Mindscapes

Tightly buckled in my seat
I spy that oval window—

Heaps of quilted clouds below
beckon me to venture.

There was a time I would not jump,
now my gut has muscle.

Disregarding facts that frown,
and reasons to stay cabin-bound,

I catch sweet currents as I dive,
glancing down on spongey-grey,

plunging onto foamy mounts
that billow up and send me out.

I smell clean ice in gauzy wisps,
gentle crystals pass me by,

I taste the fresh of water pure,
the swallowing is easy.

There are no laws of physics here,
I reach these bracing peaks at will.

Streaming over clouds I’m on,
I have the lift of papillons.

Looking back to plane-bound times,
where earthly reason kept me still,

I know that I must leap to reach
the untapped landscapes of my mind.

Bodhisattva of Compassion

 —In March 1959, after years of threats from China, His Holiness, 
the Dalai Lama, crossed the Himalayas on foot in the dark of night
with a small retinue: his mother, senior advisors, and small children 
with near-frozen feet, carrying babies on their backs

Palms up, arms outstretched, we walk slowly 
toward Him. Our private audience, June 1959.
Draped over Dad’s forearms, a white silk scarf.

He transfers the khata to the Dalai Lama’s arms;
I fix on the Leader’s brown body, loose garnet robe,
smallpox vaccination, thick-framed black eyeglasses.

He asks about my father’s religion, his work, 
why he is in India. Sonam Topgai, interpreter, helps
Dad comprehend His Holiness’s escape from Tibet.

Topgai leads us to the encampment by the river—
no beds, heat from small charcoal fires and twigs,
a ball of fried dough twice a day, tin cups of tea.

My father asks the Dalai Lama’s sister and
her helpers, “What do the children need?”
They don’t say food, clothes, blankets, or water, 

 only, “Could you send us a teacher? 

Much is lost from my memory of the audience
at that young age; I can’t picture the compound, 
I wonder if we removed our shoes.

Yet much stays indelible—the mystical walk
toward Him, the sparkle in his dark pupils,
the tinkling of his voice, his motion

to his assistant to bring back the khata.
His Holiness drapes it over Dad’s arms 
for our return— a gesture of protection. 

Sweet silence—
No words, a sole beatific smile.
A child knows transcendence.

Story Tower

—inspired by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Scheherazade”

Building story on story
Balcony by balcony
Windows through blinds—

            We frame our lives    

Four oboes take us forward,
We heed recurring themes
A river flows unwinding

            with currents underneath
    
The leavings too familiar,
Arpeggios gone rogue
Each day a chapter lengthens,

            each year the epic grows                

We deflect, we hide in labor,
Five trumpets push us on
We raise the shades of mourning,

            a seed becomes a rose

We soften as two harps wrap
Around the violins
Torment melts to forgiveness 
    
            reprise becomes reprieve    

There’s a rhythm to our days now,
Remorse and anguish end
We know this lilting story         

           we climb the stairs again

We need one thousand stories,
To fall in love so slowly
A tender piccolo’s refrain—
        
            standing on balconies, I remain

It was Different than Fainting    

—after C. D. Wright    

It’s not what you imagine. How darkness
covers. You can’t know, can you? You pay attention
to something else: then it happens, while you’re watching. 
A moment before the strike, total
concentration on a task, a careful task, the grasping
for a grandchild’s hand, you step from the tub.
Resounding thud, head to ledge, lower teeth rattle.     
You search for sight, yet only hear the child singing.     
O athlete—            No longer
will you be surefooted on the track— no more
will you take two steps at a time. 
Between composing countless stanzas, you left    
the web of family. Blackness drove
the lights out. You must know it could happen,
flash of a second—the before, the after of forever.

Orca Ode

    —inspired by “The 17th Day,” a short story by Christina Cogswell,
 telling that 75 % of orca calves died in the Salish Sea, Puget Sound, 
in 2018, due to PCBs from shipyards, manufacturing, slaughter houses, 
and Superfund clean-up sites

The world always begins in the ocean, 
         in many seas around the globe, as moonlight moves across water

And Tahlequah, resident orca J-35, swam for seventeen days in Salish, pushing her
         dead newborn. She would not let her baby’s body, 400 pounds heavy, sink

Breathing for Tahlequah was a conscious act—she had to come to the surface for air
         every twelve minutes; she nosed her daughter’s limp body up with her

This was her “Tour of Grief,” but she did not go it alone. For millions of years, 
         orcas have lived in matrilineal pods, with an elder female guiding

A group of five or six surrounded her. Not the only one to push the body, they took
         turns. On the seventeenth day, Tahlequah dropped the baby, went to the top for air

She let her calf be reclaimed by the sea’s blue womb, let it drift away.
         The rest stayed with her at the surface, dipping and rising in mourning

A tightknit group, they circled in harmony,  
         directly centered in a moonbeam, even as it moved across the waves

Silver is More than a Color

I am Silver. Who are you?
Are you intuitive and insightful too?

I am Silver, symbol of purity
A precious ore of color that’s sparkly

Included in the broad family of whites
At heart, I’m introspective and bright

Not a dull shade of gray like platinum,
nor am I gunmetal, chrome, or aluminum

A gleaming element when added to oil, 
I help artists to reflect light like foil

My versatility is prized in technology,
used in touch screens, circuits, and dentistry

An anti-microbial, I fight infection 
Worn as a bracelet, can aid flu prevention

I am Silver, feminine in quality,
aligned with the moon, a celestial body

I am Silver, refined and sleek,
the color of grace, a hint of mystique

I am Silver, ductile and malleable,
willing to change, soft and flexible

I am a metal with flair and fortitude
I’m more than a color, 

Call me attitude

© Lee Woodman, all rights reserved.