Down to the Skin at Last

F6493E87-7B38-4127-83EB-519B4997775BSplash of red, bring me a tortoise head.

Open the blessed spiral once again
and spread unguaged, unmeasured.

Weeds need not outgrow me yet.

The light with sweetness conquer
The dark, with song.

You can’t catch raven,
so join his club.

Not all your preposterous belongings
need a witness
but all need watering–Drink!

Holy, you there, the stone in you
inclined and breathing out the sighs unsized–
mark this moment, it heeds you well, saying:

Begin with wind, end with the sea.

Down to the skin at last.

Advertisements

The Yeses That You Own

802475BC-0CBB-4F0B-8E3E-15643F73DA9CGo through all the othered yeses
To uncover thundered no’s
They are but the bottom side, no less
Than the yeses that you own.

(Repeat until thick and moist and your voice comes out clean)

So, Break

53F46132-A1F1-42BC-A68F-B8C9A894F569When you arrive at the end of one nation
and another begins, they tell you,
but where an old self ends
and a new one opens up

you must discover yourself
over and over
through vast experiments of trial and terror

The kind of terror that has you thinking
you’re floating untethered
away from the space vessel
and all form of things

Are you one who thinks you know
good from bad
when all the things seem to break?

When your earth cracks
and space comes hurtling
through your bones
unravel more accurately
and sink into your silence
robust and cunning

but then embrace the kind of terror
that has you planting trees
for the seventh generation
the kind that adds a layer of fat
to your empathic system

Part of you thinks all the notes come up black
and part of you wants to keep leaping
past the comets and make your own orbit

The part of you that, like a meadow of wildflowers
wants into the world so bad
it will do anything to make it happen
including turning indigo and flashing fuchsia
petaling upward umbeled and spiked

Do you really think that meadow arrived gently?

What of the ten million year preamble of terrible upheaval
anticipating the beauty before you?

So, break
break into the liminal space
with all the elegant pain you can muster

forget all the fine tethers, attractive and dead

turn indigo and break the earth
petaling your meadowed self
without restraint
until your chasmly scream, pure and unshackled
booms through all the worlds

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

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)