PASS-PORT

May 26, 2004
Pomona County Fairgrounds

They rush toward the white building.
Or perhaps it is green; they won't recall.

They hurry toward pages floating  
     in between navy blue, 
     toward a document where high tides or low 
     of deep pasts 
     will transform instantly 
     into official sky blue rectangular 
     memory.  

They rush toward white liberty.
Or perhaps it is red; soon they won't recall.

They stride through large, glass doors from borders filled
     only with air,
     or limpid earth
     or happenstance waters.

They rush to where desires swerve
     like enormous moons rolling
     over both sides of human destiny.

Pottery Sale Pantoum

Finger tips instinctively touch vessels.
Palms slide up, down, across high-fired walls.
Hands lift to see how thin a piece is thrown.
If only one could handle a poem.

Palms slide up, down, across high-fired walls,
Roll around lips of vases, rims of bowls.
If only one could handle a poem.
If fingers could slither along its tone,

Roll around lips of meter, rims of rhyme, 
They would grab the ridges of metaphor.
If fingers could slither along its tone,
Then one would stroke drops of sentiment shown.

They would grab the ridges of metaphor
As though the poem were a bas-relief.
Then one would stroke drops of sentiment shown 
As blind lovers caress the still unknown.

Visit with a Butterfly

With each visit, mother assumes a new form:
a butterfly birthing
backward

With each visit, mother assumes a new form:
Proteus appearing
As flame

Four wings collapse into a once kaleidoscopic 
frame filled with fluid flights 
from sweet lilac to lantana

The flame burns her palms
Dissolves future
Scorches past

Wings flutter inward as beauty implodes

As fast as melting snow stirs early spring nectars

and larval shroud wraps itself
around her fragile aura

And winter broods
Relentlessly 
Inside wings
Of broken monarchs

and an egg nests 
eternally 
on milkweed
as life resumes 
in the earth's cocoon.

© 2004 Judith Terzi

26 de mayo 2004
Pomona County Fairgrounds, Pomona, California

Se precipitaron
hacia ese edificio blanco
     o verde.
No se recuerda.
Hacia esas páginas
ondeando
entre un azul
     marino.

Se precipitaron
hacia ese documento
donde mareas altas
     o bajas
de una memoria profunda
se transforman en seguido
en memoria rectangular
     de un azul
    celeste
    oficial.

Se precipitaron
hacia esta Libertad blanca
     o roja.
No se recuerda.
A través de estas puertas
     de cristal.
De estas puertas de fronteras
     de puro aire
    de tierra límpida
    de aguas ilógicas
donde marean deseos
como lunas enormes andan 
vagando por dos lados 
del destino humano.