Spirit of the Lake I know there is a God; she lives in the lake. She is joy to the children who surrender   themselves completely to her.  Time dissolves in her liquidity until mothers invade the warp   with appeals to come in for dinner. She is mother to the fish who dwell in her womb and the birds   who suckle at her wrinkled surface. She ascends into heaven and, because she is a loving God,   returns as nurturing rain. She gives herself to the artist who sees sunlight shattered into diamonds by her force   and knows that the essence of God is beauty. She invites the poet to search her depths, to make contact   with her secrets, which fill anyone who listens with awe. She is caretaker of the spirit that offers itself to her   for healing. Her holy waters heal my wounds. She beckons to me, her cloak shimmering   under the sun’s gaze. When I enter her waters, I find blessed nothingness. I am weightless, in God’s arms.   How soothing she is. Everything will be all right, she assures me, as she sends me to the surface for air.

Heavenly Bodies Sweaters and slacks with just enough lycra cluster on the embankment   in tangled trepidation. Hours ago, when the sky was wine stain red and the plump sun   dipped in the autumn waters, the women danced before the fire and forgot   the weight of the years. Now their laughter rouses the sleepy moon. It grins   in complicity and winks as they shed their middle-aged conventions. Obligingly,   the moon lays a silver path across the lake. Each unbound figure flies over the black   velvet water, clinging to the rope swing like life itself, until  reaching the point of no return. Unhinged   stars join their pearly flight, as they soar like angels into the night

A Toast To Jenny Joseph Whose Warning Is Duly Heeded Then, I skated across the Oija Board, New Jersey wrapped around my shoulders, my nakedness well protected. I had to wear something on my journey.   To please my mother, I put on a dress instead of blue jeans with rainbow patches and a peace sign stitched across the ass.   To please the nuns, I wore demure blouses and cotton underwear, instead of leather and lace.   Then, I cut her poem from a Reader’s Digest and tucked it away like a secret told by gypsies who knew my future.   To please my father, I bought a suit and cloaked myself with an advanced degree, instead of with robes of flowing verse carried by sherpas up misty mountain paths.   To please my children, I wore layers of convention, stitched from mother shadow and myth, instead of  garlands woven in golden car-less meadows.   Now, I retrieve her poem, as wrinkled as I am, its tongue held by a paper clip, lost and then found in drawers of disappointment and pockets of dreams; places where the gypsies knew I would find it again and revel in its permission.   Now, ancient witches and goddesses raise tea cups of brandy to the poet and spill laughter like confetti. They are dressed in purple outfits with red hats that don’t go or suit them and so, at last, am I.

Copyright 2003-2008 Judith's Table. Content found at Judith's Table may not be copied or reproduced in any way, or by any means, without written permission from the site owner. The artist, designer, or author owns t he copyright on all artwork or creative writing at this website and these may not be copied or reproduced in any way, or by any means, without the written permission of the copyright owner.