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?

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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.

October’s Darkening Waters

60547DCA-E8D5-4A3F-93A9-F0B471DE4FF0Afloat on October’s darkening waters
where no preludes live, only conclusions
It’s a wonder how often I forget
that sometimes just to endure
is a full-time gig
when air is served
grey and husky
and whatever dreams were sent downstream towards the sea in seasons past
return as trickster scenes
from film noir
dropped from the sky
relentless and edged
with an autumn-orange humor
and what might be red and green
in the disturbed wild
I can barely make out
through the mind-thick fog
in which only ravens speak

Maybe Somewhere Cold—I Remember Bats

CBBD0AE5-2233-48AC-93DC-4C1F0EBE5D2AThe path to the cave starts innocently enough
with a sign full of useful information
in broad daylight, blue skies

a fulfulling breakfast–
eggs & potatoes perhaps, fruit in season

Before you know it
you can hardly remmeber the color of berries
or the sound of the river

Bats reign here
and the dominant thoughts
are of your bed and that last meal

Feel the shape of those walls
textured by the smooth slink of years
wet with mysterious things
you’d rather not know

To either side, tunnels to treaures
or traps

There’s no way to know
and no sure way out
other than following the scent of your voice

The deeper you spelunk
the brighter the darkness
Inside there a light lives

Hardpains, sweet pains
nectars maybe, but first the cuts
both slow and quick
deaths

Sometimes monsters and
the secret password
are the same thing

Of course, you can avioid the path altogether
by staying “at home”

But don’t think the cave is avoidable.

Or are you one who believes in light
without darkness?

Trailheads without wounded trailfeet,
mountain views without valleys?

Oh, what an imagination!

Come now!
Carve your beautiful, dark cave
and then come home, my friend
with well-earned feet and a heart that knows

The Moon Has a Long Memory

D804C643-2D73-475F-9C19-A33FC1F67128Welcome dark
in unpursed lips singing
forget the day
all pale doing

of center night
and darklish wooing
lay its leaping skin
around you

Deep nocturnal breath abiding
blowing skirt of darkness hiding

The moon has a long memory
and hasn’t forgotten your true name

It is mere habit to shrink
when the sun sinks

Have you tried standing up
and meeting the gaze of the Swordsman
when he asks you what luster’s tucked under
your supernova skin?

Have you considered lifting the lid
off your day-time self
stitched tight oh too tight and oh—-

Or are you only a lover of butterflies
despiser of bats?
One of the half-time lovers of the world?

Then by all means, bless your mangled life
half-bitten and hungry

If not, pour pitch black down your poor back
and feel your arch grow

The moon has a long memory
and hasn’t forgotten your name—
the one you uttered so assuredly
back in the season of jumping
before the great gremlins of approval
stole it from you
under the fog of forgetting

Be big with midnight
and tempt the stars out
with cheshire desire

Behold, some belly bold
cries your full name from the old
deeplier than ever told
Perhaps it is your own

Welcome dark
in unpursed lips singing
forget the day
all pale doing

of center night
and darklish wooing
lay its leaping skin
around you

I Stayed Late

floating rootsI stayed late.

Yes, I wanted to see.

To see what would happen
once the sun went down

The same thing always happens
when you wait too long to leave—

things disappear
silhouettes emerge
and a cunning dark delivers up slices
of woolly silent parts
that now have something to talk to

or at least echo pulsingly

inside their own crooked canyons

as you trip over roots
because your feet forgot their eyes

and eventually it comes up again
but you wonder if a conversation ever happened

memories like papercuts

eventually it comes up again
but never exactly where you think

and never shining
on the same you
that is never exactly what you think
either

I wanted to see.

 

(Image: Source)