i met my match at jiffy lube

sitting in the doll house room
romper room chairs
too stiff to be comfortable
breathing oil molecules

he scribbling on his sleeve
the rest reading the provided sports illustrated
or staring at CNN on the dinky TV screen
me sitting on the edge of my life

he was gangly
and wore a misshapen hat
i could see in his eyes which did not look my way
that he was misunderstood

i could see myself
climbing onto his lap and kissing those purple lips
“I understand you” my hips would say
his hands would say
he had always known me
and we would wake up
with legs tangled in saturday morning sheets

cheap plastic chair
facing the wrong direction
my heart spread open secretly calling him
i will leave my life for you
abandon the old me to throw myself into you

he paid his bill
and walked right out
the crude little door
putting the brakes
on my fantasy ride

spiritual bling

prayer beads worn like fashion logos
beefed up neckties castrate like choker chains
rosaries swing like jewelry, pointing down, down
just spiritual bling

love affairs with our lipstick
toxic foreheads radiate fake
the cover stories we wear for each other
just spiritual bling

stop believing the image
press out your eyes
to see a deeper fight
leave behind
your spiritual bling

jazzy icons of Om-buddha-gaia
bloody crosses tattoo our dreams
yoga mats litter our hallways
it’s all
just spiritual bling

the visuals of being alive
splash illusions that hide the truth
make it hard to grow past the desire
to fit in, to sell out
for that gorgeous, bigger than hip
gotta-have-it
Spiritual Bling

Bucket Head, Courtesy of Chris Love

you can see more of Chris’ amazing art at: http://www.chrisloveart.com/

 

little wing

for myra 

hold her tight
she’s the girl
who Was
before her life as Mother

caress her face
she’s the grace
who picked her flowers bright
call of the wild and became a wife

look in her eyes,
she put all that aside
baby in her nest
to do the selfless,
live through someone else’s sight

hold her hand today
her little one is lifting off
who is it you see
on this bold day?

hold yourself
and love the You becoming You
you leading you
like the Mother
you will always be

immovable feat

she stood there fixed
like a statue
immovable as a michelangelo marble

propped on her skeleton legs
like a 4-poster bed
holding up the sagging mattress of her life
it was easier to stand motionless
than to shift to any position that might require muscles

the last calling is the one that directs you to stay put

her mind like granite
heavy and no longer fluid did not argue
her eyes gazed out behind the curtain of her age

recognizing the call to be still

she was all used up, but still alive
descending on this last, slow journey
to reunite herself
to the sacred stillness
from where she came

 

mendocino in an eggshell

(2nd place, San Mateo County Fair 2012)

the sky is a solid eggshell

no cracks
to permit sun rays to shine in
salt vapors christen my nose, drench my paper walls
dissolving the mood that was trailing me

mother sea baptizes the shore over and over
and over
until the shore also releases whatever it’s been holding onto
leaving a blank beach of sand
curving hellos beneath me

the stillness in the air stills my spirit
but then the chilly fog, vertigo cliffs and hatcheting waves
strike me so close i can embrace
the terror and loneliness
reflected in the raw, metallic water
and colorless sky

i am afraid but mesmerized
in love, yet i shrivel in the face
of this gigantic beauty and power
that pounds and cleanses

and forces me
out of the eggshell limits
of my own little world

monet’s garden

like holding her cloth napkin
could make a difference
monet’s splash of color on this cotton square
bleeds memories into my heart…

the nasturtiums in her postage stamp garden
pot roast on sundays, looking up at her sheepishly
after dripping stains on her table cloth, again

like holding this piece of fabric,
held so many times at her table
could melt me away from here
bring me back

to the comfort of life when it was new
to the safety of a grandmother’s garden
playing scrabble with her on tuesdays
watching fog swim past her plate glass window

no mortgage or threat of foreclosure
no clients or projects aching their demands in my head
no marriage to reconcile or find
no health issues or the kinds of hurts that surely come with years

just free falling at that maiden age
drudgery hadn’t set in yet.

like holding this piece of her
could bring me back to her
make this tedium of bills and chores and worries melt away
make life a monet garden

like holding this napkin of feather-tipped colors
could bring me
back to life.

a note of gratitude to poet extraordinaire, Teresa White, for assisting with edits on this piece.

Pollination, courtesy of William Solis

 to see more of William Solis’ art go to:

graceartgroup.com