Parallel Universe

by Anne Allen

There is a place in this life
where love weaves a rainbow 
from a misty veil.
 
Touch is not forbidden -
it is sacred;
Wanting is a landscape - a distant flash of color against the gold...
and longing feels like rabbit's fur 
nestled against the scent of leaves...
 
Sometimes anger flows like lava, 
lustily, to the sea, 
all steam and fire and sizzle;
and trails of tears carve tributaries 
where our blood flows.
 
Fear finds shelter here,
enfolded in the aegis of trust;
Joy becomes a waterfall of laughter- 
cascading echoes of bells in hidden temples. 
 
In this place, 
our roots burrow deeper 
with every question.
Wisdom is a dervish, 
a panchromatic firestorm
birthing galaxies...
 
This sharing 
This holiness
This life-giving fruit that returns its seed to earth.
 
Here, we anoint each other.
We wash the weary travelers' dusty feet, 
with tears of wonder 
wrung from the Magdalene's hair.


Photo from the Web

Parallel Universe by Anne Allen

Eternal

by Anne Allen

Here on these pages
a fire began
with a spark of recognition.
 
Haven't I tasted your words
at some communal table
set to honor the goddess?
 
The strings of the lyre
ripple through your voice
and resonate my core with birdsong.
 
Even the laughter that permeates the air
has the familiar, beloved scent
of petals and moist earth.
 
Your hands encircle my waist -
swirling, you lift me higher;
far beyond the promise of a rainbow.
 
Does my wonder at recognizing you
reflect a mirrored past -
a circle dance of confluence?
 
Navigating these rivers with you
surely must have begun on a primordial raft
with our essence intermingled....



(image from the web)

Eternal by Anne Allen

Choosing the Lie

by Anne Allen

How did your assumptions
become my Truth?
How did your fantasy
become my Reality?
 
Because I have shared
what others have given,
you somehow feel
it is less of a Gift.
 
Because I have dared
to walk in others' shoes,
you have clothed me
with your shame.
 
Wisdom doesn't change
because letters are rearranged -
your eyes remain your eyes
even with corrective lenses.
 
Truth doesn't equivocate
just because it doesn't fit
what you believe
to be True.

Choosing the Lie

Crane Dance

by Anne Allen

We danced at the edge of pale waters,
not caring if we missed a step
or fell into the wake of each others jubilance.
 
We leapt in the moonlight,
contours of light and shadow
reflected in the depths of the lake.
 
The soft down at the base of her feathers
was a gentle caress on the breeze of tender love
and her silver eyes embraced me.
 
"Why are you afraid of what you feel?
Kindle the furnace of your heart and
let go, or you will never know yourself"
 
I beheld my nakedness and abandon
and felt complete freedom in that moment,
as with a trusted lover.
 
"Mother," said she, and I looked behind me.
"Mother," said she, and stepped closer to my fear
because the voice was not of my child.
 
In her voice I heard the yearning of a million hearts
I felt the aching of a thousand needs
And the brokenness in my own heart that I don't know.
I don't know if I have enough to feed them all.



Drawing by Matthew Allen

Crane Dance

The Measure of a Rose
by Anne Wilkerson Allen on Saturday, 01 October 2011 at 16:09
When you tell me
that the rose
is just a rose.....
that it can be quantified, 
all cells and oils and minerals,
measured by percentages
and gas chromatography,
I have to wonder.
 
How do you appraise the story
unfolding from its center?
 
Can you guage the woman
who rises from the steam,
scented with attar?
 
Do you have a scale
that compares the softness of a petal
to her thigh?
 
Can you navigate
past the thorny moods
that draw your blood?
 
Is it possible
to assess the stellar spectra
and know what she is made of?
 
 
Can you even attempt to capture
the reflection of what surrounds her 
in one tiny drop of dew?
 
I have to wonder
how you can be content
living on the surface.
 

Photo from web

The Measure of a Rose

Meanderings

by Anne Wilkerson Allen 


A thousand threads
have woven wings of love,
mounting us on the wind.
 
Images of ancients
have caressed our eyes,
revealing new shapes and colors.
 
Drums of women
have kindled memories forgotten,
thrumming the cadence of our hearts.
 
Poets and musicians
have sailed us on rivers of passion,
touching empty spaces with fever.
 
Waves, like dervishes,
have swept us from the abyss,
spinning us into ecstasy.
 
Wisdom, in full raiment,
has sent her shafts of light,
illuminating our truths.
 
Is it any wonder
that we choose to sail these seas
with fellow travelers?


photo from the web

Meanderings

Stones for Aisha

by Anne Wilkerson Allen 


I felt your anger ... the betrayal,
when you told your mother
you were raped,
and you thought that she would hold you,
cry out for revenge ...
 
I know that she pushed you away,
considering your value gone.
No dowry for a female
who had been touched by others
in all the wrong places.
 
I sensed your bewilderment
when she told your father
and he struck you
for ruining his good name
and his chances for respect.
 
I know he accused you
of letting your veil slip
or letting your ankle show
inciting a man's uncontrollable urges,
three men..with uncontrollable urges.
 
I felt your pain
as the first stone struck your face,
marring the beauty of youth
and the second stone
bruising your tender young breast.
 
I felt your brokenness
as a crowd of one thousand
looked on and cheered
so that their faith would be validated
through your blood in the dirt.
 
I felt your relief
as your last breath was knocked out of you
no longer bringing entertainment
to people who know nothing but shame
and have forgotten their own beauty.
 
I feel your tears
as other nations look on with arrogance
claiming to be above it all, somehow,
that their gods are above it all, somehow,
as they go home and beat their women
and their women hide the bruises.
 

Stones for Aisha

My first ever attempt at recording my voice