Wolfwalker

Die Wolfgangerin geht in der stillen Nacht

Sie schreit laut an dunklen Löchern

Ihre Stimme trägt Wahrheit mit der Macht

Des Ton ehemaligen Glocken

The Wolfwalker walks in the quiet night

She cries loudly at dark holes

Her voice carries truth with the might

Of the sound of former bells

A Little Room for Cream

The line at the coffee shop is long

with retired schoolteachers, students

skipping class and Bishop Jesus Christ

Buddha Ayatollah Brett Favre Jones.

His enchilada wrap is slow to order,

So he sits and thinks of going home.

They stare at the dreadlocked prophet

who waits alone, away from scents

of lavender bath soap and god.

A pierced bottom lip delivers tortilla-

wrapped eggs and beans, framing

you’re welcome like a painting

of the top of her young tongue.

He licks the last drop of salsa

from his mustache, ready to dance.

Buddha’s Boots

The Guardian was tasked to carry the cosmic egg to the temple of light. There, a serpent would be born, who would breathe fire into the universe. Steadily, she walked in Buddha’s boots, one to the east, and one to the west. But she tripped on a thought, and dropped the egg on hard nothingness. The white Yang ran out and became the sky. The yellow Yin oozed forth and became earth. A world was born, but a universe would never be. Thank God there’s still a chicken.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Trini’s Wall

She built this wall long ago against hateful invaders,

their names now scribble-scratched on worn warm wood.

Plywood grains swirl in flat echoes, sounding for signs

from invisible worlds on the other side.

She hears whispers, and the door begins to open.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Simon’s Doll

Mother. From egg, I exit.
Like egg, smooth walls hold me,
in my warm water world.
Walls that grow closer every day
in comfortable darkness.
Songs touch me from beyond
in gentle, loving waves.
I turn and listen to your voice,
Mother, leading me to light.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Superior

When there are no more prayers left,

Look for a boat floating in the sea.

I will hear your heart and come to you.

The sky, the water, the stone is gray.

I land at the pier, you step on board

And place your last thoughts in me.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Photophobia

The pain is not from light

But what it illuminates -

The love of darkness

In your dim corners

That haven’t smelled day

Since you were a child.

Someone opens a window,

Disturbs your sleep, and

Like a thief, steals your fear.

This bright ray removes muck

From forgotten channels,

Erases cracks from mirrors,

And releases buried veins

Of temptation, gods, and sin.

Some burn and fall, others

Soar homewards into void

Away from the fear of light.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Longwillow

She often dreams with her eyes open to the west
looking for writing in the sky when the sun sets
and catches the Pacific wind in her outstretched arms
to mold into familiar colors, shapes and tones,
gifts to crying lovers’ spirits left to us in symbols
she sends across our land to the hungriest of souls.

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Trini

Had Manet found you,
clothed in marble shadows
beneath the grove’s oak,
as I did that summer day,
he would have known each stroke
before it touched the canvas. 

(Photo by Gina Kelly)

Marie

You, suspended between peace and passion,
Tethered to hard world by soft hand,
Have always been a stranger to weight.
If I let go, would you sail to another world,
Or drift in and out with the tide?

(Photo by Gina Kelly)