Friday, December 6, 2019

The Keeper's Dream










The Keeper's Dream




Wild darkness grows tame lightning
blue light from wrinkled hands;
 St Elmo's fire, stormscream, water
pushed into a weapon,
air's hysterics
my mates in this dark place.  
From the dead sailor's dream I know
your cry, snaking
up the spiral spine of things,
to warn the time is here
when even fishes will need wings.



~December 2019













A quick and dirty 55--forgive if my tools are still a bit rusty--with thanks to Kerry for all the glories, past and present, of The Imaginary Garden, and to the G-Man for the form which never fails.





Images: Pharos and Pacifico Oracle cards, © Kerry O'Connor
Attribution Link

Thursday, December 5, 2019

Another Fall










Another Fall


It's a cold cascade through time,
from the strip mall of memory
to neon horizon,
from green waves of forest
to the needle's eye of the heart,
through which the rich, misshapen
moon must pass like a camel,
before the mimes and jokers
intervene. That tumbled road

from the crack in my back
to the crack of your indecision,
Oh I've walked it many times,
chained to my cane
with the Milky Way lambent above
and flat below the putrid detail
of those thousand lies, illusions
masks and false affidavits
that came with your smile.

Now it's time to fall again, in
the beam of your death ray eyes,
an Icarus returned without wax
to  original components,
a thing of feathers and sky
far lighter than either air
or these dark whims, to learn at last
the language of goodbye and bury
 with the bones the syllable why



~December 2019 




















 

Images: What A Human Being Is, copyright Hilma F Klimt, Public Domain
The Fall of Icarus, copyright Marc Chagall, Fair Use
via wikiart.org



Saturday, November 30, 2019

Spirit Apocolypse









Spirit Apocalypse



Entropy dreams of its Creator
under the burning blanket
of wild horses slaughtered
of eucalyptus torches slow
roasting marsupials,
of its enemies hogtied helpless
if not as yet quite mastered,
all things of beauty bent
to the wheel of avarice
as the spotted pony runs
as the devil drowns
in sympathy
in sycophants
in syncopated strategies
of the smallest minds now
suddenly somehow successful.

We wait for the tide
to rise, the Earth to speak, 
for the wild appaloosa 
with our handprint
on its flank to find us, 
for the ash
to heave up the white buffalo,
the soul we weep for
to race oblivion
of wave and fire, drought and famine
to bear us
where we may buck and strain
to cut the cords that
crack the bone
of this ravaged
rock on fire

calling to the spirits
for the spotted pony
the white buffalo
the avenging angel
as if we know them,
with only the death's head grin
of the four bleached horsemen in sight.










~November, 2019









Images: War Pony II, by Sarah Lyn Richards. All Rights Reserved to Artist
White Buffalo, by Cuzco. All Rights Reserved to Artist

Sunday, November 17, 2019

Star Bright








Star Bright




A little star
blown on a crinkled wind
comes to the Deadhouse.
It pushes open a window
darts a beam
between cobweb cities
and empty night.

The Dead and the
Apprentice Dead,
mummified
mute, are of course
indifferent but
the ragged prisoner,
the Almost Dead,

lifts her darkened eyes
and suddenly
begins to breathe
 in the swelling rhythm
of the living firmament.



~November 2019










Personal Note: For those who may not have heard yet, my husband passed into the solar wind on October 18th, after months of quietly enduring as much pain and indignity as a human being can suffer. I think of him as released, and of the rest of my life as totally unknowable, but at least the wild dark-eyed muse seems to be back, vague in the shadows, teasing me with her throaty whisper.








Image: Untitled, by Zladislaw Beksinksi

Friday, April 12, 2019

Sea Trash





Sea Trash




You've never known you carried

that force
which breaks the idea's skin
with no time for
an aftertaste
neither regret
nor understanding;

that you made love

 a leaf lightly spinning
already dead but flying
laughing to be
no longer itself
only something falling
into the old gods' wide arms;

that the moment they were born
your words were

my  million separate siblings
fluttering, full from eating light
then put to fire's smoking
neither regret
nor understanding
for something changed and burning:

a life you never saw
that broke the brown wren's shell.

And now

sweet noise and dust-light sparkles
sea trash in the soft salt tide
of heartsblood oceans,
bobbing from here
to gone.



 April 2019







for my dear friend Shay's final Fireblossom Friday, where she asks us to "write about love for someone who does not know you love them."






Images: both Untitled, by Zladislav Beksinksi via internet. Fair Use.