Color Speaks

Once again while traveling to Italy, via Paris, I was struck by another thoughtful inspiration. 

Quite honestly, I was tired, and a bit grumpy from not having slept on the six hour “overnight” flight.  Not sure why, but I can rarely sleep on air planes.  It is a gift to be able to snooze in the discomfort of economy class, and one that I admire greatly in all the folks around me who sleep so peacefully. 

I was weary.  The Charles De Gaulle airport leaves a bit to be desired in terms of user friendly design.  I arrived in Terminal E gate 37 and had to walk all the way out through terminal F (which sounds MUCH closer than it is, as it somehow follows terminal C & D). Then, I had to proceed through the baggage claim area, exit the secure part of the airport in Terminal F and then walk all the way back to  Terminal D, re-do the security checkpoint and find my way to Gate D 58.  All of this was at least a mile and a half on foot.  And after little or no sleep, with a somewhat heavy carry-on bag, I was more than slightly annoyed.  When we “boarded” at Gate D58, a shuttle bus drove us some 12 minutes over to Gate E40 where we actually boarded the aircraft.  You do the math – E 37 to E 40 via Terminals C,D and F, at least 2.5 – 3.0 miles round trip.  Any traveler would have been ready to kill by this stage.

With an odd stroke of luck, however, sunrise caught my attention at the window.  As I watched the multi-color parade of clouds and sun and bright blue skies, I painted a happy tune across my mind and found myself smiling sweetly at the beauty of Mother Nature.  Ironically, I also found myself appreciating Her order, Her wisdom, Her efficiency, despite the foolishness of we human “organizers”.  In that moment, I felt the power of color to heal, to lift the soul and enhance the present with its beauty, its intensity, its emotion.

Not surprisingly, I have always been particularly sensitive to color. Art lures me with its vibrancy and/or its emptiness of color. I feel the passion in a powerful red; I sense the tears in certain shades of blue; I relish the growth in the color of green. Van Gogh once wrote in a letter, something about “the greenest of the greens I know”, implying that there were many more greens unknown to him.  It is true.  There are an infinite number of shades and hues and each has the power to speak to us, within our very souls – whether we know it or not.  The mystery of color has always appealed to me – its unknowable nature, the essence of the variety of life.

Sometimes the very first thing I notice in a man is the color of his eyes.  Or his aura…

Color Speaks

The hue of his eyes sings

Jazz to my smile,
as umbrella brows
dance in verdant surprise,
like wildflowers.
I am quiet, astonished,
bathed in that Tuscan aura.

Brown,

as the deepest roots of trees,

belying the youth in those vacuum eyes,
the pupil sparkling to his inner core.
Laughter, like forty shades of green
rustles the leaves along my forearm,
a spring-time storm,
Brewing.

… (and later, the poem continues) …

Race-car red,

the jolt of that kiss
the razor-sharp slice of his buoyant tongue,
flicking away the rusty chains that bind me.
He burns and cuts the skin off me
to savor the bloody sweetness I hide
in various tints of white.
I am rainbow-full beneath
and he slides down inside me
to paint me anew
from scratch.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Airport Pecking

I was traveling to Italy recently and awaiting my connecting flight in Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris.  It was early morning and the various gates in terminal D were filled with sleep deprived passengers snoozing, reading or slurping their morning caffeine fix.  Having suffered the comforts of economy class on the trans-oceanic flight, I was void of humor, stiff and overly aware of the boredom all around me.  When suddenly a small bird, tiny little fellow, flew in from somewhere and landed at my feet.  His total lack of fear appealed to me as he flitted in, around and through the many shoes, bags and chair legs on his path.  Soon, his partner, another miniature winged friend, showed up to join him.  The two were scavenging, searching long and hard for some neglected morsel, some wasted bounty, some hidden treasure that would fill their tummies with delight.
 
These two were peckers – checking out every little wad of rubbish or ball of dust.  “Is this food? … Is that food? … Is THIS food?”  On and on they went, poking their beaks into anything and everything that might have the slightest hint of nutrition or savory satisfaction.  It reminded me of the dating scene.  How often do we go through life hunting, pecking, even digging for some little aspect of affection.  “Is this Love? …  Is that Love?  … Surely, THIS is love???”  Like my feathery friends in Paris, we single creatures bravely seek out the very essence of what we crave, despite language barriers, physical boundaries or inconsistent social creeds.  The many pairs of shoes we wear to walk the walk or dance the dance du jour.  I think sometimes I get so caught up in the hunting and pecking that I forget to really look and see what is before me.  The illusion of that which we seek brings inspiration and longing and the powerful pull of need, but no matter how charming the destination, isn’t it the journey that is supposed to count?

I often find myself manifesting amazing things through my words.  I have even conjured up a romance with some of my wishful thinking.  I wrote the poem “He” as an invocation to bring the man of my dreams to me.  When he shows up, I wonder if I will still be asking “is THIS love?” or will I fly away in search of my next or newest fantasy…

HE

When He speaks,

i'll listen
chewing every crumb of Truth
that slips from his tongue.
i'll savor
the rhythm of his laughter
as it rains on me,
rocks me in an aural storm
of Unity,
a Dance of sweet vibration,
the Voice that unhinges me.

When He steals the covers,

i'll tuck him in and snuggle,
tugging gently
to free a fold for me
as i wiggle into my sacred spot
beside him,
each breath
felt more deeply than before,
a coffee warmth
that lingers,
the taste of smiles
all over me.

… (and later) …

And when He gives,

i'll train the athlete inside me
to cultivate stillness

and believe

down to my toes

that i am somehow worthy

of the gift

He brings.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.

Fever Speaks

I woke up weak and feeling lowly today, after fighting off some germy demon in my sleep. Vivid dreams and construction noise confounded to rouse me from my stupor. Not yet a fully fledged cold, but I could feel the workings of my white blood cells as my immune system kicked in and kicked  my butt.  As I lay there, I felt the weight of vulnerability press upon me.  Everything feels tender when I am not well – I am fragile and slow.  My usual zest for life takes a holiday and I breathe, in stillness, in respect, in surrender to whatever it is that ails me.

In these slow motion moments of nothingness, I feel my connection to the universe.  The entire world skips, honks, works and flies right by me. I am useless and yet somehow still a part of this extraordinary world.  Having nothing to contribute on such a droopy day, I simply lie still, contemplating the noises I hear, considering the thoughts that slide from the ether, soaking in the beauty of Life as it goes on without me.  I shrink to a smallness that feels infinitesimal and whisper my thanks for the blessing that is my life.

I always come through an illness feeling cleansed or purged, stronger and more powerful, with a deep and genuine knowing of my very own will to survive.  This gets me thinking about the places within us that are vulnerable and how perhaps we should celebrate them instead of hiding them under mounds of armor and foolish pride.  The poem below was written on one such afternoon, when I just had to lie down and let my body heal…

She sleeps

She sleeps

in fetal pose.
I trace the curve
of her hip with my finger,
that pocket of Divinity
where complete surrender
resides.
I could take her hip bone with me as I go.
There is no need.
For I know that she would give it me
if asked.

©2012 DOS

The excerpts of all of the poems presented in this blog are copyright protected, as each and every poem has been copyrighted.   For a complete copy of any poem, feel free to email your request to: duvallosteennyc@gmail.com.