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

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.

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.

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.