Mumtaz Mahal & Carole Jean
Tribute Fulfilled
Carole and I knelt before the Taj Mahal
like dual immobile whirling dervishes
meditating on India’s jewel of Islamic art
mesmerized by the passion behind constructing
a monument that would match the immeasurable
love between Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal—
one of the worlds grandest resting spots,
the mausoleum dazzled lovers and poets,
architects and designers, pilgrims and politicians,
truth-seekers, mystics and spiritual aspirants
who looked upon the Charbagh Garden
with artistic shock and awe in equal measure
as they contemplated how exquisitely
earthly hands sculpted its four-part pathways
and crafted sacrosanct, reflective water channels
equaling a divinely inspired paradisiacal abode.
II. Alternative Homage
Carole and I left the ivory white sepulcher
different, wiser harbingers of a menacing
secret that mere tourists had left back on Agra’s
left bank of the river Yamuna. We sauntered
away from Mumtaz’s marble tomb all the better
for experiencing its splendor, comprehending
futility since love’s most impressive tribute paled
next to persistent grief, loss, and bereavement—emotions
that haunted Shah Jahan long after Mumtaz Mahal’s death.
Before my beloved passed a few years later,
Carole assured me neither a human nor ethereal
memorial shrine could replicate depths of our
unparalleled passion and commitment; in memorium
I shot a bottle rocket of her cremated spirit into heaven,
floated her ashes down our brook, sent a blazing
miniature longship bearing her bones into the Salish Sea.
Nana’s Creations
Thin
wax
paper
napkins sat
on Nan’s kitchen shelf
overlooking her ceramic
fruit bowl she’d thrown on a potter’s wheel when just a teen
as remarkable as the lace
tablecloth crocheted
by a hearth
until
bed
time.
When
cocks
would crow
and dawn’s dew
danced upon flowers
she’d gather eggs and make breakfast
before anyone else had a chance to brush their teeth;
a munition’s plant welder in
World War II, he’d work
till sunset
and toil
back
home.
Sand Mandala Labyrinth, Adagio
Hopelessly lost in a sands of time, labyrinth
silica granules immobilized my arms and legs
dared lungs to deeply breathe, choke on oxygen
exhale in gasps, helplessly attempting
to maintain form while accosted by micro-grains
of grit that filled unconscious empty spaces and
tightened a dead sea graveyard’s grasp.
The mandala engulfed me further, adagio,
teased me with a glimpse of evenly crafted
concentric circles—a spherical North American
counterpart to Peru’s Moray Circular Terraces,
offering unlikely potential escape routes
through native landscape depressions, yet hinted
at deliverance though a consecrated pathway.
Ah, but every thought and movement intensified
nature’s reptilic grip on my body as it squeezed
me like a boa constrictor, cutoff blood flow
induced a cardiac arrest, crushed a beachfront
desert maze of no return, as I fixated on a mirage
that carried me away on a time signature as the theme
song for Lawrence of Arabia played in the distance.
Epileptic Sleepwalk
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation
where they will not be judged by the color of their skin
but by the content of their character. —Martin Luther King, Jr.
From a dream that sent me back to 1963 where I
walked beside others in a March on Washington
I awoke to the congenial sound of a choir
as brazen as Donatello’s cherub angels;
never leaving my bed, I Astro projected
downstairs, discovered classical art paintings
and marble sculpture reproductions of spiritelli
animated, alive, fully engaged in musical
pursuits, laughing, dancing, cavorting.
Some raised flutes to the heavens, others
strummed mandolines, plucked lutes,
sang ethereal psalms and harmonious tunes;
my wide opened eyes beheld mischievous creatures
from glory’s realm who cheered on my psychomotor
seizure thereby capturing a secular imagination’s
mystical music via pristine renaissance beauty
aware angles sought firmament equity through the end
of hierarchies and flew freed from artisans’ restraints.
Resolute Black Dahlias
Inspired by Elizabeth Short
Blinded only by shut eyes of choice
I buried my face in an Arbian Night bouquet
of black dahlias; I deeply inhaled
and reveled in its aroma although I’d
forfeited sense of smell for the gift of life
following a compound fractured skull.
Dark maroon bled wine-red plasma that mixed
purple pigmentation color upon velvety ebon
pedals intoxicated me as I bit thick hollow stems
like succulent grass blades on midmorning hilltops;
I imagined my blood mixed with Aphrodite’s tears
that sprouted each spring commemorating my own loss.
A boomer in the 50’s, flowerchild of the ‘60s
my mind favored optical illusions to truths uninspired,
details soon forgotten, or toxic warnings only
shared because ERs measured undisclosed secrets
and medical side effects the same terminal culprits
behind aspiring starlets or victims of chance.
Oh I have been far more fortunate than Elizabeth Short
yet never sought opulence, notoriety, or stardom; we both
our lives lived in mysteries undesired, exploits unspoken always
at the mercy friendly gossip and savage tabloids who explained
the absence of color to explain ragged social harmony, adding
unresolved layers of betrayal, sadness, and misery to outcasts.
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