This Cracked Life

There's a crack in my head,

in my mind, in my life,

a crack letting in the out

and out the in...

It's a crack of light,
a crack of mystery,

a crack of fear being chased

by a shy little crack of hope.

There's a whispering,

muffled, near, then far,

giving answers to questions

that haven't been asked.

There's wind through the chimes

making music in the night,

right outside my door...

Stepping back in wonder,

I'm asking the darkness:

How does she do it,

this miracle of life?

Take a breath,

and another,

and one more again,

and there you have it,

this cracked imperfection,

this beauty, this life.

Poem of Dreams

Dreamed of anger,
raging hot,
and the shame
that it brought forth...

Dreamed of flowers,
pure and white,
of lying among them,
breathing...

Dreamed of a golden shoe,
that fell from a delicate foot,
and aroused the blush of desire...

Dreamed of you,
dreamed of you,
dreamed of you.

Dangerous (poem)

Dangerous,

the hidden rocks,

lying rough

below the surface.

Still I dive,

deep and deep,

Scraping tender flesh

across the unforgiving rocks.

Blood in the water.

Mine, or yours?

Deep and deep,

whose pain is this?

The poem above was written a few years ago, thinking about a childhood summer spent at a camp on Lake Champlain. We spent a lot of time swimming, and there were large rocks hidden beneath the surface of the water. Until you memorized where they were, you had to swim underwater to see them in advance, and avoid crashing into them. They scared me a bit, although I liked climbing up onto them and being able to sit or stand high up in the middle of deep water.

Remembering these rocks, I thought how they could stand as symbols of the hidden emotional triggers we can crash into within ourselves, especially if that territory is yet unexplored. And those crashes do create the experience of pain. And yet, how often when we feel discomfort or misery, and assume it is ours, is it actually not ours at all, but the pain of another we are tuning into, or the some random suffering floating around in the collective unconscious?

CREATION

As much as you say
you do NOT
want this pain...

It 'feels' to me
as if you are
worshipping
at its alter,
tending the
sacred fire,
chanting the
holy words:
"I hurt"
"I hurt"
"I hurt"

And you know,
(you DO know),
that the universe
listens to you,
every time you
say it,
scream it,
weep it,
bleed it:
"I hurt"
"I hurt"
"I hurt"

And every time
you feed this truth,
then *poof* so it IS.

And like a stray cat,
as long as you keep
feeding it, it will stay,
ever your faithful
companion in pain…

Though it would just as soon
join you in pleasure and joy,
if that is what you choose.
Either way, it’s YOUR creation,
your doom or delight,
your agony or ecstasy,
yours, all yours.

So what ARE you choosing?
What ARE you feeding?
What ARE you giving your power to?
Well then, *poof* so it IS.

~ Poem by Jaya, 2006 ~

For Miguel

For Miguel
(1970 - 1990)

Miguel, you came across the border
looking for the American Dream,
and instead wound up, at age 15,
a beautiful boy toy, selling your body
on the streets of Chicago.

And by the time you were 20,
your dream had degenerated
into the nightmare of AIDS,
of pain, sickness, and death.

You asked me to take you and your mother
shopping for your coffin, and I did.
In the car, on the way back,
I understood your mother's spanish,
when she sighed, and said:
"Oh God! We are here only to suffer!"

After coffin shopping,
you pulled me aside,
and told me your greatest fear:
That they would say you were dead,
when you weren't quite yet,
and you would be buried alive.

Later, when you were almost blind,
and you hair was beginning to fall out,
I was there when the priest came to call.
He told you that your suffering was a good thing,
because it brought you closer to God.
You turned your head to the wall.
And I think we both were wondering:
Who really wants to be closer
to a God who can be so cruel?

~ 2003 ~