THE ROOMS OF NIGHT

9A3B849B-A6CA-43C5-8E7A-C6F0F31F80A6I walk through the rooms of night
and arrive at a dawn clipped
with forgetfulness

With moons and death
in my pockets
and full of winter shred

I notice my bare feet are numb
and without purpose

Yet my tracks in the snow
mark my path from somewhere

And though it feels cold
a trickle of blood melts into
the stark white
evidencing its warmth
convinced it is life

Some big heart must be leaking.

I’ve even forgotten the premise
of yesterday’s grand feast

And tomorrow is so far away
I cannot even feign to paint hope
on my eyelids
scarred from memory’s frost

Why can’t I find today?

Did they even put one on
or have they too forgotten?

Have I misplaced it
or did the storm steal it away?

No matter, the time has come
to empty my pockets
and join the ranks
of the zombie parade

To have succumbed, finally, not
to some bold virus,
but to the utter
mundane

Not having a mirror, I cannot see
but if I were to guess the shape of my eyes
the left would be nowhere
and the right would be an empty cup

Have I misplaced them
or did some sly storm steal them away?

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WITHIN THE CAVE SOMETHING PULSES

1E22D799-3DA5-4B6D-A421-50C2E4055E4BWITHIN THE CAVE SOMETHING PULSES

Befriending the Dark #10: Poem-share for sinking into the season & Befriending the dark, slowness, silence, & shadows. (This is the final section of the poem ‘Sip the Season Darkly’)
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Within the cave something pulses,
it’s why we go there.

We hear it even now—
that which deepest dark cannot smother,
winter’s hands cannot touch
shadows stalking have no purchase.

Tender tendrils of our very own vine,
bearing the wine of our heart
like embers of eternal vernal.

A spark electric, A light immune
to season’s scorn—
a Flame Everlasting.

A Remembering.

Aha!

Some secret vial of our heart’s nectar
distilled for this very hour
to sip the season brightly

And the sun too misses his mistress
and cannot too long stay away
he was meant for this: to shine

To not share his love is a wounding.

So in that darkest hour
he knocks on the nearest horizon
and announces The Return:

“Dear Love, I’m Here.”

Which is exactly what we find
written on the walls of our cave

as we witness the melting dawn
heralding The Promise.

All frozen walls fall
before the mighty glow
we look around and see
with new eyes:
first breath after coma

and though it’s just a whisper now
It’s enough to start it all again
and again…again….again…

The Silence – Can You Hear It?

10FF29B0-1D54-43D3-B00A-ABDC804B74B8THE SILENCE – CAN YOU HEAR IT?

(This is the 2nd section of the poem Sip the Season Darkly)

Is it not the dream of the dark womb
before the scream?

Is it not the unhatched egg before the crack?

That pregnant moment before the Bang?

But then, from Winter’s deep lungs,
a cold chant creeps towards the center of things
its ragged hand erases what
summer had boldly written
and all the lusty leaves gone under
and a frozen fist lands like a death-march
of forgotten Eros
threatening to bury even
our too short afternoons.

Everything wants to hide
or dive under the nearest bush

The Looking Away is terrible,
and even the eye of the moon is closed
she’s looking after herself now
Look, even tonight she gazes not upon the land
which sleeps dreamless and cold and alone.

Until finally, the world becomes too much with us:

We go to the cave, the secret one,
in the dark mountain
seeking safety, a retreat
an inward looking

We’ve been here before.

Many times-as far back as it will be forever forth.

The Big Rhythm holds it all

A SOLSTICE RENDEZVOUS WITH BUTTERFLY – PART 2

32652C81-BF85-464A-AC16-E6CC80D563AF“There’s no reason for us to believe the Sun will not abandon the Earth,” I reply.

“Other than that everyday
the Dawn is delivered on time,”
she says, crooked in smile.

“Look, the Worms come in battalions, dancing.

There may be no Return.

The underbelly is winking electric.
and the sun is making a bow—
Perhaps THIS is the last day,”

I sing a such a cold Melody.

I say it is ‘I’ that sings this.

She has a warmer lyric:
“I’m stocked wing to wing
thick with Desire,
though Desire’s end be Death’s friend.

In my last place, the lights went out,
and I don’t remember
what came before.

Only Blackness and then Something dissolved in me—a torture sublime.
Then, the New Dream.”

“What’s the New Dream?” someone said.

Without a word, and with smiling wings in Orange delight
Butterfly performed a one-Woman play
for me and the god
in the dusky Meadow.

And the god knew himself
it was just enough
no more, no less
to redeem the final Day
and the longest Night
whether or not
the Sun returns.

Let the Season Season You

6644E5EC-9730-42FC-8F06-F50FC27AE8C2Some say it is a poet’s job
to inspire hope
or at least to set one upon some picturesque outcropping
with a good view of hope

just as a bountiful harvest
is a farmer’s job,
cleanliness a janitor’s
or health, a doctor’s domain.

But spring hope too easily plucked
is a protection against truth.

You ask, why be so stingy with hope
in a world already thirsty enough?

Whatever hope grows within
whatever spring springs in your heart
whatever fiddlehead unfurls or wild plum blossoms,
like stone fruit let them be harvested in the proper season.

You can’t jump over winter–
you may dream of spring
on the solstice
and try for eternal vernal
at the first frost

but you can’t jump over winter.

Slow down and let the season season you.

There is hope in truth,
but much hope that is not true
until the darkness gets its due

and despair’s your better ally
than shiny hope, that false friend.

Don’t jump over the season
like an escapee.

Tell me, what are you fleeing from?

Can you flee from the season within you?

Don’t be tempted by the empty calories
of a bittersweet fruit too easily procured–
an early ripening causing indigestion.

Let the season season you.

Let the cold crack that bark of yours
and let the season season you.

Open your meadow and feel it all.
Open your earthbody and feel
even the worst of it–
where it hurts the most.

Be still and let the season season you.

Let darkness fall in you
like a sword of truth
and you will find a deeper root
than you ever knew.

Then–at the ripening hour,
your branches will know
how to celebrate the sky
and your sun will be the true sun
the world is needing most.

Do you understand these are the kindest words
you’ve yet heard?

As You Now Close Your Eyes

4742FE70-9A05-4E6D-A6CD-2B59E6537445Persephone, are you not the author of your own notes?

Are you not indeed your own mother living inside your seasoned gown?

The underworld ties your hands down in the unlit palaces
but what of your lungs and legs
and the crown upon your head?

Lather the golden leaves on your dusky skin.

Pour weeds from your eyes
and cry flowers.

Laugh dark and riotously to rival the rain.

I believe in you—it’s going to be ok.

But you don’t need me to lend belief—-the Earth will soon pour you out.

Whose permission do you need but your own?
Do you not trust your own power?

You may forget for a bit, but Spring will spill out of you as easily as you now close your eyes.

All the old songs will be resurrected,
and the new will rise like a fresh breeze.