The Throne-Altar

 The Throne-Altar

A symbol of wealth and prestige when created,
After centuries becomes commonplace
With repeated use
Even dirty or degraded to some
Infinitely taken for granted
Until it’s taken away
But regardless its beholden worth
remains a Throne ever still

Queasy times transform
the Throne to an Altar
Where once one perched in ease
Now kneels in groveling humility
Perhaps still taking for granted
But thankfully not quotidian

I much prefer the Throne

2.11.18

Teach Me to Sleep Through the Night

Teach Me to Sleep Through the Night

Teach me to fall asleep when I lay down
Teach me sleep in my own bed, no sound
Teach me to not wake up until it's light

I'm a sweet little girl who loves to bite
I've got six teeth and it gives Mom a fright
I love to put everything in my mouth
Such as furniture, shoes, and people who say Ouch!

Someday I'll grow up from this little phase
And Mom will wish we could return to these days
"Life was more simple when she was a baby
But we will accept whatever stage she be."

4.3.17

Dedicated to my firstborn

Like California

Like California

This drought is prolonged, consistent

Non-irrigated land is parched

My plants die if I neglect them

But this mild humidity makes it seem not so dry

And there’s the whole ocean right over there 

so can we really be that bad?

Besides, we have reservoirs 

From better times, farther places

We shall draw upon those pools

And even our lawns shall thrive

In April we prayed for rain

Many people, many days

Finally the showers came

An answer to prayer

We thanked God

And yet,

Ground was hard

(it had forgotten how to receive the moisture)

And the rain ran away

Actually caused damage on the way

We prayed for rain,

Yes

Slow crying

Might be more effective

Ground is hard and dry again

We forget what rain is like,

Thunder and lightning a mystery

We can watch in movies or even our palms

Oh, there are clouds for sure,

And that comfortable humidity that makes us forget

That we are overdue for rain

When those dreaded fires came,

Met with those Santa Anas

We prayed and prayed the destruction wouldn’t touch us

But the dry land ushered them in

Those liberal, non-discriminating flames

Swept through rural and urban alike

And we prayed again

They didn’t touch some

So we were safe

And continued in our consistent existence

This dry land

Cooled by just-enough damp ocean breezes

Drawing upon the distant reservoirs

Where is God? Hiding behind

A cloud,

In wind, 

Ocean

He’s in those flames

The ubiquitous humidity

Or something

And we pray on

6.28.14

Where's My Umbrella?

Where’s My Umbrella?

I see the storm clouds gathering 

I’d like to just step back 

let them blow without tousling my hair, 

or ruffling my hem

I’ll come back when this is over

But it’s my storm

the winds reached inside of me

tossed me around

stirred up all sorts of muck

then splashed it on my face

Where’s my umbrella?

Do I have to sit in the rain?

Is this healthy, 

or at least normal?

Strong winds that blow furiously 

help reach the destination quicker

if my sails are receptive

5.2.13

Next Time I'll Bring a Towel

Next Time I’ll Bring a Towel

How many times have I truncated a prayer

because dormant feelings oozed out and suddenly I must

grab some tissue for my gushing eyes and sodden nose—

and then have to get up

Again

to replace my saturated tissue?

Because somehow, praying opens those floodgates

And somehow, 

under these circumstances, 

nasal and optical factories are profuse 

and my chest is heaving

pulling hard, inwardly and down

to meet my twisted belly and up 

to meet my crumpled face

Hoh [sound of spiritaches]

All I wanted to do was talk to God 

share some things, get clarity direction connection

And all this came out.

Again.

So, as I was saying…

5.2.13

Following My Heart Sometimes Makes Me Dizzy

Following My Heart Sometimes Makes Me Dizzy

Following my heart sometimes makes me dizzy, 

Like chasing my tail

Or the Alchemist’s trail

Following my heart sometimes makes me dizzy, 

Or maybe just foggy or

Cloudy, yes cloudy

Following my heart sometimes makes me dizzy, 

Or turned inside out at best.

Or is it turned outside in…

Following my heart sometimes makes me dizzy, 

In a busy tizzy, 

Or on a bad day quite pissy then

This missy don’t feel so kissy

Staying present is my best option, then, right?

And my colleague just gave me yummy chocolate

So I’ll just sit down and enjoy a few bites

I can come back to this later

2.4.13

The 51%

The 51%

In this funk I can’t look at others and not judge them for their bodies.

It’s impossible not to compare.

Jealous of anyone smaller than me, and so embarrassed of my jealousy because

I know better. I know that I should love my body as I am—

Or at least most of me does.

But that 51% can’t let go of the constant consciousness 

of the roundness of my face, 

folds surrounding my belly, the soft mass of my growing frame

And I’m constantly protesting, disgusted inside, 

“I wasn’t like this last year!”

I, in stark contrast to the protruding angles of the POWs I saw recently—

ribs jutting, concave bellies under sunken faces.

Their eyes look bigger. There is 

pain. We both struggle with our bodies

But I, in my plenty, do I have the right?

In these travels, my carefully considered needs 

become heavier the longer I carry them. 

I thought I packed so light

What is this stuff that contributes to my comfort?

Ends up aching my shoulders and back

My blessings of plenty have their own burdens: 

Like endless choices of what to eat.

(and I want to try them all)

So 51% of me knows that a number doesn’t determine

my worth and lovability

But 51 is very close to 49, and for now,

I’m stuck somewhere in between

7.3.12

Assault on My Senses

Assault on My Senses

My pillow smells faintly like starched mothballs

It’s comforting in a grandmotherly sort of way

On the street, a cacophony of smells, sounds and sights intermingle with taste

like a poorly-planned party where the guests feel awkward

and can’t wait to leave

Old urine, fresh urine, tomorrow’s urine

piled high but invisible

Sautéing spices,

air-conditioned body odor

fields of burning plastic

sulfuric sewage

smoldering incense wafts to meet my nostrils—

thick, perfumey

and the flowers—

oh, intoxicating flowers

struggling to mask the urine trails

of intoxicated bums

lying between the brightly contrasting homes of mixed hues

with a colorful temple on every corner and bold, vivid scenes

depicting the heroic acts of gods

and goddesses venerated

for thousands of years                                                      

Flowing silk saris of every shade

folded neatly, stacked ceiling-high

make it impossible to choose

which one to buy

Same dilemma with the dazzling jewelry,

variety of bags, rugs, blankets, sandals

whatever you desire

To illustrate the scene,

each crayon in the box would feel like a VIP

Dogs barking get lost in the

honking beeping shrieking banshee horns

announcing our arrival

or impending doom with a lost game of Chicken

Incessant horns on the road,

more prevalent than seat belts, ironically

compete with others for the biggest, baddest sound

Can I pay more for a bus that doesn’t honk?

Train whistles make it hard to sleep

As do the (loud)speakers blaring music

all through the night

of that woman singing nasally high-pitched

What harvest festival is this?

Did you have to blast it to the moon?

Celebrating new produce, weddings and young girls’ first periods

Food is vital to a celebration

Vital to life

Salty, sour, sweet, pungent and bitter in every bite

Delicious, exotic, spicy and hot

Can my mouth handle this?

Sinus-cleaning: a bandana is my necessary utensil

to wipe my dripping forehead and nose and

chewing my banana-leaf plate helps temper the flavor

while eating in

air so thick I could sit on it

The heat, they say, is oppressive

But nothing chokes me more

Than what we do to each other

Strangers to strangers,

Nations against nations,

Friends and families

No one is immune, it seems,

From the daily offenses given

And received

(sometimes when none was intended)

So many are petty, yes,

but can anyone deny

The significance of so many horrors happening

In homes that are no haven

I sleep on this mothbally pillowcase

And I try to sort out the scenes of the day

I know that later, in another place,

any of these senses can whisk me back to this moment—

Nay, to this place

My senses easily recover from the dissonance they’ve encountered

But hearts—

They are a different matter

4.21.12

My Body Is Like Machu Picchu

My Body Is Like Machu Picchu

To those who are seeing for the first time,

Trekking breathlessly up its slopes,

Machu Picchu is a natural wonder

With its powerful waterfalls

Craggy overhangs and grassy resting spots

Wildlife bounding freely through

Breathtaking vistas

They are blind to any flaws

Novelty in this case is easy beauty

(love at first sight)

But can I,

Who live on this mountain,

Maintain my wonder and awe

For God’s great creation?

And allow others to marvel

Or just appreciate it

For its simultaneous simplicity

And grandeur?

And admire all subsequent sights?

4.21.12