Window Light

It was a moment of walking when
the light changed,
glowed,
abolished all notion of chill from the wind
and
smiled out from windows like
gloves onto hands.

Fractured by the lines of
spindly branches,
leafless,
the light lifted the world into
a moment of fantasy,
a drifted painted world,
a world asleep in its vibrance,
a world patient in its anachronism.

Walking, we
witnessed this moment,
shuttered up in our coats and gloves like
seals in fat;
we basked briefly in the small sun
of that window-light

and walked on.

©K Paige Medina 24 February 2017

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Make Liquid the Light

Strange how–
still separated by time,
by a world made of spaces,
by mismatched frequencies of
speech and faith,
the undulating currents and currencies of
what it means to be human
in a world bled by the
needs we can’t deny or the pains
we choose to allow,
these borders we have built with hands
unfettered by memories of connection—
we still choose sometimes to
make wonder out of weapons and
make liquid the light that
illuminates the cracks in our facades and,
shimmering,
dies.

Was it ever that we were separate,
gods alone in our towers,
or were we merely children,
waiting once more for the freedom of play,
the work of souls
bound up in a momentary agreement that
for a small time,
we can smile in silence at the crackling stars we have made?

©K Paige Medina  01 January 2017

The Good Dream

On Colombia

One of the joys of living
Must be
To crack things that are whole
And to push over
The tall things we have built,
Watching them
Break
Shatter
Into the smallness of themselves.
Do we feel stronger
In chaos?
Perhaps it is the false purpose,
The lightning licked
Sense of self
That we seek
When we give in to our
Death drive
And end things we’ve begun.

But then,
There is also
Some quiet motif
That there are those who
Stubbornly
Hold fast to the light,
And to the creation
Of beautiful things.

Shaking hands in white shirts,
Their
Obstinate fingers lacing quietly
Over the mouth of history,
Bidding it be silent
A moment,
Men promised a nation
Half punch drunk from too much
War and solitude
A morning of peace.
And perhaps it is merely
Shadows performing their macabre dance
Like peace usually is–
Perhaps it is a dream.
But in its unobtrusive hope
Let it be;
It is a good dream.

© K Paige Medina 9/27/2016

Ghana

Ghana, you
Took my breath away
With your boisterous expulsions
Of welcoming,
Unsettling in their sincerity,
With your eyes,
Like water and oil,
Like the earth bubbling.
Did I dream you,
Flightless land,
Your gardens hot like mouths
Your hopes sunning themselves
In the unimpeded light?

Are these the words, then,
That I have left of you,
Dipped in the sweetness of nostalgia,
Homesick for a home
That was never mine?

© K Paige Medina 9/18/2016


Watch the Video

Cinnamon Afternoon

What is this magic–
This calming of light,
Cooling itself into gold?
What, then, this alchemy
Bubbling greenery into
Fire and sunsets?
What the cinnamon afternoons,
What the transference of life
Suddenly from skin into sky,
The brilliance of time
Passing gently
Into an older light,
A quieter music,
A distant and welcome memory of home–

© K Paige Medina 9/16/2016

Questions

Were we destined to become our mothers?
Can we fight the chill of night?
Can we sing the songs of summertime,
Can we set the world alight?
Are we merely younger burdens
Meant to rock our worlds undone,
Are we sleepless and eternal,
Were we really born to run?
Does the lightning ever scare you
As it burns bright and is gone,
Or do you take quiet comfort
In the way it’s like the sun?

We’ve never had the answers,
But we aren’t afraid of night.
We’ll stand in darkness knowing
If we’re patient, we’ll see light.

[4/28/16]