Black & White & Read

BLACK & WHITE

& READ

Copyright Š 2008 Armida Nagy Stickney All text and graphics, with the exception of a few public-domain clipart, contained herein are the sole property of the author/visual artist. www.ArmidaArt.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, redistributed, or published in print or in the world wide web without prior written permission.

All rights reserved.

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BLACK & WHITE & READ

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Wxw|vtàxw j|à{ ÄÉäx gÉ Åç ÉÇÄç wtâz{àxÜ

a|vÉÄx f|ÅÉÇx

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A Collection of Simple Poems and Short Stories by

Armida Nagy Stickney

Š 2008

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prologue haiku poetry Short stories Three Eulogies

TABLE OF CONENTs

7 9 13 50 65

PROLOGUE

In the beginning Was there a word?

What word?

Yours, of course.

And also mine.

Disguised as illusion.

Mine is crafted Out of traces of existence Of significance And insignificance.

If it were from non-existence, Would the pages Be blank?

You can be the judge if you like.

Otherwise, take each Word and note its Vibration.

I thank my close friends of the Loose feathers and Masso Armentano.

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haiku

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FBIBCK EDMGJ

Big bang rips through space Waves of probabilities The glance of an eye

EBDHBCK EDMHD

Subtle nature views Expanding probabilities Everything and none

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EBDHBCK EDMMFC

Blinded light by sun Luminous wilderness wake Trackless aloneness

FBDHBCK EDMGF

Red leaves once trampled Silent pockets packed fully Emotions quieted

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S I L E N C E

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g|uxàtÇ cÄ|z{à 1959-2008

Home a distant site Through woods and over rivers Light rest cradles mind No more spring yak milk One family in valley Tea time to discuss Old lama and sun Medicines and herbs brings No paper money Rock quarry through town Progress electricity End of old, cold days Nomads trek the land Changing resources fewer Here, there, nothing

The spring of protest Dharmasala to lhasa Tibetan slaughter

NO MORE SILENCE 12

Blank verse

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c\e\g

UÉwç fÑ|Ü|à My body vibrates With the sound of her prayer Shimmering life Effort, love, and knowledge Deeper and anew Spirit wise Being….

Valuing….

Knowing The meaning Sacred words.

Illuminated wisdom With spirit breath Dancing The circle dance My body to love My mind to share Remembering to remember To go beyond...beyond To search To find To be disturbed To be marveled To reign And then To rest.

Source of influence: The Gnostic Gospel of Thomas

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Miami limestone, Öolitic shell, we’re not.

Transplants from other horizons, Remotely likely to entwine.

Here, rooting deeply into The pool of souls, Expanding like Rhizophora of marly chakras, Rising above a canopy of gold/green crowns To glisten above Reborn, refreshed, regenerated our goal.

By breath of fire flow To rhythmic sound-vibrating snakes, Cicadas, alligators, swamp crow— Hit the milli-senses Aware of other life forms— Rock, plant, river, blown.

Silent stance, Seeing seeds carried by trade winds slow From ancient soils Ours to remember or to know.

Otherwise, crucified and decayed To feed the bottom, To feed the fish, To feed the anhinga, To feed the canvas of life.

A mystery: why here, why now?

XäxÜzÄtwxá `tÇ fÉÇz 16

Uâww{t Tãt~xÇá à{x ZÉwwxáá Buddha, Buddha Oh, sweet Buddha I call you Buddha ‘Cause of your awareness of us You tapped me between the eyes With your secret kiss that night Of the white light I cried, “Oh, no!”

In complete surprise You held me tight Surrendering to the melt Of the blue fire Recovering through deep, solf Rhythmic sleep You told me you were traveling Changing sites Creating a new life And asked if I would also come I came back to see for myself What I saw was divine You and I flowing through This path yet undefined Connected hearts You are more aware of us than I While I wonder— Why is wrong When is wrong How is right How we feel How we smile How we touch How we talk You and I Buddha to Buddha Ah ha!

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XÅÉà|ÉÇ DCD

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I stood there My emotion burning With fear, anger, and confusion No where to go in my mind I stopped!

“Don’t go there.”

How to stop reactive conditioning Sought my curiosity Is there an alternative To this emotion?

“Where did it come from?”

Self-knowing wisdom rose When distinction between the emotion And ME became separate It is not I, this emotion Causes and condition Are not this I or Me. “So why identify with it?”

I am this self-encompassing nature, quiet Response came in calm abiding As the essence of true nature Compassionate energy Openly spacious and relaxed Lifted me in a whispering chant “Emotion, emotion, emotion, Disappear into the space of emptiness.”

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g{x W|yyxÜxÇvx uxàãxxÇ ctÜtw|zÅ MAN: HE EXPECTATION How I saw you as Earth, Giver of all forms of fruitfulness; So sweet and piquantly smart, But I smelled your fear.

What is here, within me, is everywhere.

THE SPOKEN WORD I will take all that I want, For you do not ask in return.

You are my domain, I Sky, Grazing and raging at your hearth.

What is not here, within me, is nowhere.

IN THE KNOW Attracted to you, we danced like fire.

Don’t you know, there is more of the likes of you?

There is nothing you can give that I have not had.

You are common to me.

THE SEARCH Meaningless and boring it is this need to be.

Faustian life that I lead, To think I almost thought it was you and me.

There is no Sky and Earth as one!

My wind, thunder, and rain are not meant to replenish you But me.

THE AFFIRMATION I’LL TAKE AND TAKE AND TAKE ‘Til there is no more to take.

I trust you’ll tire, you’ll see.

Because deep inside I do things to keep me lying; I am what I pretend not to be, Full of thorns and a heart of steel.

What was within you hasn’t even been a part of me.

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`tÇ? à{x Wxtà{ UÄÉãN jÉÅtÇ? à{x fàÜ|~|Çz ZÄÉã

WOMAN: THE EXPECTATION How I wished you’d have been Sky, My protector and mate.

How I wished you’d see the hurt Your nature brings because of riches and measures of worth.

What is not here, within you, is nowhere.

THE SPOKEN WORD Why should this matter at all?

Because you spoke so carefully: ‘I can only cause you pain.

“I am letting you go.

“You are worthy of more.”

What is here, within you, is everywhere.

IN THE KNOW As for me, I trust in my power.

I am Earth and proud of who I am —To bless, to please, and to rejoice.

THE SEARCH Honest conspirator of my mind, Aware of the compassion, but anger and wound in my heart, Accompany me-oh that it happened now than later!

Free and refine me for the stroking glow, Faced by certain love, An accepting consort and caressing soul.

THE AFFIRMATION I KNOW TO LET GO, For I am worthy of blessings many, bliss, and joy Embodying heaven and earth With partner divine, Celebrating, smiling, and shining.

What was here was wishing you life.

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VÉÄÄxtzâxá VÜxwɉ VÜxwɉ \y çÉâ VtÇÇÉà VÉÅÑxàx?

VÉÇwxÅÇ à{x [âÅuÄx V|ä|Ä fxÜätÇà Repeated offences never fail In a violent environment full of shame.

Once upon a time is always When childish pranks of bulling natures Permeate the workplace.

“Aatmasambhaavitaah stabdhaa Dhanamaanamadaanvitaaa.”

The rishi says, “Self-conceit and stubborn, Intoxicated...they perform the slaughter of a good person To appease the thirsty Only in name and with hypocrisy.”

“Yajante naamayajnais te.”

Egotism, brute force, arrogance, laziness, and anger, How they do hate the indwelling state Of those who seek to be humble, to serve, To be free from ego—not for vanity sake.

Unwilling to be the best they can be, Without competition, They huddle in kin in schemes To hurt another.

Misbehaving, torturing, They Reject the Higher Self that exists in them In deceit: their extreme intelligence Is their self-importance.

It does not matter When or why or how.

It only matters who They can hurt And masquerade their innocence

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Day and night.

Except In the light.

They stay away.

Alas, Praise the leader of the pack Who is like them Even if by selfish intent When the praise is completely unworthy.

Dedication to the mission To the letter of the law Is stupidity And honesty a sham.

The good person stands alone.

Flatter and adulate The ones who speak in fork tongues— Isolate the one who is not the same, For the colleagues’ credo is the same” “if you cannot compete, condemn.”

Remember, throw more obstacles in the way— So that god in him is delayed.

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VÄÉâwá ÉäxÜ Utz{wtw TuÉâà à{x ÑÉxÅM Utáxw ÉÇ à{x {|áàÉÜ|v xäxÇàá Éy jxwÇxáwtç? TÑÜ|Ä L? ECCF? tá hAfA àÜÉÉÑá àxÅÑÉÜtÜ|Äç wÜtÑxw à{x hAfA yÄtz ÉäxÜ à{x áàtàâx Éy ftwwtÅ [âááx|Ç TuÉâà àÉ ux àÉÑÑÄxw |Ç à{x v|àç áÖâtÜxA

Grayness befits the canopy of clouds Over my little village in America Where yellow ribbons and green ribbons, too, have blown.

Common ground expressed, “Bring our children home.”

Clouds over Baghdad, Ranging the spectrum of black From rocket mortars and other destructive devices, The din of war, To remember the whisper of past times Old Baghdad once and now, “Madinatu a-Salam”.

You were known for your peace.

Liberated people, Dancing and kissing in the streets, Confident of the color of life—red, Not by the crimsoned sort spent to free them.

Do they pause?

Do they pray?

Do they look back?

Tens of thousands, millions over time,

By Turkish, Seljugs, Mogol groups, Passing over to the Jalayrids, Safavid shah, Ottoman Empire, British, and now The U.S./British-Iraq War, Many clouds over Baghdad, By thundering hoofs and wheeled might, A place drenched in blood.

Will they recall what it is they must avoid: War, occupation, tribal force.

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j|Çw UÄxáá|Çzá g|uxàtÇ@Uâww{|áà yÄtzá áxÜäx tá ÑÜtçxÜá? t àçÑx Éy Ü|àâtÄ ÑÜtvà|vx à{tà ÜxÅ|Çw Uâww{|áàá xäxÜçã{xÜx Éy à{x|Ü áÑ|Ü|àâtÄ táÑ|Ütà|ÉÇáA VâÜÜxÇàÄç?? |Ç g|uxà? à{x ÑÜtçxÜ yÄtzá tÜx tÄÄÉãxw àÉ yÄç uç à{x V{|Çxáx ZÉäxÜÇÅxÇà tá à{xç ÉÇÄç yÉÜÅ Éy ÑâuÄ|v w|áÑÄtç Éy Uâww{|áà  ÂãÉÜá{|ÑAÊ g{|á ÑÉxÅ |á t àÜ|uâàx àÉ à{x ÜxäxÜxÇà àÜtw|à|ÉÇ Éy à{x yÄtzáA

Yellow, green, red, white, blue Aligned in space to send Blessings on the wind.

Not displaying vanity, pride, or greed, They supplant the ego of warlords And speak of peace.

The flutter, these flags, fervent requests In Tibet, though indulged by oppressive landlords Who dishonor their value, unknowingly, These petitions of color bring Awareness, curiosity of why they fly— To celebrate the universe And the gladden the spirit In worship, in aspiration, to free the soul From layers of thralldom and opacity.

Lotus sprung from water, earth, air, and mind By winds marvelous, the prayers Put the world in harmony, My world, yours, Within and without, To affirm the call: “Leave, imposter, leave my hearth!

For I fly the wind-blown spores of the Dharma, To walk for the blessing of many (yellow), To walk for the happiness of many (green), To walk out of love for the many (red), To walk out of compassion for the world (white), To walk for the welfare of all sentient beings (blue).”

May the wind never stop blowing.

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\y \ VÉâÄw YxxÄ Is life about lovers compleat?

How many times Does it or should it take The more one does, the less one knows If what is needed Is to commit.

As in the old days, the choice to attach Was solid and true.

She came to me with this concern: “I miss him. He is my friend.”

“And?” I ask.

“Well, he doesn’t please me in bed.”

“Ah, my dear, don’t doubt your skill.

“Woman’s responsibility is to teach. “start with…., “‘What you just did pleases me;’ “’Oh, you’re good,’ and mean it.”

Simply inspire and be inspired.

Fear not to feel what is there and not there.

It’s like listening to one’s ear, Except it’s done with the heart.

It’s all potential with the courage to change, Allowing compassion to grace the cradle.

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gÉ ux VÉÅÑÄxàx The empty hole sought to be filled.

Charging outside forces without success, The gap could not be satiated.

Having missed the mark, It remained abandoned and wanting Until one clear day, It was filled from within.

After many moments of self-nurture and self-worth The heart spoke, “I am complete.”

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_|z{à Ux|ÇzËá VçvÄx Éy à{x UÄâx _|z{à Blue light dims.

Light being channels Into membrane cave Comforted in extra-cellular fluid Is delivered into a bright, new orb!

A scream!

Somewhat dulled, Spirit mind Cradled in mother’s arm And father’s arm, too, Spirit mind smiles Unaware of its physical presence.

Spirit mind grows, A sweet child— Curious Giving Happy Imaginative Sincere What!?

Mom and Dad say, “No!”

I learn to say, “no,: I forget why I was born.

Repeated assaults to Spirit mind, I learn to not remember.

Authority haunts me in my dreams.

Imagine the relationships of “no.”

Anguish was a natural response And the need to revolt in the vestments Of the good child!

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Open fields remind me With exhilaration a companion— My bike..., my shoes…, my book…

To create the magic and mystery of a distant memory.

Before the blue light, There was this very luminous sight Within a gap of existence and non-existence.

I became a child again Readied to go back.

Called home, I saw illusions Of a Victorian construct Of a great wall, Of a thatched roof.

It was long, long ago….

The child’s vision was remembering…

Introspective and reflective, She wants to go.

Down a sloping corridor, I flew As if falling to a place unknown.

How I knew not to grab.

No answers to extraordinary events No response to waking dreams The epiphany of I to I Met in silence and alone Time was no more Age after age slain.

The cycle ended.

Did I really know?

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`ÉÜx [t|~â Red ball bounces up Turning back down to the ground Newton wonders why Red ball bounces up Spinning around toward land Einstein wonders how.

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bwx àÉ à{x Zt|tÇ c|x Protogalaxia, whirling In flowing white veils.

Becoming forms in space, Then becoming us: Gaia—trees, birds, infinite cells into one One organism.

So is this gift of crumbs And color, Glucose, flour, and embryos.

Sweet and art is its essence Gaia of the pie, Out of chaos into form.

Thus came forth my first key lime pie

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T fxà Éy g{Üxx UÜ|xyá Dream See Feel Kiss Love Yes You will Always Grow Full Fecund And fresh Why? Nature and love Reflect Rose In Eden Emerges Sun path warm Sanctuary

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`ÜáA V tÇw `ÜA T ;VÉÄÄxvàÉÜ tÇw TvvÉâÇàtÇà? exáÑxvà|äxÄç<

In a little parcel of world, I met this woman In her spaciousness.

Her name was Mrs. C. Why her love of life Shown so bright Was cause for admiration.

All creatures lame or fine Could come to her And felt safe—bird, cat, opossum, You name it.

Even trinkets of old and forgotten In some corner store Got new life On her mantle, porch, and portals.

Nothing came her way Without seeing their perfect beauty, Including someone else’s garbage.

Her wily stories were many, Some short, many winded, With a lesson about her spirit.

They were not wantingFull Of strange and usual memories…, She reminded me of another.

Mr. A would take his walks And come back Never empty handed.

Strings, pennies, veined pebbles Made their way into cigar boxes in his office.

Never forgotten yet kept, Only he knew why.

His nature was quite quiet, His silence broken Only by brief pronouncement Most profound.

Mrs. C. and Mr. A never met.

How could they?

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\Ç dâxáà Éy à{x ZÉÉw `ÉÜÇ|Çz

EBDCBLF

Just yesterday I said, “Good morning,” And today that spoken phrase did not even echo back.

There was no one there, but I had hoped.

I hoped that, at least, the morning of the day would greet me.

I may have not been listening.

Perhaps it did.

The morning light in an empty room does nothing but to fall The morning light on my lonely heart does little but to note I am alive, I breathe, I feel, and I think alone.

Perhaps it does.

“Go out there and touch, “Touch the face that receives my light,” it says.

“Touch the ground that receives my warmth.

“Touch the creatures with your eyes.

“And they will say, ‘Good morning,’ back.”

I believe I heard.

So with humble grace, I went To see the land of creatures, large and small Dirt, earthworms, grass, and bugs.

The dirt crumbled, the earthworm struggled, the grass leaned And the bugs, they ran Perhaps I did.

I looked again and touched a king fisher, belly stripped, heading south See seemed to look my way and then flew away.

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I saw a black, furry squirrel.

She stood tall to sniff my scent and then moved about.

Along the park, in the full of the day, I saw a madam.

She was of age but well preserved and had a smile on her brow.

Upon passing her, she sat and said, “Sweet one,” I know about your quest.

“It was once mine, too.

“Wish the past well and go on.”

“How strange,’ I said inside.

Perhaps she is right.

I returned to my flat To review the impressions of the day.

“There is something new here,” I said.

Slowly but surely, it surfaced: “The past is gone’ not here but by my will.

“Venture onward,” was the light’s morning insight.

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UÉåxw \Ç

UÉåxw bâà

“I am a bleeding-heart conservative,” said an enlightened American, an American whose country’s birth certificate is The

Bill of Rights. (Norman Lear on NPR on 11/13/03) How American can you be?

My right, your rights, equal— Or so it use to be—To assemble peaceably, To petition for redress of grievances, To keep and bear arms without infringement, To homestead without sequester in times of war and peace To be secure against unreasonable search and seizure..no warrant but upon probable cause.

To due process, To councel, To trial by jury, To be safe from cruel and unusual punishment Against all that King George stood for.

And yet, in times of undeclared war, A war on terror reigns.

Who is Terror but he or she who takes away our speech, Or one who denies another’s own voice.

“I think it’s important to determine who’s a uniter, not a divider.” said the leader of the Land.

(George W. Bush at a 1999 fund-raiser)

To what end, I ask again and again.

The leader went on to say, “I do not believe in pitting one group against another...to put people into boxes.”

He slyly added, “I see a United States with one big box: American.” (George W. Bush at a 2000 fund-raiser)

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Well scrubbed his vision, what does it mean, I ask again and again.

“One box is un-American if we must think and speak the same.”

Shout protesters accused of whining.

“Our box cannot be the same.”

They continue in intellectual integrity.

“We believe in ‘right to choose,’ “You believe in ‘right to life.’

How different can we be?

“We vote for the war against terror.

“You vote for war against Iraq, Siria, Iran, and North Korea.”

How different can we perceive?

“We are sent to alien lands as is our patriotic duty only to return To jobs not to be found.

“You stay and gain with life, limb, and security.

“You are of the box that is now considered ‘American.’”

And, do not even talk about God being the unifier.

“There is only one God.” Says the New American, As long as He is neo-Republican, neo-Caucasian, and rich.

If I say God is a god of compassion for all, The eyes redden as the scwl utters, ‘God takes sides when He has to, my lost brother….”

“Find the uniter of the dissenters,” orders the commander of land.

“The box of freedom is with me.

“For the others must not be.

“Patriot Acts I, II, and III will fix it, you’ll see.”

Can it be, “one big box” labeled “American” forebodes The free trade area of the Americas?

How totally despotic is this “one-size’fits’all” mentality of the new American.

How totally liberating it is to fight for what is right, right, right.

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g{tÇ~á àÉ TÄÄ By gosh, he’s not been too generous with me.

Dare then I not collect the massages, the kisses, the dinners, the cards, the letters, and, ah, the feather?

How about the gifts?

Why, they were all gifts!

Remember, the “thank you” was slow in coming and the calls scarce.

And...his words of a willy-nilly sort.

Oh that my lover’s young Ego would be so weak so as to rejoice in my ardor.

The heroes within me clamor.

They say, “enough is enough.

“Continue the journey.

“Close this happy door so that another can open.”

The Seeker says, “I’m ready to transform.”

The Destroyer says, “That which no longer supports my Self must be let go.”

The Lover says, “I honor myself and my passion to commit to that which is worthy.”

The Magician declares, “I have a vision and will remain true to it,” While the Ruler and all others join the Fool, saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” at the door and leave…

With me, of course.

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itÄâx TÄÄ Éy \à cÉxà|v Ä|vxÇáx |á xåÑÜxááxw àÉ tv{|xäx t vxÜàt|Ç xÇw‰àÉ yÜxx ÉÇxáxÄyA \àËá t ÑÉ|Çà áÉâÜvx ÜxyÜtvà|Çz ÉÇ à{x ãÉÜw ÂätÄâxAÊ W|tÇx |á _twç fàÜxÇzà{? ÉÇx ã{É |á ÇÉà âÇwxÜ t ÅtÇËá xzÉ vÉÇáv|ÉâáÇxáá tÇw ã{É uxvÉÅxá Åxw|tàÉÜ ;tÇ|Åt<A j{xÇ ätÄâx |á tààtv{xw ã|à{Éâà utÄtÇvx? ÉäxÜ à|Åx ãx ÄÉáx à{x xááxÇvx Éy ã{tà ÉÇx àÜâÄç ätÄâxá? ÉÇxáxÄyA

Of what merit is this word, value?

Give it some thought.

The value of this over that.

Where does that put you or even Diane?

You have value, she does not, you say.

You set the rules. she either accepts or negates them.

What else is there to do?

You aspire material wroth.

Myriad pursuits bespeak such attachments.

Then why, if she cannot, must you?

Why seek her faultlessness?

It gives you comfort, you see.

After all, there is some usefulness our you wouldn’t be there.

You are possessor of something you add cost to.

Once you were willing to pay When fulfilled desires were in your hands: The marriage, the firm, the jag, the children; and, of course, The high-status woman.

The woman who reminds you of the movies; and In her own fairness you liken to a star.

Diane asks, “What do you want?”

But, there’s only silence.

The other is still there, isn’t she?

You’re stuck, suspended, sunk, and won’t surrender.

You’re dealing with Diane now.

She’s the pause between the light and darkness of your existence.

In the darkness, the fall was validated And you now thread to keep afloat.

In the light, you radiated richness and praised The day of the Lord.

For you were King of Swords, Except, there was too much intolerance of others.

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There is no value you keep thinking.

Then ‘GO.’ SHE FIGURES. IF YOU STAY IN YOUR FIXATED WAY, YOU WILL NOT PROSPER. “GO, GO, GO “The lightness is over there, “King of Orbs “Keep the balance, “Lest your being drifts once more.”

Silence reluctantly breaks.

Obliquely, you say, “Diane, “I have had this quiet rage.

“Forgive me, I erred in fear.

“Your patience, receptivity, “:The strength…, I can add on…

“Are worth even more.”

“Excuse me, more than what?” she adds “Is this a paradox?

“Until you know who you are, “thee is ‘no go.’”

Protectively, you withdraw.

Urim and Thumin you consult, the lights of moon and sun.

Did you sense that? What was it?

You know: an examined life is worth more.

The Above bolts down and the Below sweeps upward in full circle.

In the dream, there is Diane’s gentle hand, Touched by enlightened heart, And meet gaze with gaze to see The boardwalk clearly opening An illuminating way. g{x Éà{xÜ tÜv{xàçÑxáM ^|Çz Éy fãÉÜwá áçÅuÉÄ|éxá t ÇtàâÜtÄ w|ÑÄÉÅtà ã{É wÉxá ÇÉà âáx {|á vÉÅÅâÇ|vtà|ÉÇ àtÄxÇàá àÉ täÉ|w vÜ|à|v|áÅ Éy {|ÅáxÄy tÇw Éy Éà{xÜá tÇw |ÅÑtà|xÇvx ã|à{ Éà{xÜËá áÄÉã à{|Ç~|ÇzA ^|Çz Éy bÜuá ãÉÜ~á àÉ tv{|xäx áàtu|Ä|àç |Ç y|ÇtÇvx? {xtÄà{? tÇw xÅÉà|ÉÇá uâà Åâáà ÇÉà yÉÜzxà à{tà à{x ÅtàxÜ|tÄ ãÉÜÄw |á à{x áàtzx yÉÜ áÑ|Ü|àâtÄ zÜÉãà{ tÇw Åâáà ÇÉà uxvÉÅx yÉvâáxw ÉÇ ÅtàxÜ|tÄ áxvâÜ|àçA ÂftwÇxáá yÄ|xá ÉÇ à{x ã|Çzá Éy à{x ÅÉÜÇ|Çz tÇw Éâà Éy à{x {xtÜà Éy wtÜ~Çxáá vÉÅxá à{x Ä|z{àAʉ]xtÇ Z|ÜtâwÉâå

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fÉ \à XÇwá [xÜx “I want no passion,” he says.

“When I touch you, I want you excited.”

And, would you believe, he adds, “No child with you.

“But I do want to be with a woman.”

Why waste energy on her if she is not good enough for him?

Should this matron care?

She knows what to do.

“I am no object so that you feel sweet transition safe,” she says.

“All else being equal, find someone new.”

T axã Uxz|ÇÇ|Çz Xtv{ g|Åx It’s simple.

Each moment is new.

Now. Not yesterday or later.

It’s simple Feel good.

And the good will blossom Into light and harmony With laughter and tears Saying to each “We live life absolutely.”

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TÇÇ XuuxÜà 9 Utz Small-framed woman, loaded size Bulky, large bag, weighted down Determined trek she went Down the road they traveled.

gÜ|uâàx àÉ à{x TÄâÇt gÜ|ux (gallery patrons for artsouth) Once four lovely sirens at ArtSouth Speaking honey with their pearly mouths, Dressed the vacant Great Hall Better than any vendor’s mall With art from all resident artists.

Exposing young apelles, phidias, prxiteles, and zeuxis in an “ism,” In dreamlike invention They called themselves, wistfully, Aluna—”alunaism” They were as white light In creating their new site, Awakening childlike rites To productive new heights.

Made they a circle of perfect form Unaware of the impending financial storm.

Moon spirits’ visions Brought about commissions For original art sold.

But economic times tolled Their terrestrial energy To become spent synergy Too quickly Yet sweetly Aluna, luna, una, a sign You left something behin’.

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`xÅÉÜç Éy [âÜÜ|vtÇx TÇwÜxã ;YÄÉÜ|wt? Tâzâáà DI@ DI@EG@ EG@EK? 1992<

T

ndrew was a whisper from afar

Slowly reacting, crossing westward from Africa Slated and dreaded a name.

He came slowly but swiftly and deeply as high pressure first To become among the lowest to hit landfall In South Miami-Dade— Lakes by the Bay, Naranja Lakes, Florida City, Homestead Set devastated in his way.

Hard, violent, and surging, Andrew killed 26 directly (documented 91 total) Despite its massive ruin.

In memory, we pray.

NOAA IN WINGED BARGE SENT SCIENTISTS TO EXPERIENCE SYNOPTIC FLOW, Witnesses to the force—Bogert, Marks, Griffin, de Maria, Gamache, Parrish, Burpee, Black, Franklin, Brister, and Dodge—These names are known.

They eyed the EYE AND EYEWALL TO REPORT HOW THE TEMPERATURE AND ASSOCIATED VERTICAL CIRCULATION BECAME INCREASINGLY VIGOROUS AS Andrew moved onshore.

Four hours claimed the statistical unknown, Who had no chance but to encounter fatal blows— There was the stench of rotting flesh—was it, too, From the undocumented migrants, pets, and Wildlife?— That remained to remind the compassionate community.

How elusive Andrew proved to be.

They finally said, “Sustained speed of 125 kt with gusts to about 150 kt….”

How helpless the damaged populace proved to be Against destructive-and-intense Hurricane Andrew.

43

Those of Louisiana moved in droves— Over 1.25 million evacuated their parishes; In Texas counties, a quarter million emptied their homes When heeding the Florida response of Collier, Glades, Lee, Dade, Broward, Palm Beach, St. Lucie, and the Florida Keys: A quarter million left temporarily homeless indeed.

Poorly known is the mosaic of ecosystem uproar: Intrusion of saltwater into freshwater marshes Resulted in high rates of loss— Burned species due to salinity; A buried vegation, including tree density loss…

Overwash, sand movement, and salt spray Gave way to new considerations.

Humans responded whereas plant species Recovered differently In contrast, Andrew mysteriously relieved the Everglades.

A storm that howls anew heightens the reverberation Of those who felt the Wind of Nothingness.

Their minds fight the flight as they shudder.

Ferocious is their fright unbridled.

While many fled, stalwart pioneers remained And embraced new blood To beget new horizons.

Fear the fear only and plan the bedrock of trust Remembering Andrew, Noticing the recovery, Ten years of confident replenishment!

How timely th shroud this inner strength, Not a patch-up defense— Bearing in mind, not fixed in time, Andrew’ devastating path: Something you don’t want to go through ever again.

44

AN EPIC POEM

45

`tÇ `ÉâÇàt|Ç 9 jÉÉw fÉÄ|w ;exyÄxvà|ÉÇá ÉÇ YÉÜxytà{xÜ TuÜt{tÅ< Gathered to your people, O Abraham, Buried in the cave of Machpelah opposite Mamre, In the field of Ephron the Hittite— The field bought from the sons of Heth, You are remembered with the Passover Lamb, With Sarah, Hagar, and Keturah, You begat seven son.

Of these you loved Issac, Sarah’s first born, And you sent the others far from him.

Abram! Abraham!

Whose will did you carry out?

Did you recall Terah’s story: About the curse Noah put upon Ham, patriarch of the Canaanites, for seeing Noa’s shameful nakedness?

Your God, Yahweh, God of Shem, said Canaan would be his slave!

Terah of the line of Shem, and you of Terah, That is the connection.

So you went to Canaan, where Ham’s descendants settled land of milk and honey As your father beckoned you to take, Leaving Ur and staying a sojourn in Haran until Terah died, The dream came back and the inner voice spoke— “Leave Haran. I will show you Canaan Where I will make you a great nation….

Famous will be your name— Abraam, a blessing to all tribes of earth who bless you.”

What an affirmation to carry out your quest!

So you gathered all you possessed, Your beloved nephen, and Sarai.

In your wanderings, you came before the awesome Oak of Moreh where the voice spoke once again— “The offspring of Ham are here, but this land is mine to give.

I choose to give it to you.”

Again, west of Bethel, you hear it again: “Go and look at the length and breath of the land, 46

For I mean to give it to you and your descendants.”

You roam to settle at Hebron Where you build before another oak, the Oak of Mamre, an altar to Jah. You prove God with you when, in military victory To defend your brother’s flesh, Bera, Sodom’s King, blessed you; And the king of Salem, Melchizedek Brought bread and wine Avouching, “Blessed be Abram and the creator For handing over four great kings and their spoils to you: With great authority you spoke, “I raised my hand in the presence of Yahweh, God Most High, creator of heaven and earth: I take nothing for myself.”

Why not?

The dram comes again: The voice of Yahweh speaks clear, “Have no fear, your reward will be very great.”

“Great? How? “I have no descendants.”

Flesh and blood, Terah’ story about Ham and Seth haunts you.

You are consumed.

And so God spoke once more, “Look up to the heaven and count the stars if you can.

“Such will be your descendants.”

Until then, you did not trust.

With smoke, fire, and burning flesh, between the halves, Yahweh initiated the covenant, whispering,” “Do not fear, it will belong to you in perpetuity.”

With new name, your destiny changed— Abrham, from your issue will be kings, But, the mark of perpetual promise is in the circumcision.

A permanent mark marked with blood.

In and about twelve moons, Sarah, although well on in years, Began to bleed anew and then she gave birth, Sarah, your sister, from the bloodline of Terah and Seth, What more meaning did you devise here, Abrham?

47

Where was Sarah in all of this?

Where was her voice when you ultimately needed her blood?

What transference of her worth took place?

With agony and struggle, having wrestled with her Nature’s lunar rhythm, You celebrated Sarah’s blood, the ram and foreskin became The substitute for her menstruation.

Even Sarah wrestled against Mother Earth’s fecundity To awaken her womb.

Was this Sarah’s doing, to motherize you?

How else would Seth’s descendants become separate and Divine from all others?

When Sarah’s first-born was to die, Unfulfilling your ambition of greatness, You encountered conflict once more— When offering your beloved son in ancient practice.

One day, you looked upon Issac’s face and saw yourself.

It was time to walk him to Moriah As tradition would have you rid of him.

How dare he be you!

The Father shadow in charge, you teach him well That he must be subdued.

Loving you, he follows, unsure of his fate.

He settles on the heap of stones and wood And wonders what promise is in all of this.

Behold, the raised arm struggles!

It yanks away and trembles, for you contract to be a nation grate, As in the covenant of old, in the coming of something greater in exchange.

The lamb is blood and flesh and meek— It is there; take it.

In Issac’s eye, you saw the pain; the pain was also you.

You, too, would ten die.

And you remembered Sarah—mother of a multitude to be.

There had to be a better way; so ego gave way to soul.

The test came all too soon.

You knew where you stood.

You thought of the blood of the animal When the vow was first sealed with smoke, fire, and burning flesh.

48

When there was no Issac but the memory of Abel, How else could it be with one seed from The line of Sarah, Terah, and Seth?

Between the halves, the savior becomes of bread and wine As from the priest of the Most High God: The bread is flesh, foreskin, and the wine, the blood.

And so it is today.

Your consciousness of Yahweh, When and how did you give it birth?

The god within spoke from your heart’s mind, And the one gold distilled from the others Known in Ur and Canaan became less confusing?

“IN all your wanderings, I will keep you safe,” You said of El; and El became known as one.

You are remembered, great patriarch Not only by the Israelites but also by the other Semites.

Living up to the promise of that experience, Your seed, derived from Seth, proceeded to own God…., Justified by the first covenant with Noah, Father to Seth, Justified by the second covenant with you, Father of Israel, Given Palestine as a possession., Living through the infinite possibility of finite existence, Residing there, is all well with the world?

49

SHORT STORIES

50

g{x hÇtutá{xw j|àÇxáá `ç á{ÉÜà áàÉÜç? Âg{x hÇtutá{xw j|àÇxáá?Ê {ÉÇÉÜá à{x zÜxtà àÜtw|à|ÉÇ Éy cÄtàÉ:á w|tÄÉzâxá uç âá|Çz à{x vÉÇäxÜátà|ÉÇtÄ yÉÜÅtà àÉ vÉÇá|wxÜ tÇxã à{x |ááâxá à{tà áà|ÄÄ ÜxÅt|Ç àÉwtçA g{xáx |ááâxá tÜx tà à{x {xtÜà Éy ÅtÇ:á áàÜâzzÄx àÉ ÜxvÉÇv|Äx {|á ÇtàâÜx ã|à{ {|á vÜtä|Çz yÉÜ áÑ|Ü|àâtÄ áxvâÜ|àç tÇw vxÜàt|ÇàçA g{xáx vÉÇyÄ|vàá ÑÜxÉvvâÑ|xw à{x tÇv|xÇàá ÇÉ Äxáá à{tÇ à{xç wÉ à{|Ç~xÜá Éy àÉwtçA cxÜ{tÑá à{x âÜzxÇvç {tá zÜÉãÇ |Ç ÉâÜ à|Åxá ã{xÇ áv|xÇvx? {|áàÉÜ|vtÄ tÇtÄçá|á? tÇw Ñ{|ÄÉáÉÑ{ç |ÇvÜxtá|ÇzÄç vÉÇäxÜzx ÉÇ t ãÉÜÄw ä|xã à{tà |á ÇÉ Äxáá âÇvxÜàt|Ç tÇw âÇÑÜxw|vàtuÄx tÇw à{tà v{tÄÄxÇzxá à{x àÜtw|à|ÉÇtÄ vÉÇvxÑàá Éy ~ÇÉãÄxwzxA

f

unday morning’s intrusion, the door bell rings.

“Yes, may I help you?” I manage to say politely when I learn who was ringing my bell three times.

“Good morning. My name is Zena Davies and my companion here is Aaron Hoyle. We’re bringing you some good news about the signs of the times. They all portend the coming of the Son of God.” “Oh, hold it here, lassie,” I say. You are hoping to have a few minutes with me? Do you have a few minutes to listen to what I may have to say?...since you rang at my door.”

Zena looks at Aaron who nods in approval.

With some restraint, I tear into the thought of their being here on a Sunday morning, “I gather you have come here today to proselytize, that is, to seduce me into your way of thinking.

“You hold that book in your hand to be the word of God?” waving my pointed finger at it.

“Yes, we do, and we know this to be true,” answers Zena.

I proceed with my line of thinking: “A Moslem holds the Koran in his hand and claims it is the word of God. A Hindu proudly tells about a great battle in the Bhagavad Gita that is symbolic language of how to know the consciousness of God.” To set up a platform for a jolting discussion, I continue, ”The Vedas speak of the origin of man and even of spiritual beings less entangled 51

in matter than man; and some experts think the Vedas go as far back as 4,000 B.C. when some say written language came into being.”

“Well we know this book was written around 4,000 B.C.,” adds Aaron.

“Do you? Which part?”

“Genesis,” says Aaron.

Zena adds, ‘The accounts before Noah’s time.”

“My point. Indulge me, please.

“All religions claim the divine voice. It wouldn’t surprise me if all the divine scriptures are concerned with one thing: ‘in the beginning.’ They all have this in common—‘in the beginning, this or that.’ At first, there is the inquiry; but later, a craving for mythological certainty.

“I venture to say the ancient writers were the precursors of our physicists today, explaining away the origins of our universe, even multiverses. Some ancient texts are more descriptive than others. For example, the ancient Avesta scriptures speak of seven chieftains of the planets having come unto the seven chieftains of the constellations, as the planets Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, etc…and even speak of the radiance of the sun attaching to Mushpar by mutual agreement, so that the sun would be less able to do harm.

“The debate still goes on even today as new understanding is gained.

We’re just beginning to acknowledge that the symbols in ancient texts are correlates with recent experimental findings about our universe.”

“Are you a physicist?” asks Zena. “Is Mushpar earth?”

“To your first question, Zena, I am a seeker of the essence of knowledge, unlike you. That’s my true profession. As for the second. it’s possible Mushpar is the planet Earth; but it could be the solar system itself.”

I detect a sparkle of light in her credulous, brown eyes.

Continuing, I say, “So…, what we have here are attempts to understand the origins of everything, and we are limited by the many background noises of some entrenched ancient texts.”

Aaron says nothing. Zena becomes impatient as she looks down at her shoes scraping the pavement.

52

“Here’s one for you: We mentioned Genesis and the Vedas existed about the same time, right? Scholars of astrological mathematics, by way of the orbital positions of earth and several stars as written in the Vedas, indicate that the Vedas were in existence since 21,000 years B.C.” We stare at each other coldly. Gradually a smile comes to our faces.

Something kicks in. I tell myself ‘there appears to be some softening, but don’t kid yourself.’

Gradually, I introduce my question, “Can we be honest enough to admit we do not know, or remember, what is meant by even the words ‘in the beginning’ of our very own consciousness? Is God just another word for our own pure consciousness?”

“I don’t understand all of this that well,” admits Aaron. “To me consciousness means mind over body. God does not have a body.”

Insufficiency noticed, I offer, “For the sake of argument, let’s refer to it as the science of self and nature.

“Can you stand there and really tell me you know—and how you know?”

Aaron is flipping through the pages of his favorite book. He stops on a page and says, “We don’t need to know. It says here in Isaiah that God will teach us, because we will no longer be taught by man.”

“Aaron, you’re good. I’ll give you credit. “You are absolutely correct, and I’ll tell you why.

“The likes of you were here about three months ago, preaching that Revelation warns us to leave all religions. I found that somewhat enlightening. So I looked at the text for myself. And it does say that, in fact, God will influence the minds of rulers at some future date to do what God intends—to come against religion or , as I prefer to say, the memes of ancient Babel. Or is it Babylon?”

I thought to myself, “Where does all this confidence come from?”

Aaron responds, “The Holy Scriptures have been kept intact by the will of God.” “Hello. I don’t think you hear me. The Koran, the Bhagavad Gita—let me add another ancient text: the Zoroastrian Avestas I mentioned earlier.

These very texts—and it can be proven—influenced your Holy Scriptures in so many ways.

53

“Well, I’ll keep it short since we won’t solve anything today. “Was it not then the will of God that these texts be kept in existence today?

And why not? It’s God’s will that things are as they are, right?”

I lower my head, slightly exasperated at them. It was not out of pity or disdain or compassion; it was more out of, ‘why do I feel a need to enter into this discussion?’ It’s not even a debate. There’s no ammo.

Aaron says, “Sure.”

I proceed to ask, “What makes you think I want to hear your message? I find it inadequate. I don’t believe you have the full scope of the issues—the complexities. I think you speak of nothing you really understand; you speak because you mimic.”

Zena’s jaw drops, and Aaron wets his lips that had gone dry.

“I am not trying to be cruel if you think I am,” I say, wondering if they are about to turn away to wipe the dust off their sandals. Riddance to me.

“I want to make one little and last point before I let you slip away, Zena, Aaron,” I urge them on.

In the West, we say Abraham of Ur was the first to recognize one God when, in fact, it was Zoroaster, who pre-dates Abraham and who spoke of the Great Good God, Ahura Mazda. Let’s face it, neither forefather denied the existence of lesser gods and recognized one true god.”

Confused, Zena questions, “We cannot deny those texts are false?”

Looking at her with some concern, I continue, “What I’m about to say may be over your heads.

“This is what I believe if anything. The ancients spoke and wrote in symbols only they understood. We try to decipher those symbols. Those symbols were just ways to explain causal phenomena of our material world in space-time.

“Here’s an example. The records state the Supreme God—Ahura Mazda— had a twin brother. Keep in mind over time, the symbolism of the twin brothers was forgotten. Ahura Mazda is known as the creator to explain how our universe came into existence out of nothing, thus the Big Bang Theory by way of example. His brother, on the other hand, was space or nothingness—an unknown factor. Without a doubt, this is a good reason why the twin brother was not remembered. After all, ‘nothing’ can mean different things to different people.

54

“Perhaps we need to understand the nature of this nothingness.

‘Nothing can be produced from nothing,’ a Zen koan!” I indulge.

I continued, “In other words, in the world of physics, a vacuum can come out of a vacuum—empty space, the lack of absence of something.”

Zena’s body language to Aaron is interesting. It reads, ‘let’s go.’ He stands still, ignoring her nudge.

In an attempt to summarize, I say, “It remains to say all we have here are attempts by the ancients to explain their cosmology—an understanding of creation or our origins and empty space. Both exist.

“We have spent a lot of time trying to understand creation with no real advancement and concurrently trying to understand empty space as did the ancient Indo-Iranians and Buddhists, and now our, modern theoretical physicists. To quote one of our great physicists today, ‘Anybody who knows all about nothing knows everything.’

“Can you try to wrap your mind around that?”

Silence reigns at this point.

“Well, thank you for putting up with this old man,” I say as I place my right hand over my heart center. “You are free to experience God in your manner just as I am here to experience ‘God’ when I do. Then, maybe someday we can say to each other we have had a true experience.”

Aaron wants the last word. “So why does religion exist?”

“I would venture to say it exists to fix something that should not be fixed. Security, my dear, is an illusion.

“Although the universe is expanding, it is also cooling off. With cooling off comes a period of great entropy—the energy in matter is gone.

Revelation speaks of a new heavens and a new earth, doesn’t it?

“Yes, it does. Both Revelation and Isaiah,” Aaron corrects me.

“I’ll clue you in— the fulfillment is no time soon—the universe has a long period of time left before it succumbs into entropy. But a collapse of our planet could happen suddenly—like a thief in the night— and, consequently, affect the solar system. Global warming—ice caps melting and plankton disappearing—could be a sign of the times,” shrugging my shoulders. “It could be.”

55

Aaron concludes, “This is all very I nteresting. I never thought of these matters as you have expressed them.

Zena and I thank you.”

I, too, conclude. “Tomorrow I may t hink differently. There is nothing wrong with that.

“May you both have a happy day.”

56

g{x ix|Äxw _xÉÇÇt g

hat night, when she closed her eyes, she had no idea she was going

to be transported. It was time. She had been stuck and was at the point where she wanted so much to unload herself.

Before I tell you about our encounter, I must tell you a little about my lady. She was in her ocean-view stateroom with her Ambassador husband. They were going to Dikilii, Turkey, more than likely to see the Acropolis at Perganon and the Temple of Serapeun. They shared an interest in archeology, but husband was more interested in finishing some official paperwork that day so that he could play bridge with the Captain and friends later that evening.

She had just awakened from a late nap.

"I had a beautiful dream, Omar," she said. "I was holding a newborn.

She was talking to me. At first I could not hear what she was saying because I was so amazed by her ability to speak. I asked her a question to focus on whether or not she was really speaking to me. I asked her, 'What name do you want me to give you?' She said, 'I've been called Leonna for such a long, long time. I don't want to be called Leonna anymore.'

"Do you have any idea what the dream could mean? Omar, are you...?"

"I'm sorry, dear; I did not mean to ignore you. I want to complete this report before our arrival tomorrow. You understand? And, I want to be able to give you my fullest attention," responded Omas as he added, "This expedition is designed just for you."

She was washing her face, looking at him through her towel, doubting if she really loved him as she once did. He was good to her, in fact, too good. Tonight she was happy he had other pressing matters to entertain him. She wanted to be alone if her special someone could not give her the consideration she needed at the moment.

"Omar, I hope you don't expect me to join you for bridge tonight. You know how I dislike the game."

"Sure, dearest. I desire what you desire. Come here. I have something for you."

57

She dutifully walked toward him as she brushed her hair. He reached out and pulled her by the waist to bring her close to him.

"Darling, why do you always find something to give me?"

He said nothing. He just grinned as she opened the little wooden box. His inner voice kept saying,"'cause you are my lady."

It was a small, clay figurine formed into a whistle. He placed the artifact in the Early Bronze Age from a cave near Gournia on the Island of Crete, and she agreed.

"Do I call for help?" she quipped.

Expressing her appreciation with a kiss to his forehead, she loosened herself from his grip with a waltz onto their balcony.

Without further thought, she tucked the little wooden box and figurine in her skirt pocket. Testing the breeze on her face, she ventured her way to the deck and to the rail. Night had fallen, and the luminaries were dancing their way across the cloudless sky.

In general, she was tired of things; but that evening, she defined her malaise as being a weariness of her unwholesome emptiness. She kept moving and holding onto the rail as she looked skyward. Then she stopped.

Obviously, I was the obstacle that made her stop. I thought what a lovely woman. I wanted to propose to her at first sight she was so lovely, but I could only present myself to her as an eleven-year-old boy.

"Do you mind if I join you here, young man?" she asked.

I nodded a little too gleefully.

Her smile put me instantly at ease. We remained quiet for a long time, so it seemed.

"Do your parents know where you are?" she asked to break the silence.

"I love astronomy," not answering her question. I let her draw her own conclusions.

"My name is Mrs. Maly, Nadine Maly."

When she noted I was acting like an unsophisticated kid, she dropped 58

the formalities. That was okay with me. I wasn't much for introductions, but I was into a lot of groovy stuff that night.

I began.

"A question has been haunting me for thousands of years," I prompted.

She pretended to play along, but her eyes betrayed a familiarity.

"What's the question?"

"Who am I, really? I can tell you all sorts of things about astronomy.

Things like the Sun is approximately 70 percent hydrogen, Mars has two satellites--Phobos and Daimos. A parsec equals 3.26 light-years."

I stopped at this bit of data. Her eyes were beginning to glaze over.

I added, "A person my age has no business having such knowledge come so easily. You know what I mean?"

"Yes...I do. Sometimes I get a glimpse, too, of a deep knowing."

"Look!" I said quickly, pointing to the Orionid meteor that was showering the sky. I was about to tell her that it coincided with the 12-year cycle of Jupiter, but I bit my tongue long enough to whisper to her, "Quick, close your eyes."

Nadine closed her eyes. That instant I looked up at her, noticing her femininity and her strength. They were radiant energy to me. Had she only been able to see herself as I saw her.

"Was I suppose to make a wish, young man?" she responded. "I didn't get to make one at all!"

"What was it then?" I asked.

"I cannot explain. I was....it was more than a feeling. It was a history," she blurted half gasping for air.

It was there all right.

"May I tell you?" she asked politely and yet with youthful eagerness.

"Sure, I'm game. It's that ancient feeling, isn't it?"

"Yes, I remember it as if it took place today," she started.

"I came from a small village (Ustunawand) outside Rhagae. Many of the priests came from there, too.

59

"Today Rhagae is Tehran," she explained. "Oh, we're talking way before Muhammad and before the Arians came," she affirmed knowingly. " I did so many bad things in the name of my God...in the name of governance. I was a warrior queen. There were so many coup d'etats in those days...one after another. I had to take over to establish a better way."

I kept my silence, for she had certainly entered a time warp.

"Shall I proceed?" she asked once more.

"Yes," I chirped. After all, I was conducting.

"No, I musn't...no....I must. Yes, I need to understand where I'm going with this," she exclaimed.

"Mrs. Maly, I believe this is important," I insisted, too.

She smiled at me and started to hum and sing an ancient song in an ancient language.

I shall recognize Thee as strong and holy, Ahuramazda, When Thou wilt help me by the hand with which Thou holdest the recompenses that Thou will give, Through the heat of Thy truth--strong fire, To the wicked and the just-When the might of Good Purpose shall come to me To dwell in peaceful habitation In tents with heavy gifts." [Yasana 43.4 (Aresta)] There was more silence as the melody swirled in our heads. The night remained balmy. I mean summery balmy, not wacky balmy. There was nowhere to go, and I wanted very much to stay.

She continued, "My father was legendary. Because of his influence, the King married me. When the King passed away, I continued to rule 60

with my father at my side. There was stability in the land.

"The law of the land was fair but firm. There was no such thing as mitigation, because life was simple. Truth was simple."

There was no division of state and religion in her world.

"Our beliefs were strong. Lies were not tolerated. The poor were to be helped without reservation. There were animal sacrifices and the cult of fire, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

"Even our mythology wa simple," she continued. "Our spirits had simple names as 'The Good Thought,' ' The Lie.' Very precise, wouldn't you say?

"There were two primal Spirits, twins destined to be in conflict.

There was 'Most Holy Spirit' and 'Wicked One'."

We both laughed.

"Do you remember your name, Mrs. Maly?"

Silence ensued. It was human of me to place my hand on hers.

"Nin-Ur-Mah-Mesh. 'Lady of the City of Holies'," her voice intoned.

Then the revelation: "Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, freeing her hand to place it over her lips.

She looked at me.

I noted the depth of her eyes even in the dark. Oh, they were very dark, not evil dark. They were like black fire if there is such a thing.

I believed what she was sayng. She was truth. She was "Lady of the Lion," the other translation to her name. Strangely, she did not tell me about her dream of baby Leonna.

"You were betrayed, weren't you?" I intuited.

"The slaughter was most horrible--children, women, and the priestesses lay slain all around me. The men were away. In fact, the priests were not there either.

"It was my father who rescued me. He restrained me and took me to the second mountain."

"You've been hiding ever since?" I offered.

61

She glanced at me, wondering from where my insight came. Her face tightened for a split second. I tell you, if the depth of her crying and tears were words, she wrote volumes about her grief over her severity in those glorious days. I was the only soul to whom she could shed her shame shamelessly.

She didn't notice when I left.

I did what I came to do, to help her make the connection. The dream fabric of Leonna's shadow was ripped apart to reveal the true blessing. The vision had freed her, not surprisingly, for it was hers to burn the fire of her long, long, forgotten past. She embraced baby Leonna in her heart and gave her the new name she wanted.

Years later, Nadine found herself in the midst of a renewed phenomenon in her homeland. Egypt had become a transit country for trafficked young women from Eastern Europe to Israel. At one time she had 11 Egyptian children, domestic servants, abandoned by their masters. Now the foreign women became the latest commodity of human traffick for exploitation. In Bur Safajah, Nadine was no longer remembered as the ambassador's widow from Cairo. Instead, she become known for her safehouses.

She was about to shift one more time in her solitude.

62

`ç at~xw [xtÜà \

was having a future thought. You know, the type when you visualize an event. I

was seeing myself in a house on top of a very high mountain. All of a sudden, the walls fall off, nowhere to be seen. Nothing was seen. It was all bright. Only naked brightness, too strong to experience. Without warning, my mind called back the silver mirror and the cracked lip.

After many years of preparation, I’m still not prepared. But I am prepared to handle this past phenomenon.

I was the peacemaker not knowing how to make the peace. At age 14, what can you expect. There was not enough range except that my singular heart felt it was the only way. Only later did I realize it was a compromise without all the facts.

There was never a moment she did not find some reason to rant and rave her dissatisfaction. Was she not perfect enough, had she not arrived? Had I not arrived for her?

I tried to believe my new life emerged after having been submersed into the Pacific Ocean. Everyone was rejoicing, and I felt pride. I made my declaration to submit to a much higher power than myself and to rectify the disorders that had crept into my life. From it came a high degree of self-discipline, but it was at such a great price.

My fresh opportunity to begin again as a holy daughter was short lived. Frankly, I do not remember what the storm was all about. It probably was something I said to establish my individuality. I ran into my sanctuary, my room, my bed. She chased after me with mirror in hand. I folded to protect my face, but a shard managed to cut my knee and upper lip as the mirror smashed.

The blood scared her, and I cried in my heart to feel the pain, to extrude the pain, to harden the pain against her and all she stood for that day: Everyone betrayed everything.

As they say, time heals all. With me, healing time is about eight hours or less. The sun does not settle; that is, my head does not fall on my pillow, entertaining anger—the sediment that shores up and distributes its particles in liquid haste. I let it go because I let it go so many times before. It was a habit, you see. I didn’t hit replay or pause; I survived by playing the future.

I’m telling you this to say what?

I assure you, there will be no plenary indulgences to explain my mother. She was conflicted. In her own way, she was seeking truth. You know, truth—the supreme reality, ultimate meaning, value of existence.

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n my naked heart I know her existence was not without merit even though her anger delayed her progress. She had a lot of merit.

I returned to my breath.

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l u e

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Ytà{xÜ DLDF@ECCC On that day, I was expecting to take you home To a place where you would recover While the homestead was restored after years of neglect Neglect by family and friends Neglect by not knowing how to reach out Neglect, hopefully, not of the soul, but of the body.

On that day, I didn’t know how much I would grieve And how the grieving would Follow to this day.

Today a green sedan passed by.

My heart sunk as it has many times before.

I flew in such a vehicle when the call came.

You were in the hospital You kept falling You were in pain.

You were happy to see me Betrayed by the sound when pronouncing my name.

Father, Daddy, Pappa.

I did not act!

My relationship was still too new But I felt he would let you live with us

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We would find a house with a unit next to us So that you would continue to be independent And closer than a call away.

I rid of the del sol to see you hop into My brand new green one to come home with me.

I did not act fast enough.

I don’t know that I could have acted more deliberately.

We were not much for words Stoic that you were I, on the other hand, Yin-yang emotions from mom’s ample extreme.

We never knew how to feel The comfort of a hand The kindness of words Our moment together was filled with care Not the guarded kind, but care….

I had to face that you may Not plan to prolong your stay.

Your response, “Do not be so sure,” Alerted me to recall the tarot card.

It laid open that year How I didn’t believe as I believe now.

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What do I believe?

I believe you saw the Bhargo I spoke to you—be aware of it—do not look at either side!

I spoke in sounds Holding your cold hand Wondering if soul-consciousness never dies.

I pressed on

Om..tat savitur varenyam Bhargo devasa….

Dhiyo yonah Parchodayat.

I knew not your rich private life of Numbers and theories and deliberate thoughs The science of your mind.

Your discipline may have carried you To focus on the supreme.

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TuÉâà à{x ÑÉxÅ? Ytà{xÜA “Bhargo” means the Radiance of the White light or God. The Gayatri Mantra is an Aspiration to be in complete Touch with the Giver of Life, Remover of Pain and Sorrows, Bestower of Happiness, and Creator of the Universe—the Most luminous, pure and adorable— To guide and inspire one in the right Direction.

More specifically, Dhiyo yonah Prachodayat, one prays for final Liberation, throught he awakening of The innate intelligence that Pervades the Universe as Light.

The aspirant surrenders himself Or herself completely to the Divine And thus makes it possible for the Divine forces to flow into his or her Vehicles to purify them and to Raise him or her to a higher degree of sensitivity and capacity for Enlightenment. After putting in the Utmost effort, the aspirant opens to The utmost extent to divine light.

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fÑ|Ü|à f|áàxÜ? YÜ|wt I first knew of you One conforming afternoon When my mind drifted From my studies (de mis

estudios) In the library long, long ago.

There was this small frame That adorned the aisle of books.

I pushed away from the table (de la mesa) To see what beckoned my eyes to See (mis ojos a ver).

It was you, Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo-Calderón.

Veiled in decaying varnish, Your stare under Persian eyebrows Somehow told me we were kin, But I did not know why

(Pero no sabia porque).

Many years later (Muchos años despues), After having planted a seed In dissertation my professor Kept, Your obscure form became defined.

Three decades traversed; The masses reason they know you now.

Surrounded by sounds of social discourse and revolution, Knew involving people, A populist by all modern terms, You’re labeled a leftist in red ink

(en tinta roja—Viva Mexico).

If only they knew you were Simply torn Between the dark and light Skins of your ancestors.

So was I, a Magyar blend.

That was our song; and to be Told the combination was less than desirable— It took only once to be told this by whomever.

Mixed with Amer-indian and Moorish Spain, 70

You, and I, sisters born of Trade.

You witnessed the injustices And gave a deep cry As a child, a woman, and the half man you played at, Who chose the name, ‘Peace.’

But peace you did not find

(Pero paz no encontrastes).

Your turmoil overwhelmed by many a circumstance.

Centered only by repeated searches— Who am I? Who am I?

(¿Quien soy yo? ¿Quien soy yo?)

You conquered negativity Despite physical impediments.

Disregarding emotional fixation, While your lover-mentor spouse Was anchored in the thick of PLENTY. Did you pray?

Was there a God or were you an Atheist?

Did Demon Lover become your Belief or your baby? (¿o tu

bebe?)

Your given three—Magdalena Carmen Frida— Mean “Garden Tower of Peace” Or is it “Peaceful Garden that Towers”?

Kidding aside, somehow I think you knew, For that is how you engaged life— Setting a sumptuous table with lovely flowers From the beloved garden of ethnic roots, Blazing a path for other painterly women

(Ardiendo una trajectoria para otras Pintoras).

Your intuition was honed When you went it alone.

You triumphed, Frida.

It was the Uric sound that you Responded to— The peaceful one— Who adored her father Just as I do mine, For our mothers’ religions 71

Caused us to flinch each time.

Were you spiritual, Magdalena Carmen Frida?

Yes, yes, yes. Three times yes!

You led with enigmatic enthusiasm While death danced around your bed (mientras que la muerte bailó alrededor tu cama).

Did you sing, Frida You painted songs of tears,

(Pintabas canciones de lágrimas) Embracing arms and faces In poetic and symbolic refrains.

I know you fulfuilled life By taking care of him.

While his need was your loyalty, Did you suffice (¿eras suficiente mujer?)?

Your better half was not he, You know (¿Sabes?)

Your better half was the other— Frida of Mexico— Mexico torn for an identity; ‘Let there be rights and power for the crushed in form and in spirit!’

Aware, life was all too complex and forlorn of hope.

To balance, your equality in all situations Was to take care of your own.

Your love was multiple…

A love to feel and to think, …To paint and to share, …To suffer and to celebrate, …To overcome and to surrender, Caressing it all—life and death

(…acariciarlo toda—vida y muerte.).

In the end, I, Ermedes, messenger, Pen your reality, Frida, empress, at peace at last.

TuÉâà à{x cÉxÅM

atÅxá tÇw wtàx Éy u|Üà{ ãxÜx àt~xÇ |ÇàÉ vÉÇá|wxÜtà|ÉÇ? âá|Çz à{x áv|xÇvx Éy ÇâÅxÜÉÄÉzçA UÉÜÇ `tzwtÄxÇt VtÜÅxÇ YÜ|wt ^t{ÄÉ@VtÄwxÜ™Ç ÉÇ ]âÄç I? DLCJ? YÜ|wtËá áÉâÄ ÇâÅuxÜ ãtá á|åA [xÜ xááxÇvx ãtá àÉ ux äxÜç áàÜÉÇz? äxÜç vxÇàxÜxw? tÇw äxÜç áÑ|Ü|àâtÄA \Ç {xÜ ytá{|ÉÇ? á{x Åtç {täx ÑÜtçxw yÉÜ Éà{xÜáË ãxÄytÜxA TÄÄ fÉâÄá Wtç ;aÉäxÅuxÜ E< ãtá äxÜç |ÅÑÉÜàtÇà àÉ {xÜA [xÜ wxáà|Çç ÇâÅuxÜ x|z{à ÜxäxtÄá á{x ãtá utá|vtÄÄç yxtÜÄxááA [xÜ Ñtà{ ÇâÅuxÜ ãtá à {Üxx‰áÑ|Ü|àâtÄ ÅÉà{x܉à{âá tÇ xÅÑÜxáá ã{É áxxá àÉ à{x Çxxwá Éy Éà{xÜáA g{x ÇtÅx YÜ|wt ÅxtÇá ÑxtvxA 72

In the desire realm I see some

In the realm of Emptiness I may see all

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fÑ|Ü|à eÉáx “May you be happy. May you be well, “kept resonating over and over again in my mind. “May you be happy. May you be well, Mercedes Rose.”

The room remained empty. But I continued sitting there until the hour neared. This was the first time my metta (loving-kindness) was to be expressed in what I hoped would recreate a love that someone gave me a long time ago.

I was the survivor. In my perseverance, I shared the unspoken pain of her lost sons who preceded me. no one really knows what it’s like, unless one is very maternal and sensitive, to lose a cherished newborn. How about two?

“Because you’re a girl, you lived,” I remember her telling me. I was just a young child. By that time, she knew how to disguise her entangled emotions. Hers found expression just the same. She would have moments of anger, moments of sadness. In time, they grew into rage and then depression.

Along the way, though, she was still touched by life.

There were her roses, the aroma of her culinary skills, and the perfect dresses she made to adorn us well. There was her family of many sisters with nephews and nieces not as lucky. She was appointed matriarch—she was the firstborn. In that role, she delivered her largesse; she attended them As she did her roses. She cultivated them with the nutrients they needed. AS for me, I was there, in some ways, wanting.

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When I became of age to attract the young men challenged to court me, I was faced with a very practical rule. If the Young man can withstand her presence when he rang the door bell, and throughout his visit, she granted him her blessing. This antiquated rule didn’t bode well in an American culture that was transported to the Canal Zone.

But, that is another story. She didn’t care for the American culture. So the rose women morphed into roses with thorns.

At least once, I was loved genuinely by my mother. At least Once? How I struggled to remember that moment and others. After all, it was a long time ago that I chose not to remember anything. Or perhaps it was my mind playing tricks on me.

When it came to men, she taught me well. She protected me from giving birth out of wedlock, being duped by a man whose only worth was words of wine, and from any conceivable form of disgrace. In those days, these were real concerns.

Why was I struggling to remember? It had dawned on me that I no longer resented the past chatter. It was gone as cinders turn into ashes blown into the universe of nothingness.

I kept repeating, “May you be happy, may you be well, may you be safe,” knowing she would come.

It was a Friday at 2:01 a.m. She would be here even if I were not. You see. She died eleven years ago this day at about this time. She died right here in this house. She had not planned it. It was her breath that she kept gasping in the hopes of staying alive. She had no other thought. No other rising to remind her of the loving kindness she Yearned for every night before going to bed.

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There is end to everything and a beginning of something new. This belief brought me back deliberately. She must know she is truly loved genuinely tonight as she repeats her moment of death, 572 times!

The dim light-blue mist was forming in the room about now.

Self doubt struck me, “Do I have the level of boundless love and compassion to help her?

“Why do I think I could go it alone?” I asked myself some more, as I was about to hit the panic button. Let’s hope the panic button is broken so that I can combat the fear.

I got up as I returned to my breath to become mindful.

As I walked to the next room where I new she was heading, I invoked the mantra of my spiritual teacher and the words, “I love you.”

I thanked her for the life she struggled to give me with all her good intentions. Without the medicine she gave me in the form of punishments, restrictions, and teachings of right and wrong, would I be here to care at all? I think not.

I thanked her earnestly again and again and let her know a thing called ‘death’ had taken her body from her. It was the only way I could let her know.

“If you don’t believe me, Mom, where is your shadow?

I prompted her in a necessary degree of sternness to still her scattering mind.

The dim light was with me now. I was within her mist.

She had made a beeline right to the spot where Dad said she had died.

I had work to do.

Settling the energies of my mind and body, I managed to relax into the deep presence and spacious awareness of my being. The aspirations arouse once more, “By

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means of this practice and this death of my beloved Mother, I seek to attain perfect enlightenment for the sake of all sentient beings who are as limitless as the sky.”

She was listening, but more importantly, she was reading my mind, my motivation.

I invoked the Divine Being of my Mother’s mind so that She would be familiar with the kind and loving energy She understood Him/Her to be.

The light came, and I remembered to relax in its brilliant And loving, breathing presence.

I opened myself to connect with this Presence, perhaps as an example to Mom’s mind-body. I acknowledged the regrets I imagined she met during her untimely death, pf her unresolved fears.

I asked for help.

Returning to the light before me, in time, I was able to Let it absorb me and to remain in its peace...and imagined It absorbed her mind-body, too.

In my mind, I told Mom, “This is how it is done.”

Many beautiful words were spoken in prayer. Ultimately, The sense of self and my Mother’s presence dissolved Into emptiness.

Letting go once more, I resolved even more to say, “May you be happy, may you be well, and may you be safe, precious Daughter of the Universe. May you realize the abiding peace of your deathlessness, true nature of mind. May you choose wisely to be reborn into a family devoted to your well being.”

If only I knew she passed through the last gate to the pure land where suffering is no more.

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FINITO

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