Karmic Debris
It was a dynamic time in the late 1960’s and 1970’s… full of hope and freedom. Karmic Debris includes two writers, who were very alive and together. Below are a couple samples of each.
IT WAS AUTUMN OF 1970
Piya and Franke were driving towards the Massachusetts coast, speeding south away from Quebec City... their 1963 Rambler flashed past small French-Canadian villages. They had a wad of cash, no constraints, and no plans, except... being together.
They finally came to rest... at a lonely blue house, on the edge of a salt marsh,
with the ocean a short distance away, and the constant sound of the waves filling their subconscious. It was getting cold; the seasons were turning. Their big red dog lay outside, guarding the door, his face into the wind... waiting for the eminent winter to arrive.
And they heated the house with driftwood... blazing in the fireplace... with Piya’s whispers in the night. The two of them... inside, safe, secluded... in love.
It was there they melded together; there that a mystical dialogue began between them, both simultaneously being... and resisting. There, that their fates were forever sealed.
Two sweet souls, gathering wood... on a windy beach
Two tiny specks, wandering, free... in the omnipresent emptiness.
Franke Wednesday (Intro to The Narrow Path of Love)
Reassessments
You finally arrived via my early morning dream
kissing my temple, exclaiming its softness and
proclaiming your love. They get misdirected
or become disaffected.
I knew I was dreaming – the state
of another illusion, but I was reluctant
to chase away such a simple
demonstration of happiness,
and I allowed my body to
sink lower in the
sub... and you continued to
press your lips to my temple.
Suffocation –
Fast love
Piya Italia
Where do poets go…
If not back to their words,
not to someone else’s hidden meaning.
What of the self is not your own?
How to express your quest? Mouth vexed... vital?
Questions tetter on the edge of an awesome decravity.
To live by the words, to stand by them...
Who will pay for that?
To be the exact measure...not a mirror held up
when certain broad categories are represented.
How to be viable... but still be allowed the title... Poet.
One conscious iota makes you a liar.
The uncertainties don’t subside
They are like an infinite line of Persians popping up
on every rock at Marathon... nagging and intrusive.
There have been circular days and nights,
when the pressure of questions stabbed at sanity.
Yet, somehow, beneath it... hovering above,
lay an even more intense desire for the truth.
What is a poet’s life but purgatory?
Franke Wednesday/ Marshfield, Massachusetts 1971
The Drummer
I feel the native beat thanks to the drummer with his music like a lonesome train.
He’s always dreaming of a song.
Only me, in my lost world, listens to this drummer.
He never forgot my everlasting love.
An ache, a pain - alone
Piya Italia