Mario Pita
I was so intensely sad
I went out to St Francis
Where I laid the pale gold rose
From papi's grave at his toes
I knelt there blindly crying
And when I looked around me
I was seeing everything
With fresh eyes wonderingly
The deep silence of bird song
Infinite soft subtle sounds
From a breeze playing the trees'
Bare branches and baby leaves
The white nightgown hanging out
To dry with some darker clothes
Wafting calm and bodiless...
Awe overcame my sorrow
I couldn't believe I was
Home it was so beautiful
So impossible yet true
Papi might have been there too
A patch of violets drew me
There was something comforting
In their pure glowing tone
A real frequency of hope
I approached them even though
I knew they were just flowers
Still despondent but less so
Exhausted by my sadness
I turned back towards St Francis
And my breath caught when I saw
A wooden cross erected
Abruptly in the forest
The sight gave me a real shock
Before my reason could scoff
That it was an illusion
An optical miracle
The beam holding up the swing
Intersected a tree trunk
But only from that one spot
Were I ended up standing
I felt as if I'd been led
To the violet blooms so when
I turned back I would see this
Living cross' striking vision
I obeyed the lure of hope
The color evoked in me
As a divine frequency
And somehow the forest spoke
I feel now as if a force
Something, someone, my own soul
Took my hand, led me forward
Then lovingly turned me back
To the cross of my childhood
Faith and papi's dying hopes
So that I could truly feel
He wasn't gone forever
March
13, 2007
Metamorphosis
the caterpillar in the cocoon
of his life-long fear of death
that finally ended and he broke free
into a higher life passionately
sighed the breeze as a butterfly
flew by big and gold and black
the universe and all its suns
of which papi a son of the earth
is one in the form of his laughter
which forever returns, what I strive
to remember and that he lived
a long fulfilling life in the end
blessed with a loving faith-filled wife
the goddess who held his hand and now
cradles his soul in her heart beating
his memory and rocking him gently
into eternity and the adventure
of growing less and less afraid.
He was my father in this life
but my last sight of his body made me
think of a baby as the nurse sponged his back
and he crossed his hands over his sex smiling
peacefully, beatifically, a smile that haunts me,
his lips a horizon of emotions no one could cross
no matter how much they loved him
the seal of pride holding mortal fear at bay
and any displays of despair before his children,
a small, secret smile that spoke of an impossible
contentment, the fulfillment of all his deepest
fears and the relief of facing and fighting them
at last by fully grasping and exercising the mysterious
strength of his spirit, that smile transformed the old
dying man into a fresh new infant in the hands
of a wet-nurse in another life, I felt him reborn
the last time I ever saw his physical form,
his embalmed corpse a nightmare
from which I still haven't fully returned.
Thank God the spirit who was my dad isn't trapped
in the gray corridors of my brain, the electrical
synapses they say create consciousness
except I believe they're only the tools of Love
forming and using my mind, the hand of God
fingers of timeless forces, the Idea of Desire
Awareness the project of nature's workshop
driving perception into the cross of dimensions.
I dare to believe cancer was a terrible tool
my father used to sculpt away the stifling dirt
of fear and reveal the diamond of his faith
cut by pain polished by love set in hope and
in the end taking its place amidst the stars
the pulse of the universe – emptiness and life
decay and creation – desire in the Divine.
This poem is my thoughts crawling across
the paper holding crushing sorrow at bay
as I wrap myself in the pure glow of faith
and allow my rational fears to disintegrate
and shape themselves into beautiful feelings
that transform my pulse into eternal wings
perched for a lifetime's moment on the petals
of my flesh relishing this special place,
black and gold spread motionless for a breath
before I exhale and watch the image of my soul
move on to other sensual blooms and flavors
before it's finally finished with this solar system
and savored the entire known universe
at which point I'll crumple up time and space
like the tree pulp I'm expressing myself on
to rest in the absolute power of darkness
with all my loved ones together turning the cosmic
page and dreaming up another round of Play.
+ + + + + + + + + + + + +
The fresh pain of sorrow
gradually decays
just like the rose I kept
from outside papi's grave.
Where rational fears end
smiling memories play.
The Soul of the Sun
The golden path through the forest
That thrills me all clear mornings
Is the timeless space walked by me
Through lifetimes of thought and feeling
It was after my father died
That I knew sunlight was speaking
I hear it now with all my heart
God assuring me We’re happy
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The World is the Mother of God
Little stick-um frogs on the windows at night
and sinisterly sensual moths desiring the light.
Cell-phone-faced spiders I can easily dial
the extravagant heart of all Creation on,
beautiful as gems on 3-D webs of silver thread
spun in the enchanted beam of a utility lamp.
Love-bugs always fucking without facing each other
becoming a smear of ink on my affronted flesh
as I brush off their clinging commonness.
Butterflies blue-black and Monarchs larger
than beauty so fragile should logically be
wafting right in front of me; a visual fragrance
from paradise never present long enough
except as a longing more vivid than their wings.
Humming birds fighting for plastic yellow flowers
strung out on store-bought nectar mixed with one
cup unrefined sugar, starting, stopping, plunging
into the mineral bath I filled for them because I love
their happy greedy chirping as they dip and sip;
the air subtly displaced by the unfathomable
force of wings defying reason that can’t grasp
how many miraculous times they beat per second.
I fear spiders getting caught in the wild net of my long hair,
gray and black like the raccoon who appeared one afternoon
to steal the food I thought I had bought for something else.
A trinity of fireflies ascended into the trees
our first night here as I rested my heavy head
on feathers buried in violet Egyptian sheets.
The moon wakes me now with its light cutting sharper
than Excalibur into fears grown thick as weeds
fighting the concrete reality in which I always lived,
depressed by cities’ jaundiced skies, until these healthy
wonderful moments in time created by the true love
I always hoped to find – a squirrel running and jumping
from one branch of circumstance to another hording
the seeds of dreams, some of which fall with a clang
on the roof of my lover’s workshop, rich as pharaoh’s tomb
with tools for penetrating and shaping nature’s beauty
around his imagination – ancient and powerful
as the black snake winding between the Ginger leaves
eating small creatures and all illusions of Eden,
a living hieroglyph consuming history
with the frightening forked tongue of countries
moving too fast crushing everything in their path.
A tuft of white and gold feathers might have been an owl
or a falcon dining on the modern road’s deadly table.
The stiff bodies of delicious deer going to waste
while fat and fearful cows remain temporarily safe,
painting an ever-changing bas-relief on the landscape
teleporting me back centuries with every breath I take;
all the cells of my body magically replaced
again and again as casually as lazy jaws chew
the earth’s green skin on obscenely thick tongues –
Hathor’s* languid priestesses passionately licking
the salt in my blood for which mosquitoes blindly risk
everything, but my goddess’ hand shows them no mercy.
I caress my beloved dog’s head drinking a Chardonnay
that reflects the profoundly intoxicating sunset
stretching molten fingers between the sentinel trees…
Experience bottled in precious moments labeled
with priceless conversations stored in the cellar
of the universe to open up and really enjoy
in a grave of ashes riding the wind breathing
through Love’s Secret Forest…
*Ancient Egyptian goddess of music and pleasure often depicted as a lovely
cow with the full moon resting between her curved horns. Violet Martinis
The mysterious end of the visible spectrum
captured in glasses from Crate & Barrel,
precious chalices brimming with lost evenings
in which love and dreams were ideally mixed.
The vodka’s arctic lake rimmed with ice overflows
the violet horizons as they touch my lips
and a wondrously warm wave breaks through me
with the bracing shock of endless possibilities
daring to be savored and experienced,
the Vermouth’s invisible current taking me south
to vineyards and scientifically sensual cultures…
If I dare to feel how instruments we’ve created perceive,
I deliberately sip from astrophysic’s violet martini –
The earth is a fat green olive with a red core
floating in space pinned by gravity
to the sun stirring it around and around
as we laugh and talk and drink and kiss, believing
atmospheres a reflection of our shining irises
as the universe forever expands in our learning pupils. Thoughts in Amber
A chance reflection of light on my perfume bottle
arrests my progress between one chore and another
as I catch the scent of past centuries and Alchemists’
magic vials on my Art Deco vanity.
I sit down to keep the amber glow alive in my eyes…
a sun burning all the elements needed to create
sand, and the glass curved to hold a sensual liquid
fragrance I casually dab on my wrists, catching a whiff
of the miracle of flesh and all beauty coming
out of nothingness.
One day when I was little I was struck with wonder
realizing my hairbrush came from a pure darkness,
the solid handle my feelings need to see themselves
through thoughts, staring into a mirror reflecting
on the impossible black holes in my eyes.
Ode To A Moth
Moths look like the ghosts of warrior princes,
ashes of armor and evanescent cloaks of glory,
burning ideals rewarded by the freedom of flight
resting on my windows desiring the light
determined backs to an eternal night.
Moths have big dark penetrating eyes,
they’re much more interesting than butterflies.
Tree frogs dine on our windowpanes at night,
patrons at the restaurant of light,
but even though I tap the glass in warning,
sepia wings and lens-like eyes
leave no imprint in the darkroom of a frog’s belly.
It’s written on a moth’s wings in bas-relief
one story of all the lives composing me
as I die for the night cocooned in violet sheets
confident I will rise again mysteriously.
Interior Design
Our feather comforters are green and sleek
as the luminous waters of a Gulf Coast beach,
and resting on the violet horizon,
far softer than our pillows and sheets,
my vision is unfathomably at peace.
The soul is an interior designer
inspired only by the deep
matches made by metaphors,
nature’s shapes and textures captured
in a sample book of analogies
caressed life-long by my feelings
creating a space where the unknown
is forever happy to keep on needing.
Sitting Outside With St. Francis
I go outside and collect a basket of kindling
for the night,
for the fire my lover and I will light
talking and drinking, anticipating
a culinary adventure with a movie
then sleeping.
Even though we dream alone of others
sometimes of each other, we’re happy
to wake together
on another miraculous day
free of any serious fear or pain
(there’s five acres of wood to knock on)
my belief in the Magic Pattern justified.
And since love is real it might be exciting
to die,
and be born in wondering new flesh
to search again for what we have today;
it will all be different and exactly the same.
Age, illness, death need not strike heavy blows
if they glance off faith like a wand
blessing us
with even deeper experiences of love.
“In the name of the Father…”
I look up at the sky.
“And of the Son…”
I look down at the trees.
“And of the Holy Spirit…”
I look around and see
the forest of human thoughts and feelings
guarded by a common statue
of St. Francis of Assisi.
The Atmosphere of Moments
Fallen leaves of our lives’ moments
catch the haunting scent and color
of an old frustration, of longing
still alive beyond the mulch
of passing years burying it all
in actual events and circumstances…
Sarah kneading dough on Christmas Eve,
her Mardi Gras beads jingling
the same colors glowing on the tree…
Lourdes and Mario, my sister and brother,
on a Christmas Eve so long ago,
believing when I told them Ken & Barbie
moved in the bedroom to hold each other.
I remember the wonder on their faces,
magic shining in their eyes proving to me
how much I love their timeless beings…
Abuelo and Abuela lying together
while I sat at the foot of their bed
watching Masterpiece Theatres.
Now they’re dead lying alone
and I’m still here part of the show…
Cookie caressing the sea turtle’s back,
her fingertips leaving a trail of fairy dust,
phosphorescent algae shimmering green-blue,
lighting up the night beneath the moon,
walking purposefully into the ocean,
terrifying black depths dangerous
with undertows all leading home…
Love can never express itself
fully enough embraced by time.
When you’re young you think it’s great
sex you want at one with true love.
Growing older it’s a mysterious
merger of thoughts and earthly dreams
you need as the sun begins to rise
and set with alarming speed,
beating you with mortality
until you ache with compassion
for your self and all forms
of life, until you hope nothing –
all those lost persons and moments –
ever dies. Until you’re forced to
have faith in the tree of your life
even though its roots are only theories
of darkness becoming matter through
light, and our thoughts are powerless
sentences silhouetted against the sky,
breathing this way of life into us by day,
exhaling boundless promises at night.
Impressions
The wash of light across the field
at the dawning of night
The moon hanging in the glass
while we sip white wine
The sun rising between the leaves
rays begging for my eyes
The darkly drenched repose of all
rainy winter twilights
The mysteriously sharp joy
of countless stars that bright
The cold smoke of “The Dragon’s Breath”
mystifying sunrise
Two eggs warm against my cold palms
break routine with awe
Rhyming Reverie
On a perfectly temperate day in November,
the sun gilding showers of yellow leaves,
holding a feather-light pen indulging in reverie,
Stinger splitting the wood of a dead tree,
I’m blessed by not feeling pressed to do anything.
Yet I can’t forget trees are killed to make this paper,
the world’s breath increasingly fouled by industries,
factory towers burning more cancerous cigarettes
coughing up terrible storms from the womb of the seas.
I’m just one more selfish consumer who believes
my soul and the earth are one eternally.
A drifting leaf hits me gently, silently,
its dead touch reminding me I passionately need
our satellite dish and all the pleasures of electricity.
We’d love to be free of the Grid with solar energy
but desires are fatally tangled up in affordability.
The wind picks up, blowing in gusts like my thoughts,
and a bird sings a sweet, constant note not meant for me…
It’s wondrous we use microscopic organisms to brush our teeth,
Diatoms millions of years old with glass shells of intricate beauty, like absolutely everything.
Ode to the Youniverse
Happiness happens from fresh ingredients
Simmering over love bubbling adventurously
If the heart keeps dreaming knowing
It’s not just how you live and learn
But also how you give and burn
Your form through my mind always passing
Strikes up the excitement of eternal matches
Lighting feasts of joy made from everything
My fingernails caressing your back are waxing crescents
My eyes beautiful planets orbiting your magnetic Being
Slave to the mysterious laws of thought and feeling
Because of Us galaxies are colorful burning dragons
And cool black leather caught in your pant’s magic portals
Where all my fears are excitingly defanged into fantasies
For you I strive to capture my feelings by handcuffing them
With vowels and barring them behind consonants before
Sentencing them to endless blank pages so we can feel
How love breaks free of time and space
On the wings of every open book