Moon Dance

When moon dancing

in the fully bright-bursting, shimmery-silver

liquified sunbeams of lunar plenitude,

celebrate, too, the ever-returning blessing of the dark,

the sacred inky-black of the disappearing wane.

Hold them both, ebony-shine shifting.

The dance will be richer for it.

Hold them together, like a prayer flowing.

Hold them reverently, as a reminder

that reflecting light is a risky business,

and exuberant waning is perplexing to most.

Bless the paradox circling as it honors Mystery

with raucous howls and gentle rest and care,

holy movement that subtly shatters rigidity

and always risks the moon-shining

reverent irreverence that blesses us all.

New Moon, December 2022

____________________________________

Moon Dance

Danza a la luz de luna

Cuando bailas a la luz de luna

en la plenitud lunar de rayos solares licuados,

reflejando brillantes-quebrantes-plateados --

celebra, a la vez, la bendición recurrente de la sagrada oscuridad,

la luna menguante, negra-ébana.

Sostén a los dos, ébano-brillo turnándose.

Hará más vívida la danza.

Sostenlos juntos, como una oración fluida.

Sostenlos juntos, para recordarte

que reflejar la luz es un asunto arriesgado,

y menguar con exuberancia confunde a muchos.

Bendice la paradoja circulando que honra el Misterio

con aullidos apasionados y descanso suave,

movimiento sagrado que quiebra sutilmente la rigidez

y siempre toma el riesgo de moon-shining

la reverencia irreverente que nos bendice a todos. 

Luna nueva, Diciembre 2022

Journey

The answer to your heartfelt question

is no answer at all.

I'm sorry.

I know you're at your wit's end

and I can feel your frustration.

But did you know that monarch butterflies migrate thousands of miles,

just to survive?

Or that Orion, that fierce hunter of the wintry sky, looks surprisingly like a butterfly

if you tilt your head sideways

and look just so?

Now a menacing hunter ~

ready to clobber you into oblivion,

now a sunlit butterfly ~

ready to fire up your senses with ecstatic beauty. 

Chew on that for a while.

There might be an answer in there somewhere

in how a feather-light monarch

(for surely she is a migrant)

moves amiably with a well-armed giant

(though perhaps his ferocity is mostly for show)

how they twirl around a star-twinkly sky, taking turns in the dance,

showing different faces, 

and never, ever arriving.

How their endless journey still makes us shout with delight

whenever we spot them:

the mighty hunter and the cosmic butterfly ~

wheeling steadily downward into the void,

night after night,

leaving behind a mysterious trail of awe.

________________________

Jornada

La respuesta a tu pregunta sincera

es que no hay respuesta.

Lo siento.

Sé que estás desesperado

y puedo sentir tu frustración.

¿Pero sabías que las mariposas monarca migran miles de millas para sobrevivir?

O que Orión, ese cazador feroz del cielo invernal, se parece a una mariposa

si inclinas la cabeza y miras justo así? 

Ahora, un cazador amenazante ~ 

listo para darte un golpe al infinito,

ahora una mariposa alumbrada ~

lista para encender tus sentidos con una hermosura extática.

Piensa un momento en eso.

Es posible que encuentres una respuesta ahí escondida

en una monarca ligera

(pues seguramente es una migrante)

moviendo amablemente alrededor de un gigante bien armado

(pero puede que su ferocidad sea principalmente fingida)

como giran por un cielo estrellado-brillando, turnándose en el baile,

mostrando caras diferentes, jamás llegando.

Como su jornada sin fin todavía nos hace gritar emocionados

cuando los espiamos:

el cazador imponente y la mariposa cósmica ~

girando sin tregua hacia abajo al vacío,

noche tras noche,

dejando una huella misteriosa de asombro.

Grandma's Sweater

 

Grandma’s sweater rests on my shoulders like a prayer shawl, 

warming the heart-mystery-memories

she wove into my soul. 

Grandma’s sweater is a sacred vestment. 

I kiss it before I put it on. 

Grandma’s sweater speaks with a lilting Italian accent,

shape-shifting into haunting melodies of the Old Country, 

never to be seen again. 

Grandma’s sweater is black, dotted with embroidered daisies

from the International Ladies’ Garment Union. 

How could they have known that their beauty 

would keep blossoming in my dreams? 

Grandma’s sweater is love and prayer, 

the reassuring clunking of her sturdy old lady shoes

on the basement steps. 

Grandma’s sweater swaddles me with hope 

when tentacles of fear threaten to squeeze all joy from my life.

Grandma’s sweater has pockets, as all good sweaters should, 

to carry the essentials: 

emergency tissues, a spare rosary,  

and a little something sweet in case the kids stop by. 

I think the pockets are magic. 

Maybe prayer shawls should have magic pockets, too.

In loving memory of our wonderful Nonna Rose. Ti vogliamo bene!