Still Life

    I am still life,
    Still living.
    Like the bruised and beaten pear
    Rejected time and again in favor
    Of the picture-perfect specimen,
    I am devalued.
    But the artist, given the choice,
    Will reject the perfect and choose
    The one with character, history,
    And mystery, knowing
    It has substance, value.
    And this pear, like I, despite
    Outward appearances is found to
    Be of the most substance.
    I — like you — may be a little too ripe, a little past prime,
    But still of value.
    No longer still life,
    We are ushered into the land of the living.


    Truce

    I see the world as white.
    Angel wings of virgin snow echo the pearly sparkle of the
    morning sky.
    Pure clouds sail across the porcelain screen of my mind.
    The lawn curtains of my soul part to welcome unspoiled
    wisps of life.

    You see red.
    Loud. Violent. Confrontational.
    Knives cut carmine across an alabaster throat.
    An uncompromising signal permitting no passage.
    Two crumbling towers weeping crimson tears after terrorist
    attacks.

    Can we meet at pink?
    A teacup rose sprinkled with dew.
    Striated summer sunrises.
    Rose-hip tea with peppermint ice cream.

    An apple — heart of white protected by a shield of garnet.
    Sepia pencil married to unsullied parchment.
    The peachy cheeks of an incandescent infant.
    Yes.
    We will meet in the middle.
    A cardinal calm upon a snow-washed branch.


    Reflections and Prisms

    Just as the crystal candlestick
    Reflects the light without,
    It also holds tight the prisms of light within.

    The tension — reflecting and withholding —
    Creates a being of breakable beauty
    Reminiscent of human frailty.

    Within each of us rages a war.
    The God within
    Rarely meets the God without.

    But when they do — nirvana.


    Morning Stroll

    Sun, laughing,
    Plays hide and seek
    With dancing leaves.

    Morning dew
    Traces the turf
    I wed to my feet.

    Squirrel curious,
    Eyes of jet,
    Stares at me.

    Trees reach
    To the fleece of
    The clouds,

    Reading heaven's greeting
    Like the blind
    Inhaling braille.


    In Praise of My Father

    In that violet-tinged time between dusk and dawn
    With cobwebs in my eyes and cotton-closed ears,
    My body lifted aloft by angels, fairies, mermaids, mattresses —
    Who knew?
    I drew a deep breath and felt myself underwater as
    Wave upon wave held me to the bosom of the sea.
    Frightened, I fought until I saw a stream of light
    Inviting me to relax. I began breathing deep breaths
    Until I was lifted aloft by that golden shaft
    Into the arms of my father who stood Venuslike
    On that Botticelli slice of paradise.
    Father.
    Earthly, spiritual — I may never know which.
    I'll love you
    Until that cumulus-laced morn
    When I will see with new eyes
    And be born again to paradise new.


    In the News

    Eternity is a series of moments strung together like
    Rosary beads, a necklace of the finest pearls, or a mala.
    To my little sisters in Chibok, Nigeria, I pray for you as you disappear
    From your homes.
    To my sisters in Nantucket, my fears are as powerful as
    The walls of water that crash over your neighbors' homes.
    To my mother and aunts, I am proud to see how you persevere,
    Displaying strength and courage in your roles as caregivers
    and grief bearers.
    To my sisters in the Middle East, I celebrate your entrance
    into the world.

    And I — I have my own demons, storms, and progress.
    Like my African sister, I suffer memories of terror.
    Like...