I spent the day with Pablo,
a stranger I yearn to know.
We met at the shore, where
Calle de las Sirenas winds down
to meet the sea, swirling and rolling
like a drunk in a rocky cove.
He is hard to know, this Pablo.
His voice whispers words
I strain to hear.
His puzzling songs–
of lovers and death,
of moss-covered stones
sleeping beneath
the Southern Cross,
of calls to solitude and solidarity–
beguile me.
Am I the woman he longs for?
Am I the lover he yearns to caress
with fingers like fiery rays of an afternoon sun?
Or is it another, distant and ancient,
that evokes his saddest song?
He spits at me, this Pablo,
so I slide back to the sea,
his song growing more dim
until the sea covers over me
and I melt into death.
Poem and images: L. Gloyd (c) 2008
Originally published at the Pythian Games and at Il Postino.
——————————————-
The Forgotten Muse, they call me.
When all my sisters scamper away to greener
realms and abandon you in a barren place,
when an accusing sun bears down
upon you in relentless unforgiveness,
I am there.
I wait in the dark and stony
ravines of your soul,
and listen for you
to call on me.
In the desert night,
under a new moon
when not one ray of silver light
shines to show your way,
I circle the perimeter of your camp,
like Coyote, waiting for you to look to me.
And when you do,
you know you are no longer alone.
I cannot lead you out of
the desert, but I will sit with you
until my sisters’ return,
until you rise once more and wander again.
Then you will forget me.
Until the next time.
Image and text: L. Gloyd (c) 2008
—————————–
I Am….
I am from tuna fish sandwiches on Wonder Bread,
from Barbie dolls and Stingrays with banana seats.
I am from the rough stucco walls of a small tract house,
baking in the sun of a golden land.
I am from palm trees and sweet gardenia,
from juicy lemons plucked from a backyard tree.
I am from opening presents on Christmas eve
and then again on Christmas morning.
I am from roaming tribes of barbarians,
hardscrabble Yankees and Indiana farmers,
from grips and greensmen on the MGM lot,
from women who made egg custard in blue willow cups.
I am from raucous laughter and bawdy jokes,
from straight-shooting, between-the-eyes honesty.
I am from “what goes around, comes around”
and “everything happens for a reason”.
I am from Congregationalists, Lutherans, Baptists and Mormons.
I am from mediums who had séances in the parlor.
I am by the Book but respect all others who chose a different way.
I glory in the revelation of nature.
I am from a father who took me to the library three times a week.
I am from a mother who drew whipped cream smiley faces on pancakes when I was sick.
I am from faded photographs of straight-laced women in Victorian skirts,
from ancestors I do not know except from notes in a plastic box.
I live in the shadow of the Greatest Generation striving to make a mark in my own.
L. Gloyd © 2008
—————–
Tai Chi at Dawn on the Mendocino Coast
In a tree-hemmed clearing
I find my center pulsing
with golden light
Salute
Grasp the Bird’s Tail
White Crane Cools her Wings
Play the Lute
Amid curling fog, shafts of sun
I circle and dance
in a redwood grove.
Carry Tiger to Mountain
Repulse Monkey
Cloud Hands
High Pat on Horse
Open mind and deep breaths,
I keep time with the clang
of a harbor buoy.
Part the Wild Horse’s Mane
Fair Lady Works the Shuttle
Snake Creeps Down
Step up to the Seven Stars
Spin, then Lotus Kick
Shoot the Tiger
Strike, parry and punch
Rising chi
from forest, sea and sun
converges within
I conduct a natural symphony
of sight, sound, and energy.
And the Multitude Speaks with One Voice.
1995, recast 2007
Poem: Lori Gloyd (c) 1995, 2007
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