Anger can be good . . .
letting go of it even better.
Anger is hot,
it wells up and explodes.
Let it blow up your hurt,
like an atom bomb
obliterating the negative.
Then let the winds of war
clear the air
and you move on,
stronger, faster . . .
Salt mist kisses on infant lips
blend with sweet mother’s milk.
“He’s special—this one—he knows,”
“A sorcerer’s touch at my breast.”
Dos hermanas see to the baptism—to cleanse the past;
unleash the present; create the future.
No priest—no choir.
Age old power comes to claim its own.
The child lifts from mother’s breast.
Eyes to the sky—focused on a pelican dive;
deep, sharp, straight down.
Bird rises from the depths—gullet full of fish.
With a delightful squeal, baby squirms for freedom.
“He will dive as the bird,” the mother started.
“He will come back with magic,” her sister agreed.
Floating bubbles of wisdom guide the journey that has begun.
In Shaman robes he heals, blesses, governs;
from scarcity, he brings abundance;
pain and sorrow give way to joy.
The barren give birth.
Droughts end with rain.
Spirits do his bidding without question.
He makes the world right.
A century later, a child hovers over a grandparent’s grave.
She feels this sacred place; ocean waves remind her of him
How he’d sit her on his knee and sing chants of freedom, love and peace.
She pulls off her clothes and dives from the cliff.
As she comes up for air, a pelican—gullet full of fish,
Emerges from the deep.
Boy and girl touch lives
for a year maybe two.
Frazzled, broken and turning
they dispose of what they had.
Years indulge them with
marriage, work and age.
Yet they continue
the journey when they can.
he sends her visions of
ancient power and Renaissance art.
He speaks of inspired fear. She wonders.
A man that helps others see beauty, then writes
of greed and love as synonyms
in a Botticelli springtime dream.
From tropical isles
she sends aloha.
No qualifications, no tests to pass,
with time to steal.
Who is this overwhelming God?
Is he an ancient Polynesian
bursting forth as molten rock—raw and primal?
Or is she standing naked on a half shell—pristine and pure?
The human experience; from different extremes.
Pressure builds alongCalifornia’s fault lines.
Will its lava pour forth from another side?
Steam rises as it did when their world took form.
Change is apparent, but not sure.
Will their worlds collide
and unleash forces never dreamed of?
A boy looks for a father’s hand to hold—
afraid and brave all at once.
Women nurture and turn away.
A man that spins words
into precise configurations
of protective strategy;
finds he’s attacked from the side,
or from behind.
He escapes to a dance
with wind blown ice.
Thick fur withstands Mother Nature
From her fury he salvages comfort, love and money.
A stone retreat.
sway in the wind
And creak with age.
Look to the sky
—to the birds in flight
that nest together for warmth.
Dull the pain.
Cherish the words alone.
Photo Credits: Media Design Services, Inc.