Falcon
—Anonymous Photos
—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
HOPE IS A FALCON
Hope is a falcon
I trained for years to glide
from my gloved fist,
land on a far gate,
fly back for raw treats.
One day, grateful for
long obedience,
I unfastened his bindings,
ripped off the leather glove,
watched hope wing high,
taste nuances of the wind,
steepness of the sky,
leave blue shadows over
the meadow where I waited.
About three weeks later
my falcon flew back
more familiar than my hand
and as if he had never
flown off to taste another life.
IN ANOTHER LIFE
In another life
she was patina on Tibetan
prayer bells
monks gazed upon as
slowly they gathered
praises
before they set
monastery bells
echoing through
the Himalayan range.
THE KAJOU BRIDGE
ISPHAHAN, PERSIA
The elegant two-level span
offers arched alcoves
just above water, where lovers,
prophets, artists gather...
A young woman sits
safely alone, sketching
her version of paradise...
A man plays refrains
on a mandolin attuned
to the key of rapture.
Kajou Bridge,
its ambience mystical, serene,
is less about crossing the Zanayeh
and more about realizing
a bridge to and from one's soul.
Rumi and prophet friend Shams
surely had known a Kajou Bridge
of their own, quick to retreat
into its niches,
river-ripple patterns reflected
on walls like quaking mosaics,
the two reaching down on sultry
Persian evenings to bathe brows.
Surely on such a bridge Rumi wrote:
"You will see gardens
with secluded rose bowers,
and they will all be inside you."
MACHU PICCHU
(for Linda)
Along the Machu Picchu trail
my American friend buys a shawl
from a Peruvian weaver whose shuttle
has traveled farther over wool
than my climber's bootsteps!
A cell-phone photo shows Linda sitting
at Machu Picchu looking weary and proud...
Miles back, the weaver had spread
her shawls over bare earth, the colorful
designs melding like borders of countries.
Acclimated natives seeking their Incan
ancestry, easily explore the ruins,
while my brave senior struggles to
breathe, to move, in high altitude
and steep terrain.
I, an elder with only dreams
of such a feat, am honored with a shawl
with photo of the artisan standing over
her work—from my climber friend
who day-after-day ascended
into thin air of Machu Picchu.
AT SMALL-TOWN STOPLIGHT
A man's left arm dangles
from a pickup truck
as he waits for green light—
a strong tan arm,
blue shirt rolled to elbow.
His curved fingers relaxed
on steering wheel exude rich
experience, a fellow who needs
no help, but who helps others go
an extra hundred miles.
When light burns green
my fantasy yields to freeway
on-ramp where the stranger
glides, entrance signal
friendly as a handshake.
FRIENDSHIP AS A LIBRARY
We've this quiet place
to reread chapters, revise
or add stanzas, relive
shared themes, preserve
translations on shelves
within accessible reach.
Here,
all covers/pages
are mended. No one looks
over our should to censor
what we read or write,
whether we make notes
in margins, what content
we choose to dismiss
or further preserve.
We relax—
no overdue penalties,
no closing time.
(first pub. in Song of the San Joaquin)
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
JUST THIS...
A hummingbird
zipping past
our picture window—
seemingly dotting
each "i"
and crossing each "t."
—Claire J. Baker
__________________
—Medusa, and thank you, Claire Baker, for your poetry today about exotic climes and the falcon of hope!
Celebrate poetry—and the garden inside you!
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