Archive | September 2012

13

This wind sounds
A benediction,
And I know
The ending
It foretells.

But before turning
A back
On indulgence —
Let the autumn
Breathe me in.

Send judgement
To stand in the corner —
And the muse
Makes it look
So easy,

But she’s your lover,
Not mine.
And after all,
There are so many paths
Down to the floor.

And despite any daydreams
I might relish,
We roll around
Like children,
In innocent play.

No conception of sin
Will hold —
Unless to think
Or to feel
Is sinful.

And you can pull me
Down to my knees.
Anoint my brow
With oils scented
Of spice in the wild wood,

And bless me
Any way you know how.
There are
A million ways
To sing the mother prayer.

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40

Was a time
Seeking sweet,
We left tracks
In volcanic ash,
But the years have burned.

So this is the crisis.
This the crux.
We stand in
Overgrown undergrowth
At the edge of the caldera.

Stuck inside this skin,
Six and six selves
Kicking and screaming,
But we keep the lid
Screwed down tight.

And there is no
Justification
For these complaints.
We are not unlucky.

So we must return
To the archeology
Of pen and page.
Here, under decades
Of accumulated detritus,
There is still a road —
Cracked and ancient.

You need no map.
These orientations run
Bone and blood deep,
And all it takes
Is a little digging.

The fossilized footprints
Are still there.
And it’s simple enough,
Once you’ve uncovered them,
To pick up a trail
And follow on from
Where you left off.

Shared, a bit late off the mark, with the Pub Poets for OpenLinkNight week 63. Cheers, friend!

Dreamscape

Aftershocks
From questing dreams.

Road surrounded
By water.
Working out a way
To get somewhere.

The natives are restless…

Rickety wooden stairs,
Peeling gray paint,
Leading to…

Car won’t go.
There are lions.
Wrong shoes,
And I wish I had
A stockingcap.

Let it be
As it will be.

Catapults…

The tops of the trees
Are orange,
And the woods
Are always
Just over there…

I carry a worn hardcover
That smells reassuring
Like old books do.
Fingers run along
Yellowed,
Rough-edged pages.

Six or seven cages,
But I’m alone here.
Deliberate,
Break all the locks
And doors,
Looking over a shoulder
To be sure
No one will stop me.

My love
Requests the poem.

Put on a mask.
Smells of leather.
Threats threaten —
An undefined darkness
Rising from the water.

Wake up!
The woods are always
Just over there.

And my sweet speaks
Of a sick dream,
Attempts to escape.

Car starts,
Dylan on the radio,
Yer gonna make me lonesome
When you go.

I sheathe
The unknown sword.

Alternately driving
And riding,
I trade places
With the stranger.

Flock of geese,
Highway across the
Familiar-because-recurring,
Waterlogged floodplain.

We move on,
The road appearing
Where we need it
To appear.

Spider descends
In alarmclock light.
2:21 a.m.

Nearly There

That moon’s
Gonna roll
Me around again.

These unexpected
Witchings
Translate
A decade’s worth
Of dreams
From stagnation.

It is time
For purpose,
Distilled.

Place the cards.
Let the night
Fall where it will.

Find and bless
The scars
And silver hairs.

Forge these
New meanings
In light
Rekindled.

Hold onto this.
These are the ones
You choose
And carry.

Samsara

Some days seems
Everything’s an offering,
Praising the endless
Recycling of matter —
And perpetual devotion
To transformation,
And reformation.

These constant arrivals —
No vague déjà vu,
But a
Perennial revisiting
The point of return.

Any change,
A slight shift
To minor or major,
All the thematic
Variations
That keep us hooked
On these musics.

Cattails brown
Or green —
Either way autumn
Raises in them
An ocean of wind.
Snakes eating tails,
And mirrors
Reflecting mirrors
Forever.

And yet —
Today is no yesterday.
And each now
A new now.

How long
Does it take
For the sun
To change her face?

And these prairie plants
We love —
Do they sprout
An inch to right
Or to left?

And if these shifts —
No matter how minute —
Are true,
And you and I
Are starlight
Reforming
Minute to minute,
And this,
All of this,
Every last bit of it,
Whether celebrated
Or reviled,
Is simply
Matter seeking
Self-expression —
Flexible,
Fluid
In eternal
Ever-changingness,
Then who am I
To assume a mind
Could matter?

But if it is true
That all the matter
Of this now
Is the glorious flux —
Then can we not also
Hope
For an eventual healing —
And the perfection
Of our own
Energetic self?

Craving

All the world’s sugar
Could not kill
This craving.

Apply every cure
You know. Hope
For placebo effect.

A day’s reprieve —
If you’re lucky,
Maybe a week.

Fugues and fogs
Make your own
Self a mystery.

Get above it,
Look for higher
Ground. Find it

Near the treeline.
Air lends focus
To the animal.

Here you can accept
You know nothing.
And starvation’s no solution.

Hungry?

We are far from
Resigned.
And these tears
Have little to do
With sadness.

Once past the grinding
In the root
And all its implications,
Only thought is required
To generate these
Languid fevers.

And it’s easy to forget,
When consumed by fire,
That we are the wind
To carry it
Forward.

And yes,
It requires more effort.
But the clarity
Of this time —
Our time —
Though it be bittersweet,
Is well worth it.

The ecstasy of reaching out
To touch a season passed,
Now we curl in
Upon ourselves
To fall
Like so many leaves,
Reflecting all the revelations
Of an age.
We grow ripe
As the harvest moon.

And all these jars
Of sun —
Reminders not to
Hide a light
In the growing shadow.

So find what keeps,
And here —
All for you,
And all for you,
And all for you.

Survival and sustenance
Are for later.
Kettle’s on,
Soup’s simmering.
And today,
There are more than enough
Places at this table.