What the Eagle Wants

IMG_1174Some want to ride the eagle
through cerulean skies
others are in their feathery nests
learning how to fly

Tickle of the sprouting wings
to feel so bold and brave
a type of living into
a freedom that they crave

But some would rather shun
for freedom has its fear
it implies an awful gaze
in a much too faithful mirror

The rest want to be taken
by the talon and by the beak
to get inside the eagle
by a beautiful death they seek

But what does eagle want
he who rides the wind?
What does eagle want
of lovers and of friends?

He wants to live the spectrum
of the loves in the breeze
to share with the world
the colors that he sees

He wants to fly the mountains
and carve his poems in air
with winged archery shooting
arrows with craft and care

He wants to share his vision
from his rainbow lair
to spread his wings around you
and caress your restless hair
draping feathers across your skin
vulnerable and bare

But he wants what’s below
beneath the skin and bones
the living pulse of beating heart
and make it his carnal throne

He wants to feel its fleshy beat
in his claws and beak
to fuel his rainbow eyes
from the mountain peak

to feel the taste of throbbing heart
between his beak and claw
to gather its pulse and energy
making magic of it all

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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

Take Up Your Wand

Chopin_nocturne_op9_2a“If one [the conductor] uses a baton, the baton itself must be a living thing, charged with a kind of electricity, which makes it an instrument of meaning in its tiniest movement.” — Leonard Bernstein
_____________________________________________________

It matters not the noise
of the crowd.

How might that mindless cacophony
even approach your perfect pitch?

Let the noise be a Nothingness to you.

Chop off your ears,
if you must, Maestro
and hear the charm of the music
born of bones within

Take up your wand
in hands majestic molded
and conduct your own sacred symphony

Stir the oboes
from their solemn slumber
put to sleep by the loud trumpeters,
roguish assassins of the soul

Pick up your baton, Blessed Conductor

let your left hand be
the rhythm of the dusk and dawn
and your right hand
be the freedom of a supernova

Be the author of your own notes
and between them —
pour your solar-panoramic audacious breath

[The image is from the musical score of Chopin’s Nocturne E Flat Major Op. 9 No. 2. I adore this classical guitar rendition)

 

Saint Wolf

new moon

The hour of the rabid dog is over.

Blind with torn
mangy coat
under neon crucifix shining shadows,
asking “why how where?”

for a quarter it’ll answer
in the cold pale american daylight,
waning, waning

what will it answer?
something unwildly off the mark

No matter: A wolf is being born
waxing under a dark moon
in a forest thick with aroma
and proper order of things
fur feathers ferns fox fire ferocity

how to hunt, but not murder
a ceremony of blood
a sermon in the wild
how to be alone and to be with others
a hillside communion
how to see in the dark
eyes clear
makes the trail

look around: the evidence of the big impact is everywhere
but the iceberg itself has melted
hidden away in our heart-hold of secret wish
balmy and delirious
too outrageous to say out loud

believe the sky
that speaks to you long lost field

believe the whisper
that speaks to you bright red petals on mud

believe the hand which holds the lover’s
but not the grip that pulls you under

believe the skin
for a drum you’ll beat some day

believe the skin
and the guts within

don’t believe those voices that take you away
from the Belonging
they are bloated fleas on the poor dog,
lost and wasting away
won’t survive another moon

it need not be nailed up
(let that image be buried with the bones)
nor kenneled or coddled or drugged

let it starve in the night

or fang it
and make a meal of it
but be done with the mutt, sick abomination!

it was merely an idea anyway
cursed canine, feeble mind
anemic soul slurping
artificial scraps
unrooted wayward thrust in the cold mist

But today marks the New —
the moon they couldn’t drown

All Hail Saint Wolf!

hallowed by wild honesty
and honest wildness
put on your Sunday best
and howl at Midnight on Solstice

Open your shrewd eye
slick with new moon dew
and a cunning
onwardness

Something Sturdier Than Shiny Hope

painting-with-light-1044985_960_720I’m not going to speak of shiny hope
it has troubled us for too long
tripping us down the stairs
leaving the bruises that stick around
——-
we want to jump over truth straight to hope
that we bought in the marketplace of shadows
that’s why it has no legs
and will collapse as soon as it gets out of bed
———
we can’t get there without touching the ground

let’s stop jumping
start crawling
stop running
start digging
stop chasing
start creating

and then, if grief and all its cousins
should arrive
embrace them like long lost loved ones
——
When the lights turn off
will we stumble
or will we have learned to believe
in our own breathe
and the dirt under our feet?
will we have practiced how to say hello?
——
we need something sturdier than shiny hope
exchange it
for the eyes of your own dawn
looking earth in the face
saying, “I remember you”
—-
mix the kernel of your true heart
a spark in the vastness
with the clay of where you live
deep with dreams