Tumbling from the box, they shine
with the brightness of white canvas.
Stiff and fresh, stark against the ground.
Shoelaces crisp and tied in a neat bow.
They squeak and sing of their first steps.

They skid across the pavement, while
feet dig into unbroken heels that resist
the steady bend of circumstances.
They tread new terrain with a bounce,
springing up in recoil upon slick grass trails.

Comfortable and trusted, they stride forward.
Relentless in the blazing sun, scaling
the heights, with fraying shoelaces
and threadbare canvas stained with soil.
They leave behind a legacy of footprints to follow.

By Valerie Sapora Rains on September 6, 2004

The rescinding caress of simpering sunbeams
Cascade upon the swath of wool draped upon my shoulders and,
Softly filter through the transparent frame,
Until a bandoleer army of clouds snaffles across the sky.
With Q-tip legs clopping forward, cotton ball heads and
White caliper bodies like chasuble poodles in a blue scimitar park,
They shrike in puddles of cinnabar sunlight.
An army of jouncing poodles on the romp,
A grand game of tag, a partially sunny day.
Swallows my sight with chicory shadows cast
From a multitude of padded feet skittering above the rhombus shirr.
Happiness but a shifting shadow, daunt of the chasing tails, curled, vain!
Rotation of axis and beating of heart always pointing beyond the sphere,
to the unseen.
Meanwhile, the blazon sentinel of trees thrushly beholds,
The dog days of summer unfold,
Until the sun shrives forth and scatters canine clouds to the wind,
Swiftly bringing the fragrance of cinnamon, cider, and nutmeg,
A sign that autumn is soon to begin.

Valerie Sapora Rains 2004

Concealed in a tent of Oriental silk and tapestry,
the women feast upon orange lamb
khoresh, couscous, and Persian soup–much sough after
morsels. Stuffed as full as grape leaves on the platter,
They sip daintily on rose water and laughter.

Broom skirts brush against the ground.
The jingle of tiny bells chimes up from adorning belts
that are swathed upon the girl’s waists as they lounge upon pillows and swap
gossip and tall tales. The sounds join the clatter of clay cups pressed
back and forth between lips and table top.

Candles of all shapes and forms surround the gathering place.
They sparkle and dance, swaying to the rhythm of the Moroccan music
arising from among the fragrant garden of honeysuckle and orchard trees.
The flames leap forward, casting tall shadows to loom across and dance
upon the flower petals in deep indigo pools of light,
while wavering in the breeze.

Lingering in the golden cast of filigree rose silk,
a dancer dips her hips in and out of the sapphire shadows.
One by one, the girls leave their meals and join the rhythm and melodic designs
of the song rising like incense to the moon behind the palm branches,
each swaying like the flames in a dance among the trumpet vines.

Valerie Sapora Rains 2004

Reconciled with potentials of sly wit, a
Diminutive diet of intent, burgeoning undersea.

Our recurrent ability, a mysterious memory.
Still angling for the crippling kick.

Kung-fu-fighting quite pithily summed
With a tang of illusory nature.

The key for us–gravity is operational,
As little hops of waking awareness sometimes, know.

We’re suddenly weightless on the border of two worlds.

A spray of leaves clutched against
The other hemisphere of sham and suction.

In an electric breeze of wonder,
A phantom conclusion protrudes.

Gleaming out of the shadows,
Rehashing wisdom in two places at once.

On the other side–
Dreaming.