The Red Lotus

(Sanskrit kamala and Tibetan padma or pundarika) Roots of a lotus are in the mud underneath the water; the stem grows up, and then the flower rests on the water in the sunlight. The pattern of growth signifies the progress of the soul through the waters of experience and toward the sunshine of enlightenment. A fully bloomed lotus marks transcendence.

Red Lotus: This signifies the original nature and purity of the heart (hrdya). It is the lotus of love, compassion, passion and all other qualities of the heart. It is the flower of Avalokiteshvara, the bodhisattva of compassion.

Excerpted from: article by Nitin Kumar for Exotic India Arts

To the ancient Egyptians, a lotus bud or sesen was a symbol of rebirth. It closes in the evening and falls to the water, but in the morning it opens and is lifted above the surface.

It has also been named akin to the Rose of Sharon in the Song of Solomon.

But for Sharon, it means a great myriad of things, and I understand and respect that many will have their own interpretations and opinions.

The diversity of the lotus (across the spectrum of religions and faith) is my illustrative way to explain a woven hybridity of petals-- a mix, a "wok," -- my identity; my preservation and celebration of multiculturalism, multi-perspectives; the red lotus means soul, duende, my own faith. The art is my poem and story, and the red lotus flower is purposefully not in full bloom, not quite yet. The lotus flower also points to my back, which may or may not contain an pictorial poem of my roots (embodied by a cherry blossom tree - possibly my mum's and grandmother's initials on petals), reflecting where I came from (Mindanao on the right; Hawaiian islands on the left of the tree), where I am now, my gratitude.

Five Pounds of Lasagna!

I've recently discovered how to meld the art and science of creating lasagna. We'll get to meatloaf another time. The story is short and goes like this: I have three bachelors, their pad, and a whole lotta appetite. And even more -- appreciation for my cooking. (I enjoy being the beloved female).

Besides a lot of love, and an equal amount of beef, the right amount of vodka marinara, brown sugar, basil, ricotta -- skim -- with whipping cream (not skim and now disproportionate in fat/calories/transfat), and even some freshly grated manchego and parmesan, you've got the perfect lasagna.

Bake at 350.
It's eaten by 7 p.m.
You're loved forever.

My father just examined my blog for the first time and said, "You have such a nice group of girlfriends." 

A Grief Unobserved

I just saw him a minute ago
hands folded, lying down
on the couch
where the grapes of wrath move
tears like the diaspora of a people,
traveling down,
his rough beard
onto his shirt

it’s a long highway,
migrating grief

as he checks up on you every forty five minutes
inspects your body for hemorrhaging,
then goes back to the couch,
and it’s not just your husband but
everyone feels the hours

of your age growing smaller
and the bleeding spreading like ivy
bruises, that jump from you to me to him to his shirt.

And five minutes from now
I’ll lie next to you
stare at the dark brown beams saying I’ll paint that someday
ask if I’m everything you want me to be

when you turn over,
the little creases of where you once were
I will remember.
Not the papery skin stretched so thin
with fragile crushed butterflies underneath,
but you now, at such peace

with the window behind your head
a piece of sun stretched into your room;
we can dream
of the only place to go

(c) SeG

To Love You Dry

I’d lie there. Warm. Naked. Silent.
The raw stinging of the fading
green blades of grass has dulled
into a colorless sensation.
Even the ants have a lump of brown, wet earth, and
I do not know what sun-kissed means.
Sun-splintered, I do know,
and thighs, old from the
absence of wanting.
I know breasts, withered from
such a glorious ripening that even you
found your earth.
I know there is no arching
into the blue ether beyond,
only a leaning back. And
watching the ants crawl toward me.

(c) SeG

An Analysis of Self-Perceived Character Flaws

I.
Need to Please
In order for me to feel affirmed, validated, useful, productive, as a person who is not defective (a psychologist once told me that I had an inherent sense of feeling stamped "defective," a package unwanted by my biomum and handed over), as a person playing an important role in other's lives, and therefore cannot be rejected, as a person who is loved, cherished.

II.
That I allow myself, enslaved by Need to Please

III.
Hubris
a) Like Harold Bloom's essay, "They have the numbers; we, the heights," as spoken by the Spartan commander at Thermopylae, from "Thucydides"

b) Unaware of my limits. Fancy myself irrepressible

IV.
Interolable To Me: Insufficiency, Good Enough

V.
Possessiveness
I can't let go. People, memories, my mum.

My Eyes are Closed

My eyes are closed.
The curls of your hair rest on my shoulder
and there are such empty plains between us—
I could not be your boiling sunset
I cannot be your seasoned sunrise,
but I can be just this:
my hand, your chest, this long stretch of afternoon.

(c) SeG

Living Space

By: Imtiaz Dharker

There are just not enough
straight lines. That
is the problem.
Nothing is flat
or parallel. Beams
balance crookedly on supports
thrust off the vertical.
Nails clutch at seams.
The whole structure leans dangerously
towards the miraculous.

Into this rough frame,
someone has squeezed
a living space.

And even dared to place
these eggs in a wire basket,
fragile curves of white
hung over the dark edge
of a slanted universe,
gathering the light
into themselves,
as if they were
the bright, thin walls of faith.

Japan

By: Billy Collins

Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.

It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.

I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.

I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.

I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.

And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.

It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,

and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.

When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.

When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.

And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,

and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

Zarah

coming of the dawn
strips me into naked purity
awakening a cry of rebirth
as my limbs become taut
pores widen
to swallow the scream
of morning

(c) SeG