Schrödinger's Mother

In the early days of your life,

I drift in and out of the twilight wakefulness

that comes with young parenthood,

dazzled by the phenomenon of you, astonished at

the perfection of miniature fingernails,

and features coated with implausibly fine hairs.

Joyfully rising in darkness at the call of that

heartrending sound that fishhooks the soul

and causes pangs of sharp and involuntary lactation,

a cry both infinitely vast and excruciatingly tiny,

my body is drawn to envelope your small body

desperate to soothe, quiet and, at last, pacify you.

When, after many weeks of sleep deprivation,

the morning comes and I awaken naturally,

well-rested, stretching to the sound of birds,

I panic doused by the dread of each new parent:

“Why isn’t she awake? What if…?”

then surrender to cool, fatigue-borne reason:

You and I have entered a state of quantum entanglement

in which, while I lie here enjoying a leisurely awakening,

you remain in your cradle, unobserved, both alive and dead,

and I am exhausted enough to hesitate, knowing that certainty

will propel me into either one or another parallel universe

neither of which I am yet prepared to face.               

Andrine de la Rocha

May 2012

posted 5/29/2012

No Helmet

Today I follow the gentle curves downhill

my pace involuntarily rapid as the grade steepens

I pass the traffic-calming circle planted with

a small tree and flowers, past the stop sign, forward

There I find the place where you must have

clipped the curb with your bicycle wheel

having sped down this hill in the warming weather

where you must have tried to right yourself and failed

We see your body fly lightly off the scant frame

from a block away you look like a stick figure sailing

briefly airborne you fly and land in the street

and do not move – that eerie stillness that is silent

We hurry and kneel by your brokenness

relieved to see your breath through the blood

miniature crimson droplets on the stubble of your face

vibrating beneath each labored breath

My hand firmly centered on your chest as a tether

I speak a beacon of words to follow through the darkness

while help speeds its way, I press a towel to your dripping forehead

safeguarding your mind, your thoughts, and ideas of a future.

Your awakening to the moment begins with a groan and stir,

the terrible clicking and burbling of your mouth, your tongue

pushing the remnants of fragmented teeth through your lips

I hold my hand open to catch them, telling you help is on the way.

You try to reach up to touch your head, and I hold your hand

telling you: squeeze when it hurts, but don’t touch, don’t move yet,

I bet it hurts, you must stay still, listen! can you hear the sirens?

they’re almost here. you will be alright. stay here with me, ok?

And so they come. And I am asked to stand back with my handful of teeth.

And they ask you your name – Jose – and they ask you:

what city are we in? what month is it? is Mickey Mouse a dog or a cat?

and [offensively] how much have you had to drink today?

I hear your answers among the clinking of teeth,

glad you can answer at all, getting most of the answers right.

And they take you away. And they take your shattered teeth from me.

And they hand me some towelettes to wipe my hands clean of you.

But I am a mother too and I have secured you to this earth

I have waded through your blood to find your breath

held your shattered teeth in my bare hand, spoken gently to you

as to any child who is hurt and needs someone. 

Andrine de la Rocha

May 13, 2012

posted 5/15/2012

Water Dragon Arrives Early

Our Water Sprites have had their fill of rushing furiously

heated within channels of Copper, Lead and Iron

They whisper an entreaty to a weakening aged Earthen compote

inside a valve stem, which obligingly gives way under pressure to

                                                                                                a moist seepage

a single

drop

a dribble

then rivulets

then, just as suddenly, sheets of water

pouring through the walls and ceiling

bubbling paint, melting plaster

light fixtures overflow

      with

celebratory

  champagne fountains of

             freedom!

Dryad floor spirits awake to the Naiads’ call

“Rise with us! Cast off your stagnant rigidity!”

Wood swells and ripples

stretching long dormant fibrous limbs

to join the triumphant celebration

A gentle flow of one hour

undoes a century of care.

We watch, mop, cry out for aid,

helpless in the face of elemental determination.

We slowly gather our belongings

exile ourselves to the nether land

while restoration commences.

~Andrine de la Rocha      

posted 1/30/2012 

Uninspired

She claims she is uninspired
And this is why she is failing her art class.
I am at my wits end not knowing how to guide her.
She is too tired and doesn’t feel well, can’t work

And this is why she is failing her art class.
I write checks each week for her tutor.
She is too tired and doesn’t feel well, can’t work.
She tells me she can't take it seriously.

I write checks each week for her tutor
But she has other work that is more compelling.
She tells me she can't take it seriously.
I send her to specialists to help her brain, her soul

But she has other work that is more compelling.
She is late, blows it off, puts forth no effort.
I send her to specialists to help her brain, her soul.
I explain that these things cost money.

She is late, blows it off, puts forth no effort.
She accuses me of caring too much about money.
I explain that these things cost money.
Should I not care about money & work for free?

She accuses me of caring too much about money.
She yells ‘fuck you’ and slams her door.
Should I not care about money & work for free?
She walks out of the room.

She yells ‘fuck you’ and slams her door.
When she perceives my temper rising,
She walks out of the room.
She says she's just being honest

When she perceives my temper rising
And then asks if I'd prefer she lie.
She says she's just being honest
But she refuses to talk to me about anything

And then asks if I'd prefer she lie
Because, she says, I yell at her.  I try not to yell,
But she refuses to talk to me about anything.
She says it's too late, I already yelled.

Because she says I yell at her, I try not to yell.
I'm livid, a burning weight smolders in my chest.
She says it's too late, I already yelled.
I am trapped by her circular logic.

I'm livid, a burning weight smolders in my chest.
I am at my wits end not knowing how to guide her.
I am trapped by her circular logic.
She claims she is uninspired.

  

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 1/4/2012

Occupy Your Dreams

I have awoken from a dream this morning wherein

I attend a posh concert with my friends,

one of whom is playing and one of whom is conducting

both dressed in finery

the concert is outside on the lawn of a park

the chairs are so uncomfortable that

I take a walk to find refreshment

all I can find are fancy-looking latte drinks

which are dispensed from a vending machine

that is located in the muddy center of the commons

I become mired in the muck

my shoes fill over the top with brown ooze

I step backwards into a hole waist-deep in the sludge

a young man dressed in crusty clothing

comes to offer me his fingerless-gloved hand

unconcerned with my filthy state

as I reach for his grasp, grateful for the assistance

I see that, while my clothing has been ruined in the mire,

my hands are still clean

~Andrine de la Rocha, the 99%

posted 11/15/2011

Outlines

I open the sunroof as we drive home.

From the buckled-in backseat

rapid fire at the back of my head they come:

        "Are there trees outside?"

        "Yes."

        "Are there houses outside?"

        "Yes."

        "Is the sky up in the sky?"

        "Well . . . the sky is the sky."

        *pause*  

        "That's because it's sky-shaped."

Your eager mind, catching at facts,

tenderly arranging, repeating our world,

offering bouquets for my approval,

I like the way it works.

That's because it's child-shaped.

Andrine de la Rocha

posted 10/22/2011

Arrival

A tremor makes me start and gasp.

I force my breath to slow to a measured rate,

wait for it to pass.

A cold rush wants to pull me under.

Startled, I feel the tremor in my center,

straining in the half-light to predict

which track, when I buckle

hit from behind, the blast of the warning too late.

I am alone, immovable in my track,

rails shimmering to a vanishing point,

the night still, cool against my nightshirt.

From beneath it seems to come. 

I turn in time to taste

steel, one eye burning white light,

ground gravel under skin, solid shadows whoosh

measured by spacers

couplings clanking (how many?)

           

I lie like a runner's shadow struck down,

taste the spittle salt at the edges of my mouth,

gravel ground into my cheek like so many tattoos.

Stiff, I stand under the swell of my belly. 

It is coming again.

           

            From the backseat peering past the hood

            of our dark green Ford station wagon

            past the barriers of shifting light,

            we measured them against an upright--           

            lamppost or telephone pole--

            counting the cars like mom said to.

            Mom, with her smooth white neck

and familiar knotted bun,

            ever vigilant in her quest to distract us.

            Count the cars as they pass     

            and they're soon gone.

Calling on the memory of elusive techniques:

Conditioned controlled breaths.

Visualize the force.  Let it hit.

I go under.  Skull and back thud on ties.

Pine tar resin greases my wheat-white hair.

Groaning metal passes over my face

(count the cars)

close enough to touch if I could raise a hand.

They jangle off into darkness.

I shut my eyes and look hard

anticipating that blind lamp sure to appear,

brace myself, resist the force,

will to stop steel with flesh and bone. 

I panic exposed, am crushed. 

Above, a street light winking in the spaces

counts the cars.

I lie in this bed trying to find my voice,

call to David that I can't do it by myself anymore.

I am looking into his face

between speeding wheels,

fighting to hear him above

the surge of audible shadow,

savoring his touch, cool amidst iron hot rails.

Armed with watch and water he is offering

liquid between ever-lengthening onslaughts increasing in frequency. 

He cannot see the phantom flier

but knows its low wail comes through my mouth.

He is using the second hand

to count the cars.

I move from this bed along the track,

sometimes inches, sometimes miles, ever ahead.

I call for mercy, am commended

for my involuntary progress.

When I raise my head, a platform is in sight, inconceivable.

The light softens, the engine slows,

comes to rest at my heels, humming.

I sleep.

Spectators hover above my broken body, echo:

What peace. . . so beautiful. . . .

I wake to the nudge of cold steel,

assume a runner's stance

and sprint toward the station, blown forward

by the charge of the engine behind.

I am overtaken as I reach the platform.

I feel my body open

and rise to greet her

as she steps off the train.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 10/11/2011

The Holly

I hated it for being there,

as if it had always just been there,

dense and looming,

darkly shadowing our lives,

unchecked, pressing its rigid limbs into our home,

threatening the eaves, sending out shoots underground

to suddenly invade an unsuspecting grove

of conifer, laurel or rhododendron,

leaves so hostile that even in decomposition

they deposit skeleton-thorn land mines.

You loved its unshakable stability and prodigious growth,

finding comfort in the aura of its impenetrability,

shielded by a sense of privacy it provided you

and a modicum of perceived permanence.

It allowed you to exercise veto-power

when everyone else wanted it gone.

After you fell from grace,

the holly was toppled with your blessing.

I stacked its logs to cure,

gathered up leaf after horrible leaf,

clipped branches into tiny pieces

like a disgruntled lover

disposing of the body.

Andrine de la Rocha

posted 10/4/2011

Black Bamboo

Overwhelmed by the vacuum of openness,

You procure this rare specimen

Which will transform, you promise,

Clark Kent-like,

From virgin green pencil stalks,

Soaring 20-feet into the air,

Darkening to a flute-thick timber.

To ward off rhizome escape,

You dig a moat through rocky soil,

Hewing thigh-thick roots

Of subterranean stump.

By your toil burned brown,

You establish me a boundary,

Providing the precious

A place to mature.

-Andrine de la Rocha

 posted 9/20/2011

Chicken Villanelle

On fine yellow legs and their feathers so sleek

The chickens are plucking up succulent weeds

With a wry knowing smile that graces each beak.

Establishing a pecking order, the weak

Are bitten and scratched until one of them bleeds,

On fine yellow legs and their feathers so sleek.

Hiding in the Rhodies, now taking a peek

Behind bushes, fences, and rocks, the flock feeds,

With a wry knowing smile that graces each beak.

The neighborhood feline when trying to sneak,

Alerts the guard hen who then rapidly speeds

On fine yellow legs and her feathers so sleek.

The cat earns a well deserved peck on the cheek,

Then he tears through the garden scattering seeds,

And a wry knowing smile then graces each beak.

If it’s true that the earth shall fall to the meek,

And if we are judged not by prayers but by deeds,

And by fine yellow legs and feathers so sleek,

A wry knowing smile will then soon grace each beak.

Andrine de la Rocha

posted 9/7/2011

The Staff

Near the end of wandering

40 years in the wilderness,
After the death of his sister Miriam,

Moses hears God tell him to speak to a rock

and bring forth water for the people.
Instead Moses strikes the rock with his staff

and water pours out.

This act of violence,

borne of frustration?

defiance? who knows?
loses Moses the right to

enter into the promised land.

What I found suspect, however,

was that Moses and Aaron then went

up the mountain with Aaron's son Eleazar,

Moses having been told by God

that Aaron was about to die. 

They took Aaron's priestly robes
and put them on Eleazar

and returned down to the people

as two, not three.

Is it suspicious that God tells

only Moses about Aaron's immanent death?

Just exactly where was Moses's staff

at that moment in time and space?

~Andrine de la Rocha 

posted 8/16/2011

Regarding Installing Buttons

When I get an idea, which isn't such a rare event,
but fleeting more and more as I age,
I cannot always write it down at the time.
Sometimes I am in the shower, or in yoga class.
Sometimes I am driving, or on the phone, or both.

Most often when my mind is empty
Thoughts and ideas come to visit
But cannot sit down or stay for tea.
They knock on the door and say hello,
Or sometimes just ring the bell and run
Like prankster children, cartoon cows, ghosts.

They pass by a veiled window where I
Catch just a glimpse or an outline,
A shadow, not even a clear image,
Just a whiff of some olfactory specter.

So when I'm in a place where I cannot take notes
Can't jot even a single word or sketch some icon
I use a trick that I learned from Alyosha Karamazov,
The actor in "Juggling and Cheap Theatrics,"
When he was on stage and performing but
Needed to remember an idea, a note or thought,
He would choose a spot on his body and
Install a button, then park the information there;
Think of the thought, press the button
And store it in that part of the body.
Later when he needed to retrieve the idea,
He would press the button so the information
Would be released back into consciousness.

It works when I remember to do both parts,
Both installation and retrieval.  Otherwise
I sit and wonder what was that great idea I had,
Then I scratch my nose and think of something
random and unrelated to anything relevant.
Or when I get a massage, images float up
Like bubbles from the deep, hover near the surface
Then drift off, mingling with the cool air, gone for good.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 8/3/2011

Tap

She says she is becoming more aware of a cycle,

an opening and closing that takes place in her. 

She says she is learning about the choice
to remain open or shut down.

She says there are times when
she feels emotionally tapped and drained.   

As she says this, I see that her t-shirt reads:
"Don't forget to turn the tap off." 

She is her own walking advice billboard. 

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 7/22/2011

After The Fair

Vaudevillians descend in waves:

a late-night arrival rattling in the hallway
decorative debris discovered in daylight

vehicles approach, expel gear

floods of baggage pour from buses

casts of characters in various stages of dress
crowd the hallway, talk loudly, drape on chairs

then vanish just as they arrived

surprisingly, suddenly

in transport too large

for the bit they unwittingly mimic.

~Andrine de la Rocha

 posted 7/13/2011

On the Occasion of Howard’s 56^th Birthday

and 10^th day of Vipassana Meditation

Today it is your birthday

the universe envelopes you with its secrets

Today you retrieve your voice

re-learn how to interact with others

Today you discover the disorientation

of managing the internal and external at once

Today the ravens call in joy to one another

and the insects swarm in celebration of your birth

Today you will inhale the written word with an

insatiable appetite, gluttonous for text and context

Today you will crave and struggle like every day

watching the waves of sensation wash over you

Today you are born in a timeless place

where all days are one day and this day is then.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 6/25/2011

Killing the Innocent

The hardest part of gardening for me

is the thinning.

I have planted too many seeds and

in order for some to grow to maturity,
I must remove the rest

from around some chosen seedling

to ensure its survival.

It is the closest I get

to playing an omnipotent being

and I do not like it at all.

I peer at the crowded plants

and arbitrarily choose one survivor

over the others.

I try not to be biased, but I know that

the larger ones have a better chance,

and I know that I shouldn't just select one

because I like the look of it,
that the red varieties are prettier to me

than the plain green kinds
so I must force myself to leave some green ones

for fairness sake
and I must honor diversity and

allow for the survival of not only the red and the green
but the gold as well,

or I shouldn't have planted a salad mix in the first place.

When I have painstakingly thinned each area

so that there is three inches between,
when I know full well that there should be six inches

but I can't bring myself to do that just yet,
I gather up the wilting seedlings

carry their lifeless bodies indoors
try to hose them off in the sink

and attempt to eat them for lunch.

Spitting out wood chips and dirt,

crunching down on an occasional pebble
I figure I deserve it, and that I owe it to them

to ingest their meager substance

since they have taken the trouble to sprout for me

and have done their best to win the contest.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 6/17/2011

Playdough

A texture that is so familiar

when you dig it out of the firm yellow cylinder,

like Wonder Bread that’s been de-crusted and squashed into a ball,

like your own skin.

A smell that brings a flood of memory,

a sweet pungent portal back to days

on the metal tray of the high chair,

at the kitchen table with a rolling pin,

in the pre-school room on tiny chairs.

Vibrant colors that children have

developed particular rods and cones to recognize:

the red that isn’t really red,

the blue of the pretend blue whale and imagined ocean,

the yellow like a raincoat that doesn’t exist in nature,

white - until it gets bits of all other colors mashed in,

the pale green when you mix blue and yellow,

and the not-quite-right purple-gray of red plus blue.

Even a taste – admit it – you know you did,

salty and smooth and

not as good as you thought it would be

not as flavorful as it looked

not as juicy as it felt in your fat hand.

Warming to body temperature

as you kneaded it, rolled it into a snake,

shaped it into a blue dog with red eyes

that would never come off again

that ruined the purity of the blue forever

but that was worth it to make the dog have red eyes.

Being called away,

trying to get the right colors into the right canisters,

pushing the lids down with all your might

and still not sealing them all the way

then next time you peel off the top

finding them crusty and stiff and ruined.

Finding little balls ground into the carpet

hardening with age like a fossil.

~Andrine de la Rocha

 posted 6/6/2011

In a Locker Room

In a locker room I learned how one should always wear a towel:

undress under a towel, shower with a towel nearby so as to snatch it up

and cover one’s skin as soon as the water is turned off.

In a locker room the nude are vulnerable. 

In a locker room never show one’s body to others, even of the same gender

-- especially of the same gender – as this will only cause

comparison, jealousy, derision, teasing, gawking, laughter and distress.

In a locker room there is rarely supervision.

In a locker room it is sometimes hard to tell the sweat of play

from the sweat of fear, especially after dodge ball.

In a locker room there is mute posturing, sidelong glances in the mirror.

In a locker room all was once soft

puffy pre-pubescent flesh, breast buds and unmarred skin. 

In a locker room there are no fashion trappings.

In a locker room one is returned to that first fearful moment,

undressing without mom or dad to protect and assist.

In a locker room we are all equal and all equally bare. 

In a locker room one sees for the first time how

the color of one’s skin, the shape of one’s belly and behind and breast are different.

In a locker room I learned how to feel powerful and beautiful in my own skin.

In a locker room there are now tattoos and surgical scars,

stretch marks and mottled skin.

In a locker room one sees for the first time how

varied we all are and, ultimately, in our skins, how fragile, alike and perfect.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 5/27/2011

Raised Beds

Despite our attempts to
measure twice - cut once,
the lumber is larger than
the space we've cleared.

Your face is forlorn, worn,
trying to understand how
we allowed such an error
and what should be done.

I arrive to assess the scene
expecting to be distraught
based upon your weariness,
your despair, your exhaustion.

But when I see the wood laid out
on the freshly combed brown earth
it looks like the infant bones
of a precious sacred space.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 5/21/2011

How It Is Done

Sitting, one becomes the mountain.

Relaxed posture reaching heavenward,

planted firmly in the center of oneself,

rooted in the depths of some greater balance.

Moving, one wades effortlessly through the earth

a nearly tangible filament connecting one’s core

to the midst of the planet so that when gliding along 

one is more of an orbiting body than

those skittering like water over a hot griddle.

In presence and awareness, one absents judgment,

sees what one sees.

Observation alone will facilitate change.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 5/10/2011

Edges

I have come all this way

to the edge of my continent

seeking out borders,

margins, boundaries

finding them mutable

always in flux

rising and falling

vanishing in the spray

submerged one moment

then rocky and solid the next

a many-ton log becomes lethal

when water effortlessly floats it

like a marshmallow in cocoa

some distance down the sand

where it lodges again

immovable for another 12 hours

wind over the moist stairs

converts wholly solid wood

into a frosted impasse

haze obscures the highway

where greater light does more

to confuse than illuminate

then I melt my edges

into your tenderness,

dissolve into some other substance

that shifts and transforms

from firm to fluid to breath,

that lifts the unliftable with ease

moves it a distance along its course

where darkness allows

more lucidity than greater light

softening edges

I have come to find

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 4/30/2011 

Poetry Like Children

I use my inertia

like birth control

to prevent the conception

of any creative endeavor

that might be malformed or

lacking in an ability to care for itself.

I see each piece as a child that

I have brought into the world and –

like it or not - I must now nurture and care for it.

I will be remiss if I stuff it into a drawer,

fail to tend it, feed and clothe it.

I will be a neglectful parent,

a failure as a mother.

So I tie my tubes, slap a patch

on my yellow underbelly which will

suppress my ideas coming to maturation.

I refuse would-be lovers,

remain chaste, barren

and lonely.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 4/6/2011

Dandelions are yellow

and often disliked

For their flagrant beauty

and intricate seed

Tenacious impermanence

mocking your pesticide

There’s a special place

in my heart for the weed

~Andrine de la Rocha

 posted 4/1/2011

Blending

When I was married 23 years ago
We received a blender as a gift.
It was a 1984 multi-speed blender.
It could blend, sure, but it could also
chop, frappe, puree and more.

It had many buttons and settings
which did pretty much the same thing
but at various speeds with different names
Our first blender lasted almost 16 years
then one day it just stopped working.

So, for our 16th anniversary,
I bought David a blender as a gift.
Not having any traditional guidelines,
I determined that the 16th anniversary
is the Blender Anniversary, or must be
because that is when the blender dies.

The new blender has one toggle switch:
Off in the center, Up for fast , Down for slow.
It is chrome-like and sort of bee-hive shaped
in a retro design to look like something from
maybe 1950, which was designed back then
to look like it was from the future.  Which it is.

Do I really want to draw a metaphor between
the wedding blender and our early marriage
and how it broke after many years of use,
and today's blender, regarding our current arrangement?
Not really.  But you should know that it works just fine.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 3/25/2011

Vipassana: Day One

The First Day we rise at an ungodly hour

or is a particularly godly hour?

and we sit:

listening to the echoes of the gong

awaiting the sun’s leisurely,

irreverent ascent

carefully shaking off her dusky shawl

brushing the residual stars

from her hair

There is sitting:

            and discomfort and

fidgeting and dozing

            and shocking awake when

gravity catches us off guard

The second bell tolls sustenance

oatmeal, stewed fruit, the comfort of hot tea

we eat to the sound of flatware on plates

because of the silence we are learning

to dance aside with deference to other

as if there was “other”

Then we sit:

            a massive organism

            each cell arranging its position

            crafting a cushion cocoon

           

We sit:

            first this way -   then that way

            searching for the best way

            bolstered into

snug shapes of semi-stillness

Breath creates the space and mind destroys it

breath creates, mind destroys –

creation, destruction

cycles of inspiration and expiration

endless and relentless and enduring and eternal

Then it is 9:00 a.m.

We sit:

            numb tingling feet

            aching spinning mind

            and finally

            breath

At the chime, the silent ones flutter apart

leaving tiny nests in their wake

each being gliding from the hall into midday

foraging for a meal,

a brief flight about the grounds,

to bask in sunlight or huddle in shelter

At noon there are nine full hours –

nine full days - to go

We sit:

            tormented by thought     

by discomfort

            by restlessness of body and mind

            by doubt and fear

by courage and cowardice

            by time’s refusal to pass -            time’s sudden departure

            time’s infuriating reluctance

to do its job

            tormented, at last, by breath itself

and its inability to remain compelling enough to warrant attention.

Two o’clock brings a cycle of stalwart resolve

followed by utter disbelief

that this is still The First Day

that someone has surely fucked with time

“I am resolute in this path,”

alternating with

“It is not possible…”

Time neither marches nor crawls

it stalls, seems to reverse, and laughs its impish laugh, skittering in the underbrush.

We sit:

            in the hall - in the dorm –

it no longer matters

            it has become impossible anywhere

            it is expected everywhere

There is no dinner, only tea,

only for new students

Then we sit

Then we sit

this unending First Day

Then we sit

It is always and ever

The First Day.

Andrine de la Rocha  1/11/11

posted 3/18/2011

Stay

I sit

Stay.

Try to get the hang of it

Stay.

A puppy in training

Stay.

When I want to run and play

Stay.

Master’s voice exhorting me

Stay

I want to jump and dance and bark

Stay.

There’s a squirrel! OMG!

Stay.

Good girl

Stay.

What reward when I obey?    

Stay.

Do I please the master?

Stay.

Muscles beg to move or lounge.

Stay.

But sit, don’t look, except a peek

Stay.

And remember to breathe

Stay.

Just stay and stay and stay and

Stay.

When my mind jumps and runs and barks

Stay.

I say

Stay.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 3/11/2011

Swim

I’m dozing on the bank of this little creek

bubbling up toward consciousness

aware of your body breathing next to mine

The sound of my thinking rouses you

I mean, the stir of my body arouses you

there is movement in this still life, a splash

You have entered the water alone

dousing me with a frigid splash

stirring sediment into a cloudy haze

Encouragements to join your frenzied play

fall dripping on the grass, chilled by the spray

I feel alone on the shore, feigning slumber

Come back to me here, my love,

rest in my warm arms a little while 

let the mossy bank pet our animal pelts

Hesitate until the sleep has left my eyes

then dance me to the stream like a partner

and we will enter the water together

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 3/4/2011

Silence

In this place

where the only voice

is jay and finch

bullfrog and bumblebee

I sit silent as the grass

as the ladybug

and mute deer.

Today I will allow raven

to teach me to speak

as he glides above

uttering wisely

only one word at a time,

and that word is

Truth.

~Andrine de la Rocha

posted 2/25/2011