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