Hurricane Kenna


In the storefront of the hurried beginning
were clothes made of chaos, shoes
for the barefoot waves that forced
their sleeping curves into cement structures
standing anchors like homes with their peace
fabric of stone, gauze of gold, payments
for morning freedoms in random minutes.

When the sand entered our dark dreams
we left our sandals at the crest of nightmare.
As the glitter of each days sameness
broke on the knife back of shredded time
the gusts of anxienty surging, all our recipes
torn into aimless comfort, coins and silver
floating into gutters and abandoned desires
without anchor, lost and wringing as we waited
for relief, for sun

to radiate on our statues
now bent, leaning into the new style
called uncertainty, unconstructed choreography
and the dance of our demands returning
for food, a place to wrap our injuries
in the new gauze of debris.

All danger finally past, we could only say yes
awakened to whatever small comfort,
a warm dry piece of cotton, costing only an awareness
of the beauty of wind now calmed.

All the talk of where were you
when broken boardwalks flew over rooftops
surfing on the vision of foam
each tsunami spooning into the last
as if laughing with the power
of ten thousand mornings, breaking the jails
of the way things are, shelllike and stationary.
The mastery of movement racing and caressing
all order. The destruction of very space.
The domination of the ship of racing waves
fresh, pretty, noisy and passionate
the end of order, the lonely tension breaking
and fears lying on the shore, accepting their silences.

______________________________

In the river of noise we descend
on the horseback of our passions
hoping to avoid harm, as we leave safety
sleeping like beautiful graces, safe at home
knowing our caresses will begin racing
on currents too fast for contact
the screaming words of help kept under wraps
as our hair, fresh and washed by sunlight
ride on the wind of our sad pasts, into the
fast indentatioins of each movement of beauty.
The awakening of fear into a fine straight
heat on embodiment, as we enter, far away
souls rolling down lonely tunnels toward a pretend destruction
to live in a country of hurricanes called needs
that will cost us everything we thought we could do
but found out, we couldnt.

We return empty handed and grateful.
Shorn of our egos like sheared animals
not the rams we supposed we were
but sheeplike, needing direction, longing for GOD.



by Judith Pordon
Puerto Vallarta Oct 2002