant as shadows in wind, as bugs in cracks, as sprouts growing in the fetid dark. Some are annoying—sharp rocks under bare feet—others threatening as broken glass. Some are photos fallen from a collage with little value of their own, pennies on the ground. Others are blobs of paint that did not make it to the canvas, beautiful, dry and beyond recall. Others are worlds orbiting their own remote stars. Observed they change. They do not obey the rules. They float, switch polarities, attract and repel at random, sometimes swirling, sometimes playing dead only to suddenly reappear with new meanings.
asha
A red fish
the size of a child
startles up through the trees.
Who sitting around this stone table
will remember this for me?
asha
THOUGHTS WHILE LEAVING . . .
setting out upon a long journey
I take my lantern off the post
the hills in the west are approaching Jupiter
a young moon
in the 7th house
horns to the east
floats low in a purple lea
half in shadow/half in light
I take the path of the terminator.
there are endless stones in this path
each stone a world
and endless steps in this journey
each step a birth/each step a death
birth/death blended into this exquisite twilight
through which I go towards Jupiter
and the edge goes with me
for we are in need of the sea.
asha
the little moon
the little moon that starved so long in the brass box
the little moon
who only eyes of dream can see
—that one—
who lay so long
sunk in a chilly abyss beyond the reach of conscious fire
she has summoned me to leave the daylight realm
cold stars swirl and drown in the black sea that must be crossed
—on a winter's night
first passing the lava bone brain forest of an inner deep
I set out—
she keeps her dark face forever turned to dark
she stands behind ripped clouds
hanging from the proscenium arch of night
peeking in at the living world
aching with light—
on a winter night we set out on that terrible journey
through the larvae brain bone forest
over sunk stars sparkling beyond reach
only eyes of dream can gather the crystals—the frozen
shipwrecked treasures from which the moon was born.
asha
Road's Eye View
I saw her once
presiding over the
beginning of the day,
the giant turbaned umber
goddess of morning’s sunlit web
—Banana Woman—
mountains of bananas rising behind her,
towers of bananas stacked on tables around her,
foothills of bananas sprawling out
along the market’s spider path.
She would not look up from her ledger so,
needing to make peace with my demons,
I gave my confession to her dogs.
And her dogs replied—
Let us begin with death
and the possibility of death
for this is the humid season
of atrocity and wonder
where the starting point
is fear and desire
twisted together,
inseparable vines,
the assailable heart
and the available flesh
lashed to a skeleton raft,
survivors in the carbon sea
shipwrecked in this stinking
singing swamp, ten thousand
tiny concertinas squeaking in the
buzzing, clicking, humming dark—
where are you . . . here I am . . .
here I am . . . who are you . . .
here I am . . . here I am . . .
where are you . . . who are you . . .
who are you . . . I am here . . .
who will feed my daily flesh . . .
who are you . . .
who are you . . .
I cannot sleep . . .
here I am . . .
peel back my skin and eat . . .
asha
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
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
Having found no suitable priestess
I have become my own—
transforming
and transforming myself.
asha
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
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
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
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
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
When I had feet me shoes were yellow
ah yellow as pollen they were
bright as lemons
bright as me lad's smile
bold as his laugh
an oh how I danced in me shoes
all night
a swarm a bees
drunk from the flowers
sportin their yellow pants an boots
knew not as many turns as me lad an me
not haf as many
an when
in the slow river
a bare foot we went a wadin
me lad an me
an bare we were from toe to head
a hand an hand
me yellow shoes was glad to wait
all hodgepodge with his
for shoes has no need a feet
though feet has a need a them
but now
old as I be
I has no need a shoes
not yellow
not brown
but glad I am
glad as I was when I was a lass
for I got me me lad
an I rather him than me feet.
asha
—written at the behest of Lawson Fusao Inada
Even as a child
I knew I could possess nothing
so I renounced everything
but childhood itself.
And as a child
I knew knowledge
could not be enough,
that only a homing instinct
would be much use after all.
So abundant
are the moments of truth
diamond drops
cupped in the uncountable
small green hands of morning—
even now I do not wish
to turn back from love.
Knowing I will forget
again and again
how to laugh
and how to cry
and what you mean to me,
and knowing
that each moment of love
finally presses its body
in wet fallen fragrant petals
against the stone to dry
I must welcome strangers
and imperfections.
I have seen hope
like spring return
again and again
and the sleek and shiny
lights of rain
dancing everywhere.
Even now
it is wise to trust.
asha
As moon hidden by morning
as water enters earth
as the blossom’s beauty quivers
falling from the fruit within
as night embraces effaces erases light
and light
being diminished or absent
speaks only in dream
I went to the river saying,
River,
here are my voices.
Return them to the sea.
After death—
I entered River’s mind
and River’s song
which fills the twilight
replaced the sun.
After death—
seeing through River’s eye
knowing night by many names
I journeyed far to reach and kiss
the pulse of earth and sea.
Returning—
new mind
a spring rain
slowly descending black bark trees.
Returning—
young among the old
new moon asleep on the sea.
Returning—
I moor my ship
upon the wind’s voice.
asha
