Ander's Daughter

Shall I bend or break...

That is the question. I am like a word that has been overused.
What is
mother?
sister?
friend?
comrade?
What did you purchase in exchange for your humanity?

The moon slipped into my room
just now and is annoying me with its light.
I focus harder on my work
determined to ignore it's invitation
but anything might happen here tonight.Voices
are implied everywhere—against, with, under, in,
and through everything. I want to be empty and silent
                                                                 but
             that
                 is
              becoming
                            increasingly
        impossible

Parallel world

I am melancholy tonight so I came here to sit under the palm frond tangles and wisteria vines that embrace this cafe terrace. I'm barely visible from the boulevard but from here I can see people passing by, the beach, and the stars and, for a moment, find a measure of peace.

Threnody for a Horse
~ Wings in the Attic ~
A visual poem for Barbaro

Barbaro
April 29, 2003 – January 29, 2007
Barbaro died eight months after breaking his rear leg
in more 20 places during the Preakness Stakes.
His death is a very sad story that left in it's wake some
disturbing, unanswered questions.

Barbaro

Excerpt 34

One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. I've written it before on countless scraps of paper. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. It is composed of a seemingly endless succession of beginnings. The original order of the words has been lost so I rely on you to supply the details. One word, one sentence at a time I will reconstruct the story. Forgive me. The original has been lost but I promise to stay true to its drift. That is not a matter of memory. It is a matter of being. One world at, one word at a time. Forgive me. The original version of this story does not exist. One word, one sentence at a time, this is its drift. This is the drift. The notes are scattered. No. Not scattered. The notes were never collected. Jotted. Scribbled. On scraps, in notebooks, on flaps. They have never been collected. They have seldom been re-read. Or read. The words, disjointed, have been set down and abandon. No, not abandon. There is much thinking between them, the phrases, the paragraph and elimination of words. And ideas. "Why?" I am telling a story. Build the house. Paint it later. And later still introduce the particulars. Each letter reverberates, twists but...

Theatre

[snipped]

in the distance
where the fire ran
across now unfamiliar hills
quietly
in the wind
ashes
transposed by waning light
lift into the air
and vanish

this is my world now

asha
2000

#32

If you want to know the truth about me, I have lived in the shadows all my life. I am a watcher. I hover in the current. I look like a reflection cast upon the water. Transparent. Your hand moves through me. I break into myriad pieces and only reassemble after you are gone. My substance, if can be called that, is ineffable, deduced but never certain. What I know and who I am is held apart from me in a vault to which I have no key.

Last zero

She has set bottle
upon the sea
and left the shore.

She has gone back
to the market place
and sits on a mat.

She waits
knowing
he will never come.

Bird as Pixel

bird n.
Ancient resident of earth. Descendant of the beast-footed dinosaur.

as n. Abbr. AS or a/s, air speed
The speed, especially of an aircraft, relative to the air.

pixel n.
Basic unit of composition for an image on a television screen, computer monitor, or similar display.

#13

Time—
measured by how long it takes the wound to heal
and day—
night's waiting room

I have forgotten everything
but the echo of your name
reverberating like a bell that has ceased to toll

#19

There are no voices here.
They are gone.
Swept away.
Dissolved by silence.
Lost—
there is only the beach.
There is only surrender
to the repeating wave.
Tonight the sea is in retreat
and black as the space
in which the world floats.

asha

#14

It is snowing tonight.
The birds have gone to the cold branches to sleep.
The moon is hidden from view.
I hear Sahajiya Rasa Lila in the distance.
I am homesick.
I am the gray bird with yellow neck still pecking in the snow.

asha

Pixel death

The world is advancing on me. A fly is eating my sandwich. Black eggs embedded in the pale sage are sucking away its life. I am too weak to mount an offensive. My mind is spinning backwards, slowing coming apart like a nebula unraveling in catchless dark. I feel my face, pixel by pixel, being carried off in bloodless beaks. When I speak the world looks away.

asha

Winter solstice poem

Self Interest

Awed by his own comb
the cock has fallen in love
with a rain puddle.

asha

27

The old yellow moon
caught in a jar of water
gone before morning

.......................................asha

erotica

We are sex we are animal we are touch and sensation we crush the flower fuck the sea we are waves colliding pulling apart rolling under ...................asha

Priestess

having found no suitable priestess
I have become my own
transforming and
transforming
myself

asha

as i see it

Bird & Piano Wire Compass ...........................................................asha

#23 Where these winds have hollowed me out I am ever more alien and clean beneath the flood. .........................................asha