for the mythological magnitude
of his courage and his yearning;
the bird that thirsts for the fruit of the depths
is given the moxie to dive into the unknown
clear of vision & pure of heart; the prism that snatches
sapphires of pure thought from thin air & offers them
to the world with an open heart.
listening to the shape of light without speaking,
she is given the most beautiful color of all.
the mother whose pearls are born of pain;
she is the artist, the poet of the sea
whose patient paintings of liquid nacre soothe
and turn the irritant to a gem
the bird with no color becomes Everybird,
and with humility, mimicks the canon
the studious little mime- stealing nests, stealing songs!
our little gray polyglott sings the language of Babylonia
the light-footed flame, the dapper minx
whose cunning never verges on the Machiavellian!
he flaunts his fancy tail, like a showgirl twirling her marabou-
then with a wink, points you along your way with his muzzle
hey, you buoyant little weirdo,
you squirmy brown clown!
two little eyes sparkle over a furry frown- then zingo,
he flips a trick & sends the whole cosmos reeling-
what a guy
The White Ant
the true group soul;
in whose marching minstrel show
sings the body electric-
free of will, the singular white ant
bows to the queen
o little bombyx mori of the mulberry,
the fruits of your labor so ceaselessly exploited-
yet your commercial viability detracts not one whit
from the quality of your artistry!
like Annie Lennox you travel the world
& the 7 seas. & like the sufi,
you never stop spinning
sun-kissed maverick who chases his own destiny
whirling, with the slim gold speed
of Brancusi’s bird- fly
on hot-blooded wings!
whose light-footed dance transforms
a desert voyage into a sand-dune ballet;
a choreography to rival the pirouettes
of any prima donna of the Mariinsky
the mute trumpeter
who knows a love so profound
as to sublimate song
she, the Sattva Guna that walks
among us in a couture gown