Leaves of Absence

Leaves of Absence

One comes

while another leaves.

One afternoon 

becomes

 a month of falling leaves.

The long job

of loving needs

a leave of falling months,

leave to go

 re-leaved,

tho leaving is grieving

gone is better so;

to leave

Love's little fat god

smirking,

 pleased to

take each sacrifice

and close his till,

scattering

dead leaves.

February 2012

55 falling leaves for    the G-Man

Photo: Pressed Leaves, by Petteri Sulonen on flick'r

Thanks, Petteri.

As well as sharing his photographic talents on flick'r, Petteri blogs eclectically at 

 Come to think of it,  an always interesting read.

The Five Parts Of The Soul

The Five Parts of the Soul

Ib

In the salty womb, from one drop

of mother’s blood, comes the heart

whole, master and servant

will and conception,

thought’s matrix.

Sheut

From the feet falls the shadow

from which we never part

dark essence of our selves light

dances with always

across the skin of the world.

Ren

We are given a name

and in taking it start,

by naming reveal and conceal

destroy, endure,

possess and make.

Ba

Within, the bird of the soul

makes herself with art

ever singing, ever flying;

song and destination

all we are

Ka

From the potter’s wheel

our shell is spun, molded, mark

given form, then spark,

spirit’s voice for the quickening

within

So living true we amalgamate and form

these parts a whole, building from the heart,

knowing the shadow, named and naming,

flying  with soul and flame of life

to walk with the Sun under Sky

fight through black and

lightless Underworld

and out, remade, a million

times a million journeys, ever new.

September 2011









Once again I do a magpie raid on mythology, this time picking up some of the shiny concepts of the soul and the afterlife as conceived by the ancient Egyptians. They are loosely and imaginatively rendered here, not literally.

Images of Nut, the Eqyptian Sky Goddess, protecting Ra, the Sun disk, and dividing order from chaos

courtesy wikimedia commons.

Conversation with T. alba

A Talk with Tyto alba

To the garden watered

by my tears

the Barn Owl came one night.

He sat on a branch,

swiveling his windowed head

and asked me why

I cried.

“Are you lonely

here, in this place

you built yourself? Do the walls

draw in at evening

and do you miss the sigh

of free wind I sail?”

I looked in his eyes

round as apples, golden

orbs drawing light

from dark, and shook my head.

“Then is it the stone

you carry inside, the one

that presses so hard on your lungs,

heavy with years, hollow with loss,

sharp with  fear

of  tomorrow?”

I shook my head 

and said,

“I don’t cry for what I’ve lost

or what I am or what will be.

 I cry for what I’ve broken

and what has broken me.”

“Very sensible,”

said my friend

with a dip of his wing

and left my garden,

chasing the soft

sweet rustlings

in the grass.

June 2011

Image: Lechuza (Tyto alba) by macha.cl posted on flick'r 

macha.cl's photostream
Shared under a Creative Commons 2.0 Generic License

Things Endure

Things endure
then they explode

here where our hands
are so busy working
in the round room.

In the basement
the child waits,
worn out beneath the bare lightbulb
that barely breaks the black

alone where no one
has heard,
as her wells of eyes look
for light past the screen

into the big dark.

June 2011

Posted for   Friday Flash 55   at the G-Man's

Incubus

Incubus

Late at night
when sleep's a joke
told for hours without a punchline
the incubus comes by.

It’s a wild

but comforting thing; the horns

hardly show and it knows

how to make the tail

so useful 

but sometimes

the goat eye slants

and pins me to the bed,

the cleft foot

burns where it walks

on my chest;

but still

I laugh like a fool 

for the nights

you come to me, brined with

memory, slick with salt.

June 2011

Companion piece to Incubus II,

Incubus III, and Incubus IV