Gold Thread, poems by Caterina Bacal Titus
Caterina Bacal Titus is from an international family and her goal is to create films that address the issue of globalization. She has a great love of cultures and has studied Sanskrit, Hindi, French, and Spanish and performs Indian dances regularly; her current dance interests are salsa and bachata. She holds a Master’s in Professional Writing from Maharishi University of Management, and a BA in Philosophy. As the daughter of peace activists, she was exposed at a young age to the role of the individual in helping society. Her hope is to create progressive and poignant films which ultimately reflect our universality in spite of our differences. https://vimeo.com/46649968 https://www.facebook.com/caterina.titus
https://twitter.com/catyrubystar
Moon Musings
Unhinge the door, open the pastures, seek the horizon
that is yet to be sought….
Be the wind, because the breeze in your hair,
and the freshness of your being,
longs to be set free. The cocoon of the nest is the source
of the butterfly –
warmth always exists.
Create, write, paint, sing – show the master you are the copy.
Demonstrate to the king the reflection of servant, and prostrate to none other
than yourself.
Red velvet or not, your crimson lips are yours alone –
you are the master of this destiny.
Tell the story you wish to be told, and be the difference
in an indifferent world.
Nothing replaces the essence of a wing so strong,
silken threads, interwoven fibers of steel.
Lightness carries a current ; simply glides into
unknown, invincible.
Unlock the key, remove the steel bolts, fly like
wind, and swim the ocean floor – see the sea for the seasons are mine,
the spring is yours, and the winter will not die.
Summer upon us – the warmth is here; growth
beyond budding spring.
Time basks in the moment – a shoreline,
the rippling tide.
Swim in it, love it, be it.
The unknown is yours, but lightness ours.
In unknowingness everything is known.
Golden Thread
Hiding under a white thermal blanket
I see your face
shattered in pieces through the tiny holes.
Briefly I uncover my eyes,
You are smiling.
I hear bells from my cradle, calling me;
Lila’s heart, part wolf, stopped beating.
She doesn’t protect me any longer
from strangers who pass by our house
on Lima’s misty sidewalks.
I hear bells from my cradle
and I wonder why time began when Jesus was born.
Why do I dream of being in a far away camp,
clinging to a baby being pulled from my arms,
since I’ve been only to my mother’s church.
She says she sees a golden thread that rises
from the top of our heads, and pulls us,
connects us both to heaven.
She didn’t see it before, but now she says
the colors that surround us are the same.
I hear bells chiming, pulling me
from my cradle, echoing like the bells
from the small church near Cuzco.
The mountain winds twist around boulders
stuck in the road.
Now I’m here in my cradle
acting as if I’m on the road,
and faces watch me, as if they believe me.
My thoughts dance to echoing bells, and I wonder
if your golden thread moves when I move.
Before time began I made a deal with the angel
to give me a sign when I saw you,
and to tie the golden thread when it was time.
I hope she will call my name as I walk down the aisle,
and I hope we hear the music only once.
The white thermal blanket creates gaps in my vision,
gaps like bells that pull me from my cradle.
She plucked two threads
from the universe – golden light,
twins that kept intertwining.
She pulled them like puppets,
until they could move on their own.
Sight Unseen
A princess, a tower, an electric wire –
a call in the middle of the day just to see of you’re ok.
Porcelain, tea cup chipped.
Labor pains, a soulmate gained, but who is she?
An identity renamed?
Arms wrapped around her waist,
squeezing life force
towards mirage so real, that for an instant she felt rain
pouring on primal forms, electricity gained.
He took the shirt off his back to protect her from the sun,
enveloping diamonds and rubies for eons past –
disappearing as quickly as he came.
But what is a mirage if nothing but a dream?
A movie of our lives, an exotic scene?
Pressing up against a wall, the force of gravity
to embrace and stall,
what for an eternity was almost and not all.
The scene immortalized in a timeless place
mountains, valleys, bombs, and waste.
That precious gems can hold – the light of a treasure
beyond what is told.
Royalty cannot succumb to the riots, the marches,
the sun unsung.
Righteousness, dignity, a soul transformed – a guidance
unworldly beings, forelorned,
warning that some cannot be judged as others.
The king decides,
the judgement day arrives, the rulers override –
the porcelain chasm.
The song of her life sung by others
the stratosphere of time and space…
On a crown of knowing, the golden threat,
there is no regret.
The curtains come down, the film left undone
to the version of others –
did you really think this was real?
The illusion of lights, camera, scenery and script
nothing but a story that became
reality – for history to decide…
It was real and it was a mirage – two planes co-existing
a dual reality human comprehension, fathoming….
A tear upon meeting is a memory of a scene –
a reunion, an embrace,
a sight unseen.
The Year of the Butterfly
The last birthday, the last cocoon, unraveling
the last remains of a wandering soul –
the transpiring transformation.
The shadow of a doubt would never believe
the crystal ball if recounted on this day,
never believe the details of array –
complete and utter transformation.
So soon after this portal into a new world,
slipping down the rabbit hole, feet firmly planted
on unknown soil –
an isolated and only christmas present to myself,
self righteous,
wrapped from myself in my name
in honor of countless years forgotten.
But worthiness is counted in selfless gifts,
and to give indeed wraps selfishness in shame.
Give it all away – the love, the longing,
the fingertips of liplocked belonging.
The butterfly soothes herself, licks her wounds
to unreachable destinations.
Tightening wings,
slipping through the keyhole, through
the cocoon of comforts,
a wing is spread.
The fledgling, surrounded in the summer breeze,
giving motion, direction,
new senses explored, fantasies implored –
anchored in the silk thread
spun on brilliant white clouds in an azure sky –
the butterfly slips through.
© Caterina Bacal Titus