Poem For Ari

  Driving home
  night 
  stars 
  wrapped around me

  
  you
  
  kisses soft 
  like petals
  
  falling.

  
  In your dream you met Demeter
  Splendid and severe who said: Endure.
  Study the art of seeds,
  The nativity of caves.
  Dance your gay body to the poise of the waves; 
  Die out of the world to bring forth the obscure
  Into blisses, into needs.
  In all resources
  Belong to love.
  Bless, join fashion the deep forces.
  Asserting your nature, priceless and feminine.
  Peace, daughter.  Find your true kin
  -Then you felt her kiss. 
  (Genevieve Taggard)

 I bet you cringe when you see
 who wrote this poem for you.

 since you have been the subject
 of many a spear-studded poem, and lately
 my breath has no been wasted
 on complimenting you.

 but I haven't stopped talking to you yet

 ask me why if you will, and I'll
 say well I'm not sure, but maybe
 it's because I can never predict
 what you'll say next, and maybe it's because
 you're a habit, just like speech and I keep
 wanting to call
 you
 a boy.

 you
 always have time
 to be 
 the answers to my
 questions.
 
 i don't know
 how you hold
 the world in your hand
 like that, it
 would get too slippery for me
 bulging with
 too many
 words to fit
 in one appreciative poem.

 not a god, merely a man
 seeking to understand
 you think he holds the answers
 in his hand
 but his hands are rough
 with questioning
 he'll keep you guessing
 did you ever stop and wonder
 how much of a mystery
 he finds himself to be.
 he'll tear it all asunder
 ripping with thunder
 but you don't hear it
 no you don't hear
 when his eyes are near
 they'll feed you tea
 cracking cups
 with serenity.

 I used to see him
 standing gently
 still
 watching, listening
 painting it down carefully
 next to tea and candlelight.
 

 Now he dances
 under moonlight...
 Like no one's taught
 eir.
 Spinning into
 beauty
 speed
 grace (You swan...)
 Spinning 'cause it's all inside
 eir,
 --love, 
 that's all it is.

 I like the way she moves.
 
 --Mari

  You weren't on
  I read beautiful poems

  Everything is beautiful:
  It's night. 
  Snow silence. 
  Moon glow. 
  Realising shadows, I see what is behind them 
  and like it all better, shadowed.
 
  I find myself in the kitchen,
  (I'm writing, I find myself places. I don't go.)
  with the receding idea to make tea
  (You're not here,
  life is achingly beautiful,
  I'm alive)
  and meet a memory from before I knew you

  It was night 
  I soaked in shades of darkness
  the shifting sculptures of shadows 
  and music that said
  you are not here, 
  life is achingly beautiful 
  and I'm alive,  
  typing this. 

  I bring up thoughts from the deep 
  and bury others with the next words
  to compose this poem.