All Who I Am . . . Our Coats Of Many Colors. . .

I write again of my coats of many colors.  Because I love and care for those in my life and love life itself, I will repeat those of my posts I feel urgent about.  Since I have memories and dreams of lives lived and have written of them, apologetically lacking  times, I  rightfully attest to some knowledge.  If it is so for me, then I assume for others it may be also.

 My poetry is evidence and memory serves me partially.  Perhaps only the humanity of them, but solidly enough.  It answers my ‘why’ of who I  am with an answer to how life is everlasting. 

 Only partially but Jesus said my father’s house has many rooms.  My understanding now of simultaneous times is that parallel lives are lived and I have had dreams and experiences of those.   And gives rise to thought of the Biblical Jacob giving the coat of many colors to his son Joseph because Joseph perhaps had memories of many lifetimes?  And spoke of them?

My understanding has been broadened to how perspectives define dimensions which house our lives and give substance to our slim knowledge of who we are.  It is said that some philosophers believe that human nature cannot grasp  reality at all.  Some parts of the world have a greater grasp of these concepts, but western civilization has been slow to even give  it houseroom.

Planets discovered may support life that we yet cannot identify.  There are many who flagrantly deny the intelligence of sentient life even when shown evidence.  Evolution requires certain steps taken in understanding and integrating knowledge  before entering a  world necessary for more precise work. In essence you have to know what to look for.  

 Our world needs for our mind, body and spirit to integrate all we have learned.  We will regret wasting valuable time our planet sorely needs before we replace her resources we take for granted..      

 I harbor the woman in the Arctic, the black woman with a basket on my head, the Arab man who is harvest for the flies, and the Polish woman kneading her bread.  My gnarled fingers are on the hands knitting with smooth sticks in the tent house circling the firepit drinking a sour brew to keep warm. 

I have to keep my focus right here and right now else I walk into a beloved time frame of who I am.  It becomes a problem for those like me and harder for those who love me to find me.

 

‘Each lifetime lived adds to the cumulative sense of loss.’
                                                                                                the teacher

All Who I Am. . .

I feel the pull of the Polish one bent over her bread board,
pounding, kneading, smoothing the egg dough
into a satiny mound.  Raisins, like eyes, half buried
in the fleshy loaf, stare at me, daring me to absorb
her rhythm into my blood.

Her aching restlessness I breathe already. 
Her utter frustration to make new whips me to
a working frenzy, a woman possessed.  She delivers me
to my bed in agony.  With memory splintered, glinting
off the corners of my eyes, I find me.  And awake again
to a morning promising me no relief from her visions.

                                             II

My brow furrows, forming ledges to shield my eyes
from a sun that beats unmercifully.  Sweat pours to drench
my body and nausea routes its way flooding
an overloaded circuitry.

The wandering tribesman leading the camel favors one foot.
Calluses shoot pain into the moon calf of his leg and I limp.
The tart taste of yogurt in his mouth washes clean
the sand out of mine.

Each step becomes a mile in length and his laborious effort
throbs in my temples.  I will be harvest for the flies. 
I cannot bear the heat anymore.

                                            III

The air, sharp as a cut lemon, washes me.  The children race in
their overlarge sweaters with roses painted on their
faces smooth as milk legs.  Lace fringe curtains entertain
the visitors agape at the starkness, the simplicity,
the square picture.  I am at home.

The arctic terrain beats my blood to a froth with exuberance.
My sturdy body matches my earth.  My love shields me,
woos me and I am as cherished as a milch cow in a land
of sparse grasses.  To each other we are the heavy cream
poured on a dish of skyr .

                                        IV

How far back do I dare reach to uncover all who I am? 
Is part of me racing, black skinned and hot, basket overflowing,
precariously balanced on my head and heart beating
outside my skin?  My loose breasts clap-clap in pain 
against my rib cage as I hurry to make up time spent chatting
with my sisters, fearful of the masculine outrage brewing?

I sit at my desk, surrounded by the present essences of
today’s people, today’s commitments.  The air is spicy with
fomenting earth.  My brow does not furrow from the heat yet. 
Summer’s dog days will arrive too soon.

I ‘ve reached backwards and sideways and tasted portions of lives
both palatable and unpalatable.  But altogether rich.  Is my
fatigue of genetic empathy, perhaps imagination gone wild
or an accumulation of too many lives lived, too many
sorrows sorrowed, too many dreams dreamed?

                                               V

The answer will be mine.  With my departure I will take
the sum of my days, the loves loved, the dreams unfulfilled
and all who I am and walk again the cosmos.
And because of my love for me I will create another world.
Due to my cumulative sense of loss. . . . 

 There will be no more loves aborted.

 

photo by John Hallissey
artwork by veronica

 

 

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