two tales of a city

Who could stand

in your fire

and not be consumed?

Your embers remained.

ButI bathed my heart in them

-it is pristine

like

the whites that the women

in Oaxaca washed

in ashes.

Do you remember?

They blinded us

in the sunlight

Now
your eyes

are black and mordicous

blinded by the smoke of

my delicious

and I have learned

to dance through flames.

my most faithful lover

I love the moon, it's been my most faithful lover. The moon is always there, like clockwork. An ardent listener to my songs, secrets, woes, and poems. it's waxing and waning make my womanly moods sing or sit quietly by under all its majesty.

I often remind my children, to thank the moon for lighting the night sky for our walk home from Grandma's, and the beautiful light through our window - perfect for an evening prayer, or a stolen kiss.

It's the same moon that Napoleon gazed at while dreaming of his Josephine, Rumi danced under, the Celtics prayed to, and Romeo met his Juliet. I wish the moon could tell me of all that he has seen. I would remind him how beautifully he lit the night while we swam in the Mediterranean, and how much I appreciated his solace in the vineyard so long ago...

I want to be extra soft so one day when my great great grandchildren beg "please majestic moon, tell us all she thought" - he will only glow in radiant silence.

I realize,
all those things
my body wanted
to scream
and
my hands
wanted to write
on the pages
of a torso....
My eyes,
say them now
without-
a sound.....

My children love looking through all of our old photo boxes of what life was like before they came to be. It is fun for me too, to answer their questions, see their giggles and confusion. I noticed my eyes are different now. They are full, and brimming, and happy, and have a light.

All those other things that I sought to fill me and empty myself into no longer exist in my life. There is no stunning home, no exotic vacations, the copious amounts of sex are gone, no dashing husband. Now my days are hugs around my knees, kingdoms in the clouds, songs to the moon, quiet, sunsets onthe patio, a bed full of clinging babies at night, vacations are a trip to the book store and a picnic at the park. People in my circle, think that it's sad, oh, "how well you've overcome"... I giggle inside, and smile kindly.... do my eyes betray my thoughts????

I wanted to be a gypsy, or something grand, see the world, cure death, and bathe everyone in an enchanting tale.... sometimes life knows best what we need. Or perhaps my eyes' glimmer is just a glazed over, 50 hour work week, mommy of three burnout???

simple

I began painting. In my mind I wanted my first painting to look like Alphonse Mucha or Maxfield Parrish - surely my fingers could do the dance my mind was doing. Dance, they did, but hardly was it a tango, more of a hokey pokey.

Then they danced again. I loved it. I loved her. I loved her breasts, the baby's head, and the whimsy of her softness. She looks nothing like she did in my head, but I think she is exquisite in her simplicity. Does this mean I'm lazy? Aren't virgin artists supposed to anguish over their work and despair that it doesn't convey what they are "feeling"?

I'm sure there is some lesson in this - like "try anyway", "find beauty in your imperfections", "share yourself"... or maybe it's just "get yourself some art lessons damnit!" 

A Merlot for the Moon

this time,

please,

let your hand

sleep there

on

my hot skin

I

am weak with want

we

shall make the moon drunk

on

the wine

of

our need