
Prelude
It’s inevitable thought Mithra to fall into the land of the flowers, forever drifting on pillows, but right now, he can see his breath in the cool air and watch the moon fade in the morning sky. Life with its green grass gardens and clear ponds, waterfalls, and pools bursting with wild devouring joy. In the White Palace where he resides, there are Kingdom Spirits. They live in shadow existence and depend on their ancestors to bring them food and water. Mithra visits with them to show respect for the underworld and make sure his ancestors don’t fall prey to evil spirits.
Eliza is praying over Mithra’s clothing. She has been fasting and doing ritual offerings for three days. She can see his smile and remembers the way he laughed. She tries not to cry but remains strong as he would want her to be.
Mithra sees his sister kneeling in the cemetery. This is not her place to be, he thinks. Alarmed, he walked over as quickly as possible, and when he was near enough, he called her name, but she didn’t hear him. He calls again but she does not reply; he is close enough now and reaches to touch her shoulder, but he doesn’t feel her garment.
Eliza felt a soft breeze brush by her, and a black butterfly flew near. She felt this must be the spirit of her brother. She felt comforted by this. She watched the butterfly in amazement. She had never seen a black butterfly. It landed on a nearby flower and stayed for some time before floating off.
In astonishment, he saw the tombstone, and as he gasped in fear, he woke up to find himself in his bed. The smell of bread came from the kitchen downstairs and the sound of his mother and sister’s voices.
Refusing to Sleep
Refusing to sleep I stand by the window and see the moon of Babylon. I imagine it is me. I see myself showered in the light, I assume I came from this place, My cat follows me. We float downstream with the rise of the curtains. The Earth is let into our room. A few nights ago, we walked down the spiraling town to Bagdad through mosaics and gardens, we do that when we’re sleepless. We pass by our generations. We feel our way through sands and waters, the kisses and caresses of our many lives. We trace the enormous present with our eyes. I put on my red western boots and walked with angels in Mexico, and by Esarhaddon’s palace with my birthmarks and love letters. In the center of the room, I turn. Awake. I see the mystery of the eternal nocturnal illuminating. Breathing. Rhythmic. Steps. Across the markers of eternal diamonds inside an oval window. I imagine it is me. I assume I came from this place. Once again, I sleep.

The Reply
I heard the returning
In a temporary thing
Heard it trespass
As keenly
As your steps
I heard a song
Come back to me
On the wind
I heard the stanza
It comes and goes
I heard a window open
I heard a heart
A beating of life
I heard a strange evening
And someone say
Say something
I heard silence
Reply

Through the Eyes of Loss
Funny how the late August sun has the nerve to shine
Shinning on that cold blue windowed high rise that’s emptied and mostly dark now
Truthfully, no one knows why they exist
What purpose do they serve?
Monstrosities all of them
Pushing aimlessly against the eternal setting sun
Blue windows
Slipping away
Into the void of night

Mark’s Garden
Mark’s Garden
It’s cold for spring
It seems to me
But the sun feels good—although the air is cold, isn’t it?
I love the flowers
I’m getting old
I love this garden
It’s my pallet
And the trees too
When people pass by
Long after I’m gone
They’ll know I was here
That tree will still be standing
Alright, let’s start planting

Uncertain
I’ve been thinking about you
Certain and uncertain you
The picture window faces out
Versions of our days pass
Later
Later
Absolute you
Here but not here
Everywhere is waiting
For us
But it’s only a pursuit
Out there

Poem Town Oregon
Poem Town, Oregon
be
perfected
by a flower
walk backwards towards
what gathers
enlarge
the smallness
long thought
gone
briefly
a poem passing
through an abandoned town
never gone
(c) Shirley Obitz All Rights Reserved 2023