Beautiful rain,precious rain,
Silver drops to add colour to nature,
Heavenly life line for the parched soil.
Nobody minds, neither the bird nor the tree,
All are happy,
Me too.
I run out in the rain,
I hear the leaves drinking the liquid drops,
It clatters on the rooftops,
Pitter patters on window panes,
Gushes out of the overflowing spouts,
Roars down the gutters.
I breathe the blessed rain,
As it falls on me,
Kisses me,
Drums on my head with its pearly drops,
Sings a sweet song to me,
As I twirl and dance in the rain.

You had not joined me
My totem-journey to the wellspring of the Colorado
to seek the source of things uncontained

the stars washed over me with asphyxiation
the breathless gasp of space



--In the deserts;
Rocklands--
the emerald barrel cactus
is watered as the earth
and the passerby
Cheyenne
cut into the crust
to sip the wine-flesh
to be drunk
and exhume the inhibitions of living

Forbidden berries
in the garden of quills, spear thistles
trust upon the air to protect her children

a good, silent mother
does not refuse
the gift of deflowering
as she is stripped
of her sharpness
and laundered
bestowed in salted bison skin of a war-chief's pouch.

die resurrection die
die again eyes open die
again I will sing again
I will get an accordion
I will be again and again

die I will not get away from this
even cry laugh laugh not leave
we live and we live forever forever
it's impossible to get away from it
get away from it no never never

26.11.18

We fall asleep sometimes in the snow and you sing to yourself in the wrong keys
sometimes we don't speak but I have everything I've ever wanted and so much life left.

The rain bird whistles in my ear
The boustrophedon melody fallowed loud and clear
Breach my windows and ruin my sleep
A ****** delight my eyes do weep
Cradle my head in wretched screams
Erase and memorize fallen dreams
Trapped in dusk my eye does wake
Migraines conjured will soon dissipate

not my mother, but
those before
were teachers of stillness—
to choose it, feel whole in it
bow to it
and wait…

across oceans
my mothers wrote their stories with pencil,
or fingers in thin air
words carried, indelibly
over miles and mountains
in strands and time—

waiting to be found

I see them sometimes
caught in a turning breeze
suspended in Fall colours

clinging to another mother’s web

I feel their warmth in the weak winter sun
more persistent now
following the horizon

I hear them in my dreams, the anguished ones
lead-heavy and fallen
overgrown with raveled life
and rusted

On my tongue melting like honeycake

Rising in wood fire
and spring soil

they are my words now
to tend to, crystalline
and holy

I wait
and i sing

Singing up on the fly,
the sea touches the cloud.
Dancing on the ground,
it won't slip off the floor,
it won’t drop a drop!
Curiously algorithmic,
runs on the go
leaps or dips, but never
is a gone goose!
Programmed clouds
sing and drop!