Sweet Morning: Pam's Writing

Thank you so much for intiating this thread, Rachel! My dear grandmother, Dorothy Wells Ennis (?) (?) Huggins, died four years ago this month. I spent the evening and early this morning re-reading her eulogy and editing it with the intention of posting. Then I realized that it was too much at one sitting. I'll share bits and pieces as we go along.

The ?'s are because she was married at least two more times, but I don't remember their names. They don't include the numerous relationships she welcomed into her life and ours.

She was beautiful but never conformed to the demands of culture that told her how to convey that beauty. At sixteen she aspired to the footlights of the burlesque stage where she appeared to audition. My grandfather, who at the time was only one of a myriad of suitors literally pulled her off the stage kicking and screaming, "You can't do this, we're not married. We're not even engaged!" To which he replied, "We are now."

If passion can be inherited, I surely gained the passion of my life from that great woman.

She loved everyone and everything that reminded her of each person. She cried over a simple card and a visit. She wouldn't say s**t if she had a mouthful of it, but she would stand at the pier at the harbor at Long Beach and wait for sailors to disembark for liberty. She took in the really rough ones and found their hearts. They came and left as the winds of March.

I remember sitting on the floor with the rest of my girl cousins in the living room of her tiny house in La Puente, California. We listened with eager ears and upturned faces as her stories of love and romance and we each knew the ways in which we fit into those stories--both as direct products and vehicles to carry on her passion. We marveled and anticipated as we neared our favorite part of the storytelling, when she would bring out her jewelrybox, loaded with rubies, diamonds, gold, silver, and sapphires--some were the real thing, some were not--we didn't know the difference, and we didn't care. We lifted each treasure with reverence and glee, tried the pieces on and preened, giggling and chattering the entire time. And over the din of our childish, girlish prattle, and in my memorie's ear, I can still hear her admonishing voice singing out, "Keep the ring, it's what you get for the trouble"

Dear One,

Thank you for your letter—for the words that have emerged from the innermost place in your heart. They are words which express your deepest feelings of Love and concern for me. No matter how they are spoken or written, I feel your intent and am blessed. They are a precious gift and I cherish them, although perhaps in a way which I cannot make you understand. You will have to go again inside yourself, into the Heart of the Beloved to find the Love of that Understanding. When you find it, there you will also find me.

No, mother of my body and soul-sister, I do not break your heart. You alone, do that based on your own fears and perceptions. Look at me. I am a mirror, a reflection. I am only what you think you see and if you look close enough, you will find all my brothers and sisters and my father and yourself and everyone and have reason upon reason to break your heart. I break my own heart every day. That is what I am here to do—break my heart in order to let the healing Light of God touch me continuously. I rejoice in the Grace that sheds that light and illuminates my soul with the One Love.

It is probably true what you say about my wavering and wandering. I know I appear to be “lost” as you say, but that is not even close to the truth. My whereabouts-my comings and my goings, every awakening I experience, every sorrow, every joy are known in infinite measure by the Knower of All. Even though I may seem to be buried in the depths of the stormiest of seas, I am known and I am found, as we all are. That is the most profound truth of the Faith that is in me now. It is enough.

When I returned home six years ago, the “covenant” I made with God was very personal and it was unconditional. There was never any requirement to pledge allegiance to a doctrine or dogma. I was only told to “come Home.” That is the path that I am taking. I acknowledge your path as well. If Home is a mountain, then I believe there are many paths to the summit. I may take my time, I may skip, I will most certainly fall on the journey, but I will get there. Right now, my hands are full—engaged in a Dance in the Hands of the Glorious One.

The heart of the physical home I inhabit is one of the spirit of the One Being of the Perfection of Love, Harmony and Beauty. I pray that you will bring that spirit with you when you come visit me in April.

I love you, dearly

Pamela

Come, come, whoever you are

Wonderer, worshipper, lover of leaving

It doesn’t matter.

Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Come, even if you have broken your vow

A thousand times

Come, yet again, come, come.

--Rumi

Moab with Dee was a blast and a much needed break! We are now back, refreshed and ready to jump into summer—wahoo!!!

We got up Friday morning and set out just as soon after Dee was able to take care of the renewal of his driver’s license. The DMV got the city wrong on his license (anyone know where Walton, Utah is?) –We noticed it later during the weekend--and he’ll have to call them to take care of that. It’s a pretty drive through the green mountains of northern Utah to the red rocks of southeastern Utah. Stopped in Helper to grab some lunch and arrived in Moab about 1:00.

We “kicked” around Moab for a couple of hours looking in all the quaint little shops before we checked into our campsite. We set up our little tent that served as storage for all our stuff since we decided to sleep on an air mattress in the van (we had pulled all the seats out except the front two). Went to dinner and to celebrate Dee’s 51^st birthday at a local restaurant and microbrewery called “Eddie McStiff’s.” Then we just hung out at the campsite settled in and went to bed. Sleeping in the van was very comfortable but we learned that we had to put more air in the mattress for the next night.

We got up and got ready for the next day at the Moab Arts Festival. Went to a quaint little café’ called “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” for breakfast. The food was unique but average quality. I really liked the fresh squeeze-it-yourself orange juice though. But it kind of went downhill when I went to use the restroom and found a dead cockroach on the floor in the hall on the way. When I got back to our table which was outside, I looked down and noticed a swarm of ants coming from a crack in the cement. Most of you know my experience with ants this summer. So my Breakfast at Tiffany’s experience was pretty creepy. I’d recommend sticking with the movie!

After recovering from the buggy experience described above, we headed to the park where the Moab Arts Festival was held. It was fun but nothing like the Salt Lake or Park City Arts Festivals. We had a good time though looking around, shopping and sitting on the grass rocking out to the featured performers. Did lunch there and toned things down a bit at supper time by eating from the dollar menu at Wendy’s. It started to rain while we were at Wendy’s and we remembered that we had left our towels out on our tent to dry. We panicked at first until I remembered that there was a laundry facility at the campgrounds. No worries and our towels weren’t even wet when we got back to our tent.

Went to bed around 10:00 and woke up at 2 in the morning to the sound of a Harley revving its engine and blasting what resembled music throughout our campground. I was full of a few choice cuss words and it was all Dee could do to restrain me from giving the drunken fool a piece of my mind. The guy was looking for a fight and I wonder what he would have thought of a mad as hell cussing redhead ready to meet his challenge. Oh, well, it was a fun fight in my own mind anyway.

We got up early Sunday morning ready to go rafting on the Colorado. Dee and I both have never done a river raft trip so we were excited but apprehensive. The rain had lifted and the sun shone. It was a beautiful day. According to the guides at Adrift, the river was higher than it’s been since 1997. It promised to be an exciting ride, and it was! The rapids were so much fun! The float down the river between rapids was peaceful with breathtaking scenery on either bank. Our guide pointed out the geologic formations along the way and even stopped the raft at one point to take us to a nearby ancient Anasazi grainery. It was quite a feeling to be at the granary where people had lived and stored their food so long ago. The antiquity of the granary along with the expanse of the Colorado and surrounding formations gave me a feeling of awesome insignificance in the world. So many years, so many people, such an enormous planet. Wow!

Every chapter of awe in my life seems to be followed by comic relief. So now comes my graceful plunge from the rafting company’s bus:

After all the anxiety over whether or not our raft would capsize, the rigor of the rapids and the temperature of the water, I have to take my swan dive off a bus. My apparently still damp water shoes touched the steps that several other wet feet had descended. Touched, but only for a moment. The next thing I knew, I was airborne and landed with a thud on the bottom step of the bus. Having the wind knocked out of me rendered me senseless for a moment or two. I had to beg a minute to catch my breath before answering a chorus of, “Are you ok”’s from several fellow rafters and guides. I took a couple of breaths, realized that nothing was broken and then gingerly lifted my bruised body and spirit off the bottom step of the bus. I think I mumbled, “Graceful,” and while trying desperately to look non-chalant. Now, I’m sure that I’m ok, but I still have a dull ache in the middle right side of my back. Just a bruise I’m sure.

I took a long hot shower that I let pound itself on my back. Then Dee and I found a cute little café along the main street of Moab that served a really nice bowl of fish chowder. Didn’t want to eat too heavily after a wonderful jolting ride on the river and a surprisingly jolting ride down the bus steps.

Sleep was welcome and came easily that night. Our friends on their Harleys had been spoken to by the management of the camp about keeping other campers awake at all hours of the morning and they kept noise down to a low roar—at least they didn’t REV their engines.

We left early Monday morning, grateful for the fun and rest but eager to get back home. There’s nothing like one’s own bed after a little or long vacation. We had a nice drive home in the rain which continued until early in the afternoon when we arrived.

Ok, so this isn’t very literary. More of a travelogue. It was a fun little jaunt. I thought about each one of you while I was away. I wish I could have taken you all along.

Here's my story, for whatever it's worth. It's from a posting a while back on the Daily OM. The discussion was "Do you believe in Spirit Guides" It was my reply.

Spirit guide or angel? I don’t know the difference. I only know that I am grateful for the being who snatched me back from the dark oblivion I was sinking into five years ago to the day last Monday (August 22, 2005)—I count it as another birthday.

I “had it all.” A great job, the house on the hill, two beautiful daughters and a husband of almost 20 years who loved me as well as any man can. Everything was just “perfect” until I realized that it wasn’t true, at least, I wasn’t perfect and no matter what I did I couldn’t make myself perfect. Honestly, I don’t know what came over me, nervous breakdown, midlife crisis, a leave of my senses…when the opportunity came, I ran away.

I allowed myself to be led along by an idea of someone who consciously or otherwise was bent on destroying me-an old high school flame with whom I reconnected via the internet. Five years after we graduated from high school this individual had undergone a sex change-male to female. I had had contact with him prior to our five year reunion and was so shocked that I could not have anything to do with him when I saw him at the reunion. But I could not stop thinking about him and what had led him to make such a drastic change. I wondered if I had contributed to it during our brief fling in high school. The question nagged me for years. When contact with him had been made after fifteen years, I had convinced myself that if I couldn’t repair him physically, then at least I could help heal his wounded soul by nurturing him. I abruptly left my job, my family, my church, my status in the community and joined this person 900 miles from my home. What I found there was darkness and sorrow, loneliness and grief, a “partner” with multiple mental illnesses and a huge drug problem and who was repeatedly physically and verbally abusive in his relationships. After two months, I found myself exhausted, beaten and facing the realization that I was losing the light that had so profoundly filled me my entire life. I was desperate to leave the situation but found myself held essentially as a prisoner there both physically and emotionally.

One morning, after being literally kicked and pummeled awake by this person, I looked in the mirror while getting ready for work and saw what I imagined to be the last glimmer of light in my eyes. I honestly and literally heard a voice. It wasn’t audible and it wasn’t mine. It said simply, “Go home, don’t look back.” Curiously, I wasn’t startled. The voice seemed so familiar, like someone I’d always known. I felt comfort and strength as I quietly gathered a few items that I might need for my journey without appearing too obvious and arousing suspicion.

Then I got in my car, stopping only to call my employer and informing that I wouldn’t be coming in to work that day or ever again. I made my apologies for their inconvenience and then I got back on the road. The next stop was to call my parents and ask them in the most humble way I knew how, if I could come “home” to them. I knew that I couldn’t go back to my family right away. My marriage was over and my children were angry, and rightfully so. My parents opened their hearts and their arms to me. I drove the rest of the journey (16 hours worth) without stopping except to buy gas and to use the restroom.

All the way “home” I felt the presence that had come to me that morning. It never left my side and continued to give me courage and strength. I drove from Medford, Oregon to Salt Lake City detouring through the mountains of Northern California. I kept the sunroof open on my 1995 Honda Prelude and remember the sun beaming down on my head. The long drive gave me a lot of time to think about how I was going to rebuild my life. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I had lost so much and some things would never be recovered. I met Dee shortly after my return to my parent’s home in Cedar City, Utah. We were married January 13, 2005. He was and is a gift of gentleness and compassion even when I’m crazy out of my mind. Five years later, I see myself as extremely blessed. My relationship with my ex-husband is amicable, my daughters have returned to my heart and I welcomed my first grandchild into the world—something I would have never been able to do had I stayed in that dark place.

I don’t know if it was a spirit guide or an angel who spoke to me that morning. I don’t really care. I am eternally grateful.

Yesterday, on our commute home from work my daughter and I approached a pretty terrible car accident. A small black pick-up truck had hit a pedestrian and drug her approx. 25 feet. The woman died on impact. The woman's name was Laveigh.
Laveigh was homeless and lived under the viaducts that connect the freeway to the exit that we frequently take on our journey home.

Every day my daughter and I would see her with her sign, asking for money, or specific items, such as water, food, clothing, etc. Sometimes as we drove by the freeway entrance, if we had money to spare, we would roll down our window and give what we could. Often when we had nothing to spare, we would feel the guilt and dismay at passing by without helping. One day last week after driving by and feeling guilty, my daughter decided that she could do something, even if it seemed to be insignificant. She quickly gathered a list of things that she had seen Laveigh request on her signs and some other things that she thought this woman could use. We delivered these things to Laveigh. That's when she told us her name, and she and that she was thirsty. We returned with a water jug, filled with cold water. It was something she could use it again and again...something she said she always wanted. She was so appreciative...and we were honored that she would tell us her name. It felt good to bring some small light into her life.

When we saw the tragic scene with our own eyes and then later saw on the news that her identity was confirmed, we felt the need to do something—something that would let the community see the loss—something that would memorialize this life for us. Once again, we drove to the place where Laveigh had so often stood with her little cardboard signs-- the place where her life so tragically ended. It was dark and quiet on the street now. An occasional car dimmed its lights out of respect as we thoughtfully lit a lone candle. A reporter from the local news station approached us and asked us why we were there. We explained our feelings and how Laveigh had touched our lives. We agreed to be interviewed on film simply with the hope that perhaps others would also remember this lonely life. After the interview, I looked back at the lone light of the candle we had left on the median and considered how bright it was against the darkness. It was a somber moment and I thought how strange it was that I could not yet bring myself to cry.

I walked the streets in my dreams with Laveigh last night. This morning on my way to work the tears welled up as we passed the place we had left our little candle. It was nestled among bouquets of flowers, a few other candles and a sign that read, “They are not just transient, they are human.” Oh, the power of one little light and the lessons that I had so hoped my daughter had learned throughout her childhood and teen years. I let the sobs come and tears flowed freely down my cheeks.

My bus passes by Pioneer Park, home to the homeless in our city. For most, days are reversed, wandering the streets by night and bedding down under the shade of a tree in the park by day after receiving breakfast from the shelter that serves right there in the park under a canopy. As the bus passes, I breathe a prayer, or sing, oblivious to who might hear, “May all beings be well, may all beings be happy, may all beings have peace. Peace, peace, peace.”

Usually the grass is peppered with worn blankets with mounds of single human forms. Today, I saw a couple huddled together on a tarp, sound asleep—he snuggled close to her, spoon style. One of her arms supported her head for a pillow, the other was gently around him, her fingers interwoven in the tousled tendrils of his hair. It was one of the most precious visions I had ever seen. I continued my prayer and added a blessing that the love remains for them which keeps her fingers there.

Poetry

Toward the One

By Hakima Pamela Saunders

Eleven

In dreams a dreary world I trod--
A weary vagabond alone,
Forgetting Home, set out abroad,
Lost on strange paths I was but one.

'Til, lo! a light shone cross my brow.
Its lustre warmed as noonday sun.
I reveled in sweet morning's glow
And took communion with the One.

Awakened by transcendant call,
The fear of lonliness was gone,
Discovered Self in step with All--
A Holy Dance as one with One.

--Hakima

Who You Are

you are the flower that arises from you who are the seed by virtue of your planting you in soft soil who you are too and you tuck you in to you who are the soil and then you who are the rain send moisture who you are unto yourself the seed and you the seed break open with a mighty silent cracking to seek yourself the Sunlight who too you are as nighttime who you are in contrast to you the sunlight wakes unto the morning sipping in the dew drops who you are that sparkle on your blossoms who you are and thank all which you are by spending all your fragrance in gratitude of blossoms who too you are and meet these eyes who too you are that view you as this flower drawn in by the fragrance of your planting and lo you find a teardrop cascading from eye to flower in holy communion of ALL you are

--Hakima

Feminine Essence

Amazed,
I view these unbound breasts
Mounds of flesh and blood
and milk--
food for man--
Marveling
that for all their use and wear
I'd never truly realized
the ecstasy of them
for myself.

In the shower--
even at perimenopausal forty-four,
I have sometimes seen the opaque liquid
they still secrete
in pearl-droplets,
and I've wondered...
but never dared..
until overcome by the hunger
of never having known...tasted...

I gazed transfixed,
unbound and daring
gently lifting
nervously craving
yearning
stretching forward aslant
beyond my own flesh.
Head bowed in reverential ceremony
and for the first time
tasted the essence
of myself.

--Hakima

Blessing Place, a villanelle

My breath, my blood, my spirit blent with One
Whilst daybreak woke to brilliant beck'ning sun
Still left my Home, the place where blessings live.

With haste my reckless intellect far-gone;
Without a backward glance I took my leave
And turned breath, blood, and spirit from the One,

I scorned the Hand that lifted to revive,
Set my cold heart as if it were a stone
Yet longed for Holy ground where blessings live.

I fin'lly lost each war I thought I'd won
My heart lie broken, weary and bereaved
With breathless pose, blood spent, and spirit gone.

At last I'd fallen ready to receive
That Grace as bright as on the day I'd flown--
And viewed, with hope the place where blessings live.

When mortal men declare this journey done
Consider not that I was deign to give
My breath, my blood, my spirit bent toward One:
Memorial to this place where blessings live.

--Hakima

Heartsong

My heart,

my heart,

my heart bears a wing

to fly away from you.

My heart,

my heart,

my heart wears a wing

to rise with you

into

The Heart of the Beloved.

Let these hearts—

yours and mine--

fly into the fire

of Love.

Let these hearts—

ours—

shine together

through embered

Ash.

Burn, burn

oh, burn our foolish hearts

with parental Love

until we are reborn

as golden beams

streamed forth

from the Light

of the One.

--Hakima

Capacity

After September
Eleventh
Afghan widows
opened their ears
(akasha*)
To the familiar tale
of the broken hearts
of women
in "that village
in New York"
where a bombing had occurred.
akasha.

In one village
burka'd hearts
unreserved
gathered from their hens
and offered up
their very best.
akasha!

Eggs--
sustenance in tiny wombs
(akasha)
Heart offerings
flown
half a world 'round
on
Air-currents
(akasha)
transmuted
into Love-currents.
akasha! akasha!

Listen to the wind--
it whispers the tale
as loudly
as the rhythm
of an open heart.
"Akasha!"

--Hakima

*Today, my bus ride reading was the chapter in "The Heart of Sufism: the Essential Writings of Hazrat Inayat Khan" entitled "Capacity." The word "akasha" was defined in this manner:

"The Hindu name for capacity is akasha. People generally think that akasha means the sky, but in reality it means everything. Everything in its turn is an akasha, just as all substance is a capacity: and according to that capacity it produces what it is meant to produce."

"...We ourselves are also akashas, and in our akasha we get resonance of our rhythm. This resonance is like the feelings we have when we are tired, depressed, joyous, or strengthened. All these different conditions which we feel, it is our akasha that feels them: and what causes this is our rhythm."

"...In the Qur'an it is said, 'Their hands shall speak and their feet shall bear witness of their deeds," which means...that everything is recorded, written down...Nothing of what we say, do, or think is lost: it is recorded somewhere, if we only know how to read it."
(Sufi Message 11: 20-24, Hazrat Inayat Khan)

Sometimes that message is written on the wind...Akasha!

--Hakima

Love for Love

Don't move
Barely breathe your breath
in and out
and only in love
Until nothing else remains
and it saturates
Permeates every cell
Then and only then
Think only for the sake of Love
Breathe only for the sake of Love
Act only for the sake of Love
Speak only for the sake of Love
But let those words be silent.

-Hakima

I would bathe
in That:

Lying in communal stillness.
Breathing the peaceful atmosphere
of our Beloved

Sharing the secret
of That
Holy Silent
Fragrance.

--Hakima

Breath of Grace

The Light within shines bright and clear
Tho’ darkened worlds may mock and sneer
They’ve not awakened from their fears
Nor seen the Vision shining here

They bend their heads in pious shame
From karmic nightmares look to blame
A fate which burns a fiery flame
Leaves still an embered rage to tame

But listen to Love’s whispered call
The chance to fly comes with each fall
Spread forth thy wings, leap from thy wall
To gain, you must surrender all

The Voice has rested in this place
Where ne’er do time nor fear erase
Like beams of light across this face
Awakened by each breath of Grace

------------Hakima

Who you are

you are the flower that arises from you who are the seed by virtue of your planting you in soft soil who you are too and you tuck you in to you who are the soil and then you who are the rain send moisture who you are unto yourself the seed and you the seed break open with a mighty silent cracking to seek yourself the Sunlight who too you are as nightime who you are in contrast to you the sunlight wakes unto the morning sipping in the dew drops who you are that sparkle on your blossoms who you are and thank all which you are by spending all your fragrance in gratitude of blossoms who too you are and meet these eyes who too you are that view you as this flower drawn in by the fragrance of your planting and lo you find a teardrop cascading from eye to flower in holy communion of ALL you are

--Hakima

Capacity

--Hakima

Be moved my heart t’where my Beloved lie,

Tho’ corporeal pound wildly ‘neath my breast.

Bedeck thyself with lusty wings to fly

‘Til passion justify all my unrest.

Be merciful my heart-Fear not thy death

That love reflected there doth swell thy form,

Accept thy Lover’s gift—sweet heav’nly Breath

A poison’d boon

Be still not yet, my heart; beat stead’ly on.

Tho’ consummate requir’th ten thousand years,

And manifest reward be long forgone.

All strivings for thy sake are worth all tears.

Be satiated in thy residence.

Thy Lover’s heart hath known thee ever hence.

--Hakima

Quail not, my heart from love’s emphatic call
tho’ pierced a thousand days and nigh to death.
Quar’l valiantly ‘gainst fear’s flight from that fall—
draw passion’s sword until thy final breath.
Question ev’ry doubt on thy lovers’ lips—
and answer each with life-blood on thine own.
Quake vi’lently thy yen and loose thy grip
on thy propriety which stills love’s moan.
Quell fears of love’s first cut upon twilight
and dance upon love’s sunbeams ray on ray.
Quaere death’s countenance when falls thy night
that passion’s light doth resurrect the day.

Quench only hesitation toward desire:
thy legacy be ash from thy love’s fire.

--Hakima

A Beckoning

Traverse across this desert place again

Dear distant wayfarer

Set your caravan at my tent’s door

Arrive on Sunday

I will be home.

Come sit at my table

(The one I made with my own hands)

Laugh with me

There is a bottle of wine waiting

Please bring bread and a corkscrew.

--Hakima

Herself,

Bright palette

Bold performer on the ancient stage

Blue satin bloused and ribboned unashamed

Eyes beneath the shadow of heavy darkened brow

Two Fridas connected by a vein

Medusa eye

Flashing

Glaring

Daring

Lightening bursting

Cold and hard as steel blades

It speaks:

“I’ll be able to solve my own problems and survive”

Mother eye/Lover eye

Beckoning

Caressing

Absorbing shadows

Collecting tears

“You are in my heart, almost as close as Diego”

A woman with the courage to stand against walls

And demand her satisfaction from a thankless world.

“I never painted dreams

I painted my own reality.”

--Hakima

I Came Back

I lost myself

Six thousand nine hundred sixty one days

I came back, I came back.

Yes, wounding is the cost of admission

Like malevolent scars in gothic letters

Scrawled boldly on my daughter’s back.

How much of my warm blood was drawn

To make room for poison, I, myself replaced?

--Hakima

In Pioneer Park
the homeless shuffle
in shoes weighted with sorrow so heavy
that the grass gives way
to the furrows they've plowed with their pacing.

On the playground,
One lone pair of bare feet
crumbling years of dirt
and caked-on memories
eagerly take flight
while the swinger's calloused hands
grasp
long forgotten chains soon made familiar by the rhythm of the swing:
"Back and forth" and "Up and down"
Incanting
Memories
breezing over
granting childish freedom
until Jesus at the rescue mission
rings the supper bell.

--Hakima

My Quiet Hero

Years ago

My quiet hero

Quit battles

Of unknown compatriots

To face his own

Upon an unfamiliar shore.

Scars of that enemy

Reflected wounds

he knew

Too well.

An uncorked bottle

Lie wasting

In a bunker

Spilling precious lifeblood--

Poison meant to destroy

But a lone private

Unnoticed

took one last

swallow

for his sorrows

Before capping

The remaining gold.

Demonic invaders

in tattered

Lace

Bruised innocence

With violent kisses

Obscenities beyond defense.

An entire squadron

Wept bitter tears

Mournfully

Abandoning their warrior whores

Moaning empty desires

Upon a hill

A soldier stands

Holding holy icons

Surveying carnage below

Voiceless

There are no more words

For him to say or sing

Loneliness

His most destructive foe

He shakes his head

And walks across

Forbidden demarcation lines

To speak a sermon

Enemies will hear.

My quiet hero loves

His little army well

Enough to know this war

Must be waged alone.

Returns his soldiers

To their native home

Dismisses each

One by one

With a peaceful kiss

And sends them

To eternal rest.

--Hakima

ReLeaf

(A Response to a Soliloquy that was Never Directed to Me)

Of course my love was autumn

Why did you think summer would last forever?

The heat of it

Could melt an entire planet.

Autumn must have her way.

Brightness

From our bodies

Warmth enough

Amidst surrounding crispness

Crimson Leaves

An altar

A bed

A table

My body softly beckoning

You supped

Completed your fleshfest

Consumed all

Satiated

Until you saw

The emptiness you left

And the impending winter storm

Darkness

Frost that leaves

Blackened scars

Your heart

Took flight like swallows

That flee against grey skies

For the promise of a warmer clime

I watched you go

As snows buried me

And knew that you would not return

Winter was eternal

Certain death

Would take me with his icy stare

And almost did

But for the Sun

Returning on a vow

Renewing green fresh

ReLeafing blossoms

Fruit offered freely on request

Nubile like a virgin

Someone else would see

My love is spring.

--Pamela

Letting Go, Smiling

We held on for and eternity it seems

Too long

To the hope of love

To our restless, unsatisfied desires,

To the pain—

You said the pain of love shouldn’t last forever

Or was that some old movie we clung too tight to.

The tumult,

The din-my own making-my busyness

Yearning

for perfection

Drowned out the tenderness

from my own voice

Raucous harshness

Insanity eclipsing all my summer days

And me slipping away

Like the tears escaping

From your questioning eyes

Sent me away and

Alone

Until

Welcoming sunshine

Baptizing me

In pure brightness

Transporting me to my

Self

And you forever gone

I see you now

Bathed in more certain embraces—

I could never write our love song—

Her shadow even

casts warmth on you

His promise to make me laugh

Every day

Never fails

And they evoke from us what we never could for each other

I’m glad you found your smile again.

Daisies for Breakfast

A Knight’s daisies for breakfast

Sweet citrus petal-wheels

Emanating from a heart

Paralysis upon my tongue

Allaying utterance of words

It longs to speak

But my mouth is full

Of Baudelair and Brautigan’s burgers

Food for love

And Tangelos

Hybrid

Stowaways from a far distant land

Spinning in our spiritual carnality

200 foot elation

Dervishes entwined

In ecstatic flight

Held fast by centrifugal force

While the ferriswheelman keeps the bags of gold

We paid him safely at his feet.

--Hakima

Inverted

In the mirror
on Christmas day
We stared at my ass
white and glowing
reflection of the reflector
as we see it.

The children look
and shout

"MOM"

you say

"WOW"

--HP

High Light Ecstasies

Five a.m. or Nine o'one
when day dawn's sun
has left
the Western sky
are still my favorite times
of day.

A phone line's distance
seems so far
to feel you near--
to imagine
the cool closeness
of your skin
satisfying the heat
in the desire
of mine.

And yet--
your voice draws me
closer
than I've ever been
to anyone before--

And I
willingly
invite you in
and around
and beneath
the depths of me.

I hear you in the morning
hour
and I respond
breathily
blissfully
mumbling
unintelligible ecstasies
of dreams of you

Or in the starlit hour
when our passion is recounted
like the seconds
of our
sun-filled days.

--Hakima

Sweet Morning

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Pam's Writing

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