Tea Leaves

My fingers reach, but do not touch-
I pass through the cup
(is it even warm?)
and on through this thousand-pound wood
counter as if it were a wind of water.

The glass is no window;
I stare out a portal
to somewhere there is sunlight
somewhere that is real
a place to touch
to be touched
to sip time,
slurp moments
burp the excess
tea breath,
rosy whispers among friends.

Out there,
Unreachable.

It is the Beyond, within.
I wonder if I will
find it again - a voice
calls out “I am here!”
I think it is a clock not yet
assembled, a jumble of cogs and
spikes and wheels, that will be
the future. The tick-tock.
but it is the Past.

unwound.

There is no escaping,
just settling in
a burrowing, a closing off
of everything
but loss,

the dark bell jar
descends

tea leaves scatter
in the wind.


- written upon hearing that my mentor (who suggested I pursue political science) passed away last night. Patricia Weitsman, you were loved, and your legacy will ripple on and on and on.

Sanctuary of Outcasts

Reincarnation may be dead,
but the in-between lives here.

Enter an era
of pain, passion, and obsessions,
when the power to think
is thicker than blood.

Even the vaguest memories
are drawn to us.

Ancient scars remain
with these young souls,
enthralling the
undertakings of our time.

In the Sanctuary of Outcasts,
no one's abandoned.

Ongoing

When it comes to your understanding of happiness,
where you want to be shapes your world.



Enjoy insomnia, traffic jams, and creativity
on the outskirts of the city.
The beautiful countryside is dark and cozy.



The destination is an ongoing record of that voyage.

Now start packing.


[Almost spring break time... Yay! This collage poem was well-timed; I have been posting my collage poems in order, and I did not plan for this happy cohesiveness. As an additional side note, my Moonbeam Dreams collage journal is winding down... Only a few more pages! Luckily, this year I've been working on another one, one I like even better, with a cohesive theme and sort-of storyline.]

Salvaging the Haunted Harbors

Tormented? Driven witless?
Here is your perfect forever longing.



Everything needs salvaging sometimes,
and it's our job to protect the future.

(A familiar dalliance: hope and longing intertwine as the past and the future collide. We are here, sloshed in splashback currents.)

Each part is a...

Patchwork sewn into a whole.




The bittersweet,
the saccharine - low:
the dripping moments dunked and dipped,
the tea-dress torn, the brimmed hat tipped,
the honeyed tea in chipped cup sipped.

A part of a party, an Alice party,
with the danger of a
time-warp hole.

... with a bang and a sigh

You are layers of loveliness:
protect what lies beneath.

Cover yourself with sacred dark matter.

From certain vantages,
we see new types of exploding,
moments of amazement.



To enter the realm of the dead
you need to keep calm and
summon these spirits.

Let forgotten ancestors
get their hands on you.

Sunsets on the Beach

"Passing Time"

Hidden surprises can still be cloistered.

It's time for the web of reinventing.

Spirited arrangements that
bewitch you the most.

There is a reason
the smoky shadow
grows skyward.

Ribbon in the Wind

As my blog title, Through the Wind Winding, suggests, I see my life akin to a ribbon on the wind. A red ribbon, in a steady gust, over a gray-white day. The past two weeks felt like a gale: first, there was the flu; then there were student council elections (I am honored to serve as president and represent 8,000 graduate students in Chicago); a conference paper deadline; and then, the coldest gust blew out the life of a dear old man. This man, who grew Christmas trees and was the local expert on evergreens, whose smile and hugs were constants throughout my childhood, whose encouragement got my Dad involved in volunteer and religious work in our town, was struck with a heart attack while driving his truck.

The winds are precarious. How we respond in their gusts helps shape who we are. Yet from within the gusts, who we are seems immaterial. A red ribbon in the wind is whatever the wind makes it. Only surviving the moment matters.

From certain vantages, surviving the moment can seem like flying.





Who we are.
Who are we?

Somehow they are

equivalent,
equally ignorant and
wise. Paradoxically
blossoming – distilled;
Stone-firm, absorbing
glance at a rose,
dream-pinch of thorn.

But there she is, the
same vase
with the light wrapping
around like a mood ring
chariot of the sun, the moon.
on the windowsill,
the slices of moments:
Slants and slight winds,
Waters and drouts.
Chants and cantrefs,
Skips and shouts.

These are seasons
of
blinks,
sweet stolen moments
heavy with waiting,
remembering,
divining,
laying
the in-between.

Image by scottsnyde at http://www.rgbstock.com/bigphoto/nlIy3Pg/Bride