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

I wanted to see.


(Image: Source)


Sip the Season Darkly/Flame Everlasting

flaming heart

A poetic meditation on the season and the ever-alternating cycle of darkness and light, both in nature and internally. I wrote this for a winter solstice ceremony with The Earthbody Institute.

Darkness has arrived
wrapping its inky cloak
across the season
of our lives

long shadows and owls
stand tall and salute
autumn’s funeral song
becoming winter’s march

asking us not skip too quickly
o’er the hour
with an eager eye
grasping towards cherry blossoms
awaiting on the other side

Drink deeply from the season,
they say,
and offer
a cup overflowing
with the thick sweetness
from a darker vine

sip the season darkly:
wisdom hidden from summer’s glare
may yet pass our lips
should we have the thirst for it

in vino veritas

sip the season’s slow
inward night embrace
and listen for it

The Silence – can you hear it?

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
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

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
The Flame Everlasting

A Remembering

Some secret vial of our heart’s fuel
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
’tis enough to start it all again
and again…again….again…

The First Syllable

IMG_6045In the middle of the forest
in the part
of the darkness
you ordinarily avoid
an old live oak lives
with limbs covered in lichen
–fern green, pumpkin orange, gold–
a cozy jacket ember warm

ki* has a name (See Note 1)
but it cannot be told

among the roots
a beating heart
within ki’s chambers
blood bright as stars
flowing beyond sight

within the blood
a flurry of birds
singing “Yes!” in all the languages–the first syllable

when a herd of deer steps out
of the bird’s mouth
you will peer into the buzzing light
of each other’s eyes

suddenly you know that they know
that they are you

and they will go back to grazing
and forgetful

as you will too

whose blood is it?
whose heart beats?
the Great Oak, the One Star, the Ancient Stone, the Blessed Dark, the One Beat, the Cosmic Eye?
Who knows?

the Great Circulation
on and on and on

Note (1): Ki is a proposed alternative pronoun by Robin Wall Kimmerer to refer to people of the earth, to avoid objectification that comes with using “it” in the English language. See her exposition in Yes Magazine or in her brilliant and beautiful book, Braiding Sweetgrass.

Your Darkness is Shining

IMG_6903I. soil

in humble black gold
like downtrodden lifting all
seeds dreaming green
sleep like sparks
in the womb of the dark

II. sky

in the longest night
when tulips aren’t even on the tip of a dream
cold creeps towards the center
of a hibernating winter heart
where a lowly sun is born
whispering secrets

III. silhouette

in the stretched pregnant hour
before the dance of the day
this hushed unrushed
unseen hanging chill
clings like damp cloak
skin tight on fog face hymn of owl
while stars sing soliloquies

IV. soul

in pitch black
sacred wound
that sharp deep ancient ache
your darkness shines
like gorgeous throbbing face
–a lighthouse calling
you to the shoreline
of homecoming


Fall Away

c244ac380594f873912364f47ef5f1d7--autumn-leaves-autumn-fall (1)In a world struggling desperately to find some semblance of balance and to integrate the shadows, may we receive the blessings of the Fall Equinox.Β πŸƒπŸ‚

Hover here for a moment
feeling the balance
between darkness and light
between drawing within
and explosive expression

harvest your juicy
sun-soaked fruits
perhaps too easily procured

honor the growing shadow
it’s okay to grieve
the dry and dying

relish the transition
and let the leaves no longer needed
flitter to the floor
limbs to feel
all the more lighter