Poems by Ajana Miki

LONGING

I long for a chaise lounge,
With a checkered past.
One that creaks as I sit
And shapes around my back.

I long for the days when my liver
Could hold one more drink,
I’d sip on refreshing Mojitos,
Till the sky turned a shimmery pink.

I long for a the eyes of a child,
Gazing out at the day with desire,
Like a bumblebee, drinking from every sweet flower
Eager for life to transpire.

I long for a fragrant garden,
With Corsican mint lining the paths,
A place hidden away and so full of scent,
That my busy mind doesn’t have a chance.

But really,
I long for a day filled with stillness,
Content with the birds and the bees,
A moment to dance with myself,
Where I’ll find all the solace I need.

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MESSAGE FROM THE WIND 

Choosing between viewing my life with the wit of a sleek black raven or the night vision of an old barn owl.  My first choice would be a giant redwood or a coastal sequoia but their heads are so far in the clouds, that they have no business with human concerns.

Each time my heart is broken it looks more like the ceremonial bowl on my grandmother’s altar, so cracked and worn it seems ready to retire but it each crack is painstakingly painted with gold to remind us of what wholeness means.

I am always looking for the writing on the silver lining, turning the next stone to discover what secrets it bears.  I won’t share what I heard but rest assured that it was as scandalous as a rain shower from a clear blue sky.  Wait, I will share, it is too important to hide.

That palm shaped beach agate with a crystal filled navel was passing on teachings from the wind, so take it with a grain of sea salt. Lean in. “You search and you search for stable ground, a place to hang your proverbial hat…the only thing that is certain,” she demurred, “is that absolutely, completely and positively, everything is continually changing, yesterday, now, tomorrow, forever and always, amen.” (She left out the “amen” part but leaving it off felt like leaving the tail off of a cat).

If only I had one of those old brass lamps, the kind that has a genie inside, I would ask to be born with this wisdom being whispered into my ear.  I wonder, where would I wander if I didn’t think I had somewhere to go? Perhaps I’d take clues from the raven, move towards what sparkles and glows. Though I wouldn’t mind the life of the owl.  All story of my own making, of course. Silently, easily, observing it all.  Moving swiftly when needed but mostly all nestled and slow.