Common Ancestors

Pruning the Orchard

These forests

This mountain

These trees

So many trees

So many lives

Lifetimes ago

So many deaths

As many rebirths

Why this unavoidable end

This incontrovertible sorrow

This leaf in the wind

Without seed or roots?

Around this tree

We embrace all trees

All disembodied leaves

These flying crawling creatures

We embrace ourselves

Ourselves so many trees

So many roots

Finding home in the soil

Wisdom in the sun

New life in our branches

All our relations swirling forever –

A primordial soup

A sylvan broth

Of forest phantoms

And felicitous nymphs

Neverending.

Evermore.

    A pregnant pause

From the stories born

of dying bloom

every awkward

moment wilted 

and decomposed,

the obstinate armor of

hearts cracked,

petals discarded,

filaments busted,

pistils dismantled,

and each of these

spirited away in 

floods of tears.

Here lie they now

in fields of 

budding dreams

wondering what 

further amputations 

might be necessary.

    Silence

Multiple, he said.

"Common Ancestors"Buffy Aakaash
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The Goat Boutique

Walk in the Canyon

If you go in

you might come out.

You might come out

looking better than before

you went in.

Maybe tussled with musty rose lips

A dusting of glitter

Or the visage of a horned god within you

revealed behind vertical pupils.

You may find a little something there

you’ve never seen anywhere else.

Mystified you wonder if humans

are not the only visitors there.

If some other might 

come home with you

wanted or otherwise. 

 

If you go in

you will be changed

either within or without

or in your entire being.

Perhaps what you come out wearing

deserves to be torn in careful rips,

your naked self unveiled, receptive, inquisitive.

These chance ribbons wrapped 

with rotational intentions

around a protuberant maypole.

Maybe next year

you will show restraint 

at the door and then —

go in anyway.

Much like any goat 

might do.

Between split rocks:

This deep fertile place

Where water has come

Thousands of years

I see differently

 

Staying within,

I try and walk the whole way

To see where it all began

But the trail is long.

The sun begins to fall.

 

Alone I would be safe,

For in darkness a hand

Would hold my hand

And cleave my heart

And show us on our way.

 

So, today I climb out of this canyon

To the path that brings me home

Up from the old watercourse

To coast down streams of understanding

On the way to the Great Ocean.

Paradise

                             I

We could all get naked and run 

barefoot among trees screaming 

joy and exuberance,

rejoicing in what we behold

and what beholds us as if both 

were one and the same.

We could carry on

until the Old Man screams

at us to put on clothes

or he’ll freeze our asses,

having his way with cold, that man!

And until we find comfort

in the bundle of burgeoning layers

nestled in the heart spaces of his icy palace

we’ll be lost in hell for eternity.

 

                           II

We could bathe in the luxurious 

salty elixir of the cerulean blue

and peer upon its living bottom teeming 

with creatures who colorfully 

pleasing entice us to ride this wave

toward the shore of tomorrow

forever joyously lost at sea

with this glorious day.

We could carry on

until the Old Man waves his hands,

ordering us to move along, 

ticking away the end of pleasures

when we run aground on 

rocky new beginnings in a concrete wilderness 

of boutiques and pink hotels.

 

                   III

We could leave it all behind,

consume ourselves in unlimited energy,

manufacturing inspiration to boldly walk 

a new and decadent world

unlinked to the Old Man’s trappings,

the formidable door to our hearts

so easily opened in ecstasy.

We could carry on

until the architect of the dream falters,

heaving us into a nightmare of sleepless 

dreamless worlds beyond reach of familiarity.

And until we obey our heart’s command

to heal this poor sick man,

we’ll find ourselves mysteriously again

before the doors to oblivion.