Please support my kickstarter campaign to raise funds for producing my new book of poems:
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1839892970/hope-poems-for-artful-and-authentic-living

Please support my kickstarter campaign to raise funds for producing my new book of poems:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1839892970/hope-poems-for-artful-and-authentic-living

China.

China.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun
Unique and affordable gifts. Handmade by a poet and at special prices even a poet can appreciate!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun

Unique and affordable gifts. Handmade by a poet and at special prices even a poet can appreciate!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun
gifts for poetry lovers.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun

gifts for poetry lovers.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun
inspirational and artful gifts.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun

inspirational and artful gifts.

Dream Pillows by Lisa Chun. Special prices, now through the holidays. 
http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun
And in person at: Art Show in a Dojo 2 | Kaizen Dojo  | November 18, 2012 | Noon - 5pm
1824 W. 182nd St., Torrance, California 90504 | http://www.tinyurl.com/artshowinadojo2

Dream Pillows by Lisa Chun. Special prices, now through the holidays. 

http://www.etsy.com/shop/lisachun

And in person at: Art Show in a Dojo 2 | Kaizen Dojo  | November 18, 2012 | Noon - 5pm

1824 W. 182nd St.Torrance, California 90504 | http://www.tinyurl.com/artshowinadojo2

Transcendence
I.
In the months after the worst days of my grieving
I went to hear the story of a questing man’s walk
into our country’s deep woods
      and our tawny tea stained ravines
            lit by owls’ wings and moths’ wings.
Everywhere he walked he was
amazed by his fragile breath
and the beauty of wet fields
held tenderly by fog and the shining auburn
coat of the fox who watched everything.
I was all invisible aches and pains.
When I closed my eyes I saw shooting stars
blooming like flowers into the inky well
behind my eyelids.
 
The evening was intended to be highly interactive.
And so I shared my hopes and dreams with a stranger.
Then our group formed two circles
that faced each other     one inside the other
and one by one we met in the radiating orb
at the edges of our skin
palm to palm and staring
intimately into the eyes of the other.
 
I nearly died
     from overexposure.
 
I like to get to know          a little
the person whose soul I’m about to
enter via their pupils
which are
for the purposes of an invasion like this
dark ships and the iridescent iris
an undulating light spark
of miniscule fish
circling
these
now pirated
vessels.
 
It’s not to say I couldn’t ever get there
get to the shore from where I’m standing
through the eyes of a stranger.
 
It’s possible.
 
I just need something to hold onto
in times like these.
Guard rails or
     good shoes.
          Something. 
II.
A year later,
another group event.
As a safety measure beforehand
I incanted the prayer for
no palm to palm     I love you
grief torn stranger eye locking
chasm bridging of our
collective inner everythings.
 
And still. There I was
faced with it again:
an invitation to expose myself
to a complete stranger.
This one had
faint traces of star
dust on her upper lip
and she, with some hesitation at first
told me how she had
one day many years ago
in a defining moment
looked through the microscope
at the crystalline molecules of a lilac bud,
the common lilac splayed open on the glass slide
to reveal what looked to her like
the prismatic wings of
thousands of microscopic angels
     of such profound beauty
     it changed the trajectory
     of the rest of her life.
 
I wasn’t sure I wanted to
but in response I told her
if you were to splay me open
examine a smear of the real me
under a high powered microscope
you would find
each cell a tiny field, a wooded meadow
a prayer
 
            To the fog:  Hold me. Tenderly
                               with your fingers of mist and your muted light.
                               Take me home to you and only let me out as
                               drops of dew on the pointy blades of new grass.
            To the incandescent lilac: If I breathe you in will my brain
                                be full of the flutter and froth of your angel wings?
                                Tinier and quieter than a procession of ants’ hearts.
            To the silvery moths’ wings: Do not hold me back. Pour a little of this
                                love like ink into a bottle so I can become
                                the holy letter between two lovers       sanctify
                                their vow to take the night all the way in     squeeze me
                                like a greasy tube of Prussian blue
                                onto the canvas of their nighttime intertwining
                                love as art    making    love as fruit and feverish joy.
            To the auburn coated fox: Show me how to walk back from the edge
                    of doubt and buzz in the meadow ablaze with buttercups                                                  `                    and little yellow roses courted by drunken bees.
                         
I said to her,
into her moated eye gleaming with fish:
If you can, cure the ache in me
(with your listening).
If you can’t, okay
just please
be gentle
please be kind.

Transcendence

I.

In the months after the worst days of my grieving

I went to hear the story of a questing man’s walk

into our country’s deep woods

      and our tawny tea stained ravines

            lit by owls’ wings and moths’ wings.

Everywhere he walked he was

amazed by his fragile breath

and the beauty of wet fields

held tenderly by fog and the shining auburn

coat of the fox who watched everything.

I was all invisible aches and pains.

When I closed my eyes I saw shooting stars

blooming like flowers into the inky well

behind my eyelids.

 

The evening was intended to be highly interactive.

And so I shared my hopes and dreams with a stranger.

Then our group formed two circles

that faced each other     one inside the other

and one by one we met in the radiating orb

at the edges of our skin

palm to palm and staring

intimately into the eyes of the other.

 

I nearly died

     from overexposure.

 

I like to get to know          a little

the person whose soul I’m about to

enter via their pupils

which are

for the purposes of an invasion like this

dark ships and the iridescent iris

an undulating light spark

of miniscule fish

circling

these

now pirated

vessels.

 

It’s not to say I couldn’t ever get there

get to the shore from where I’m standing

through the eyes of a stranger.

 

It’s possible.

 

I just need something to hold onto

in times like these.

Guard rails or

     good shoes.

          Something. 

II.

A year later,

another group event.

As a safety measure beforehand

I incanted the prayer for

no palm to palm     I love you

grief torn stranger eye locking

chasm bridging of our

collective inner everythings.

 

And still. There I was

faced with it again:

an invitation to expose myself

to a complete stranger.

This one had

faint traces of star

dust on her upper lip

and she, with some hesitation at first

told me how she had

one day many years ago

in a defining moment

looked through the microscope

at the crystalline molecules of a lilac bud,

the common lilac splayed open on the glass slide

to reveal what looked to her like

the prismatic wings of

thousands of microscopic angels

     of such profound beauty

     it changed the trajectory

     of the rest of her life.

 

I wasn’t sure I wanted to

but in response I told her

if you were to splay me open

examine a smear of the real me

under a high powered microscope

you would find

each cell a tiny field, a wooded meadow

a prayer

 

            To the fog:  Hold me. Tenderly

                               with your fingers of mist and your muted light.

                               Take me home to you and only let me out as

                               drops of dew on the pointy blades of new grass.

            To the incandescent lilac: If I breathe you in will my brain

                                be full of the flutter and froth of your angel wings?

                                Tinier and quieter than a procession of ants’ hearts.

            To the silvery moths’ wings: Do not hold me back. Pour a little of this

                                love like ink into a bottle so I can become

                                the holy letter between two lovers       sanctify

                                their vow to take the night all the way in     squeeze me

                                like a greasy tube of Prussian blue

                                onto the canvas of their nighttime intertwining

                                love as art    making    love as fruit and feverish joy.

            To the auburn coated fox: Show me how to walk back from the edge

                    of doubt and buzz in the meadow ablaze with buttercups                                                  `                    and little yellow roses courted by drunken bees.

                        

I said to her,

into her moated eye gleaming with fish:

If you can, cure the ache in me

(with your listening).

If you can’t, okay

just please

be gentle

please be kind.


taken in my studio/gallery, one winter when i lived in santa fe.

taken in my studio/gallery, one winter when i lived in santa fe.