Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

In a shifting sand ceremony -
a world of tea and story and codex -
the truth approaches, silent and unspoken
like longing never settled and always
in expectance…

it isn’t the amber in transparent cups, nor the flames;
not the tent or bright rug, nor the scent of horse
and sheep on the hot wind,
but in the things we make, not me or you,
but us, we –the things we make that last (so precious few)
that’s where you find me, and I find you.

…of things that know no borders and no language can describe
or hide within the vastness of a tiny star,
or even smaller universe, where things we should keep
and things we should not embrace –

and us?

We are merely the need of something larger than that star
or universe approaching in things we make,
not me or you, but Us, We –

the things we make that last are so precious few,
that’s where I find me, and you find you.

And later in the coolness of tonight,
the taste of desert tea still in my soul,
I will surround my memories with a vision
of earlier awakenings and a shifting sand world,
for nothing changes in this dreamtime realm,
but remains deep within a moving heart,
silent, unsaid, reaching down to us through longing
woven into the fabric of life…

a shifting sand ceremony -
worlds of tea and story and codex –

…into the truth arriving,

silent

and already Known.

Low flight Wingtips touching Water of a mountain lake
Lovers below the surface at last embrace
no-need for air and stars and moon reflecting the pattern
from the cave stone floor of what can never be seen
Naked eyes are here Seeing clouds dancing to songs
of crickets and shamans show Flowing mountains
of eagle wings

Serpents float to the surface and become lovers
gasping in the sacred scream and an arm around me
Smoke filled room and chanting tongues of safety
and of space and of falling through the womb
and falling through may the gods be with us in the center
I searched

I searched
the universe for You welcome

welcome

to the otherworld

my friend.

Clouds Coming Down

And counting days forgotten,

I dedicate this place

with gifts from far away -

gifts I don’t want to give.

Is that why at night

when old fog betrays

steps of darkness in the meadow,

the swaying of young birch,

and the rushing of the stream

conflict the motionless,

meaningless hand of time?

Moving differently if at all,

I see curves of the beloved,

along hills and contours of trees -

the sighing of clouds coming down.

I’ll be leaving again soon,

in the silence of uncertainty,

but now, on the edge of fear,

an innocent star accompanies me,

across the high horizon -

I watch it every night,

knowing I will leave.

So counting nights forgotten,

I dedicate this place

with gifts from far away -

places I will never see.

Her Name

The desert accepted me, a traveler from far away
and after seven days,
forgave me, as she knew my thirst
in her heart, and with her thoughts, she spoke
and sent a breeze without pride
of the ability to cool man and beast.

I, knower of so many winds, was taken aback
by that new breeze,
as along the sheer cliffs of my mind
it found its way, strange but known,
and while it seeped into the cold hard shell,
I began to weep.

Briefly but deeply
we hold those winds that change
the fabric of our being, but only
if we hold them for others loved,
and those as yet unloved.

It is on new winds that beauty rides,
new life and new ways
of passing from soul to soul, so
even though I am not sure
of the scent it carries or of the rain,
I welcome this new wind into my heart.
On its way to her, I release it at once.
It chases the sand from my eyes,
paints the hills in green, and

at the oasis of her love that night
I saw her form and knew at last
her name – compassion.

The Watcher and the Watched

I stand in the gentle rain, nearby
and watch, as she comes and goes,
tendrils of mist rising and drifting
from a new forest waiting
and watching me, judging silently,
and in expectation of

a song,
I watch.

She comes and goes
away,
again.

In his wanting to say, what need not be said, in his wanting to say
what need not be brought from any vast land, what need not be brought
across any vast sea, what need not be brought into anywhere,
for it is already within…

but anyway,
In his wanting to say
What the Curlew Said,
John asked…
two simple questions, threatening. Indeed, in their simplicity, unseating
our careful structuring of the world. Undermining the safety of the universe,
and the supposed secrecy of my soul…

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