sun lust
life-giving fire
pour sundrops like rain.
let us reflect your glow.
enlighten our path
as we flourish and grow.
let us drink in your heat
and eat from your hand
as we sway in the breeze
as you kiss our skin…
wrap us up
in light and insight
as we spin ‘round again
toward dark.
~ MaK
For Keith Nelson and Joan Jones,
on their wedding day, November 21, 2009
It was an honor to write this for my friends and share it at their ceremony.
perspective at dawn
shut your eyes and take love by the hand,
a petal in your open palm,
fingers splayed to the horizon,
with gentle and deliberate grace
so as not to crush its intricate allure,
its infinite artistry.
celebrate and dance and play in the vibrance of love’s
two dreams grafted, growing, becoming one.
energy unbounded,
love reborn.
look on love’s face and notice, not only
the glint in the eye,
the seduction of the brow,
the curve of the lip,
but note too the lines etched from smile,
the lifeblood in the cheek,
the subtle hunger that draws you close,
the breath that feeds the cells of lung and heart and heat.
let your voice, your word and the spirit of your song
be your compass
as you venture into uncharted waters,
beyond the map’s edge
and let love rain joydrops to nourish your landscape.
through the tempest, when darkness settles,
risk all for love’s unfolding.
and when dawn pours forth each morning,
renewed and sacred,
it presents a novel perspective of light and life,
an invitation to awaken.
On the Occasion of My 31st Birthday
What a life this is!
The spontaneous adventure of following my bliss, of living, of loving
The exchange of sacred energy.
Creating, sourcing from pure potentiality.
My heart explosive with joy,
I wrap myself in the color of pleasure,
Stare into the face of my fear,
Breathe… Laugh… Celebrate.
31 and so alive.
One of my favorites by Ellen Bass…
God and the G-Spot
He didn’t want to believe. He wanted to know.
~ Ann Druyan, Carl Sagan’s wife, on why he didn’t believe in God
I want to know too. Belief and disbelief
are a pair of tourists standing on swollen feet
in the Prado–I don’t like it.
I do.–before the Picasso.
Or the tattoo artist with a silver stud
in her full red executive lips,
who, as she inked in the indigo blue, said,
I think the G-spot’s one of those myths
men use to make us feel inferior.
God, the G-spot, falling in love. The earth round
and spinning, the galaxies speeding
in the glib flow of the Hubble expansion.
I’m an East Coast Jew. We all have our opinions.
But it was in the cabin at La Selva Beach
where I gave her the thirty tiny red glass hearts
I’d taken back from my husband when I left.
He’d never believed in them. She, though, scooped
them up like water, let them drip through her fingers
like someone who has so much she can afford to waste.
That’s the day she reached inside me
for something I didn’t think I had.
And like pulling a fat shining trout from the river
she pulled the river out of me. That’s
the way I want to know God.
