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.

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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)

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

Aha!
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…