Eyes of Dawn and Dew

dew drop eyesWho closed your morning eyes
your eyes of dawn and dew?
Irises bold and bright begone
have lost their lustrous hue

Once you loved the rainbow show
and felt that windy song
then you swam the grey-blue sea
your gaze just drifted on

Was it the great grey bird of prey, they say,
who feasted upon your sight?
Or was it she, that weary thing,
that rides you through the night?

I’ve heard a tale of fancy
I don’t know if it’s truth or lie
of water running pure and fine
that’ll heal such wounded eyes

It’s found beyond the rush and roar
in the nearby faraway
amidst a grove of sacred trees
it flows there every day

they say to dip your eyes right in,
wash your head in waters cold
and if you’re bold enough, just get in
and dunk your dusty soul.

You eyes of dawn and dew return
their colors will resurrect
again your morning eyes will burn
one of its many effects

but most of all, what happens next
a mystery at its best,
behind the breastbone beneath the eyes
a brightness builds its nest

Such a fable can’t be believed
it sounds too good to be true
but just in case, seek the place
perhaps it will be proved




No Less a Web, Spider Spun

webNo less a web, spider spun
these words around you weaving run
like threads so fine, but not less strong
to bind within you a magic song

And here a peek behind the art
a secret with which no spider parts
Yet I, a weaver of open source
share a bit of that conjuring force

First, (if this be an ordered tune)
or lastly, if you want the end so soon,
is a look, or rather, a vision met
upon which your design is set.

See clear, my witches, an image bold
with which your sticky tales are told
float it in your inner sea
and with all your eyes, like spiders see

Make of yourself a giant ear
and gather all the things you hear
and let love be greater than deepest fear
and you’ll find that threads appear

Ask what it is you want to net
with ever spinning spidery set
you just might catch it yet

The next of this cannot be taught
but without which your art is naught
’tis this: a certain certainty
and if it’s weak, the power flees

Thus flinging into nothingness
is what it takes-nothing less
a trust with no reason why
your filament will find its flight

Once it’s flung, that’s but half the spell
the other half is crafting well
circle round and join the threads
and paint the image in your head

in between, a tip or three:
a spell, to weave, is both form and free

Take care to note what’s in the air
the sounds, the scents, the subtle flair

A thread is summoned from abdomen
but also from the wild winds
a gentle breeze will be your friend
a gusty gale will be your end
unless you surf the storm with ease
you’ll wind up in the web you weave

Without a form – the threads will fail
without freedom, the force is frail
so find the balance between the two
to catch the thing you wanted to.

Look at what other spiders construct
see what’s cast, and see what’s luck
Admire the patterns, and see what’s caught
Look for the angels and demons they fought

Study the sounds built into their spells
follow the lines of the tales they tell

Look to the recluse, the widow, the wood,
but never get caught in the net of the should

Take what you can, as in a sly theft
but the strength of your web is bound by what’s left
after all of the threads from within are out cast
into the world to feast or to fast

That something so strange, something so rich
that deep design that only you can pitch
that something so rich, so double strange
that things may be caught quite out of your range

And that is the gift of a magical song,
sung with the words of a web so strong,
that its effects are unknown in the light of the day
not until night is the power relayed

A final glimpse behind the weave
before we rest and take our leave

As silence is part a wizard’s gift
what’s not said will shape and shift
the space between the strands are there
to make designs in air appear
more luminous and boldly spun
as much for purpose as for fun

And as spiders in their patience sit
awaiting what their net can get
so our last secret of this webby play
will have to wait another day




The Blink Uncomprehending

starthe blink uncomprehending

yes, and then I understand
why some of the Masters turned

into the waters

as perhaps the god would
when the world blinks

or the world would
when the god blinks

but I will not turn

because it is not all
blank blinking
dashing away

and some eyes glitter
gold and giddy
like the freshest dawn
that wakes you up

to everything.

It is not a right
to be understood

but to want to be is
the original sense

like sex or seeing.

We want to be
inside and seen–

the original urge
forged through the umbilical cord
of time.

Why we became two
is a mystery
that feels so good
to live inside of

once you slip into
your most vulnerable

Give Up

kiteThe hour of giving up has arrived:

Give up chasing

Give up proving
and approval

Give up on the stories
of others
and those of your own
that aren’t really your own

Give up on your mind
figuring everything out

Give up on unworthiness
Give up on shame

Give up on saving the world
Give up on saving him/her/it

Give up on all the worlds
to which you don’t belong

And once you have given up
on every last unworthy distraction

Pick up the keys
and enter your true home

The Song a New Creek Sings

cosmic creek

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.
A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.

From the world of passions returning to the world of passions:
There is a moment’s pause.
If it rains, let it rain, if the wind blows, let it blow.
-Ikkyu, 15th Century Japanese Zen Buddhist monk & poet

Already dreaming of sea and soil
this gifted fluent flow
appears overnight
beside my sodded hut–
a wink in time

Already dreaming of roots and return
it assumes a virtue
washing the forest clean
of all the detritus left behind
by fall’s decay

yet creating more
resurrecting autumn’s handful of dust
as muddy munificence

telling a tale en route
of things that happened long ago

no different than
what is happening right now

its ancient dialect
chimes a melody
difficult to hear
with the labyrinthine ears
of us civilized men
used to thick and soupy din

it is the sound of light pouring
from eternal efflux
cracked effulgent
from the dark

the cosmic diapason
silvery sacred symphony

tearing towards the big sea
at play with and as
the proliferous multitudes

first, in thicker accent, rushing, roaring
then, in thinner accent, whispering, warbling

back and forth and in between

the bushbird hears it, and hums harmony
the oak hears it, and lifts a greeny bough
the happy slug hears it, slimes its melodic march
the newt hears it, a pilgrim by its meter

they’ve washed their ears clean with it
it’s why they can sing along

Conversations With An Emperor of Dust

black holeAmor vincit omnia (Love Conquers All)

“Rust may never sleep, but then, neither does moss.” – Brian Awehali

Emperor: I am Conquest.

My dark army vanquishes all
with its settled presence,
The wide world yields before my dusty scepter.

What I don’t cover with my relentless rind
I break and tear and dissolve into me–
my appetite knows no end.

All to ash, I say, All to ash.

I: Pin not your proud imperial hopes on me,
for I’m the rebel to thwart you, Dust.

You may fall, I’ll sweep you clean.

Emperor: What you build, I devour,
for at last you and it and I are one.
I will fade your brightest colors.

Call me King, subject!

I: You may tear down my citadels,
rend each wall and roof asunder,
but I shall thrust up once more
a sparkling edifice, refulgent

with a heart beyond your dark fingers,
my lineage is indefatigable
its coat-of-arms bears the Phoenix
on whose feathers no dust remains long

Emperor: Look around, what pitiful Phoenix do you see?
I’ve ground each beak and wing to dust.

My soldiers have thrown to their tasks well
rewarded with their own unending meals
Nothing is beyond the vast reach of my march,
All submit to my…

I: NO! All do not submit!
This is the voice of the one
who does not.
My head you shall cover,
my feet you shall sully,
my works you shall dissolve,
with Time as your conspirator.

But No, ‘King’, my heart slips through your grasp.

‘O King, O King, O King’,
the word mocks itself
on the tongue of my fierce beat.
I’ll make of your crown a tiny watermark
within my ferocious design.

Whatever power you usurp through the eons–
from the imperial center of decay
to your outposts of dirt–

I defy it like a riot.

My heart is no subject of yours.
Its riotous root runs deeper than your Rome,
where your empire has no purchase.

Should your mindless soldiers
dare ask its name, it’ll reply,

“Tell you master, my name is Defiance.
My task, Creation, my motive, Love.
My will be done.”