Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

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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Crossing the short bridge, I hadn’t expected it,
mainland to island,
so

to those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.

Yes,
rain was expected, clouds blackening, rolling
on whispering prayers in the hearth warmed room,
filled with the scent of peat and whiskey,
songs and tears. Rusting boats quiver
below red hills of Achill,
What fitting weather

for grief.

Had it been expected? Had death’s cloud rolled in
over grey waters? Had they suddenly appeared?
Sideways rain outside, taking thoughts away from grief,
what fitting weather

for a wake.

Wind, grieving brother,
the sideways rain, all the tears
of a widow’s grief,

and I, intruding.

Driving slowly through the storm, driving slowly
through the grief in my naked visitorship,
Driving slowly past the rocking boats
and spraying surf, driving slowly
past the family and friends huddled
against themselves, making their way
to the fire’s glow.

And then,
a bit farther up the road, farther
into the storm smudged hills, we stopped
dangerously close to true lands end,
where the sudden green of the cliff stood fast
against sky and water.

We stopped at that lands end but,
not driven by love, not pursued
by grief or society, we stayed in the car,

and wept:
Three years later, I will say a prayer
for those that remain.
I will say a prayer to keep me
from intruding.

After a while, wanting to be away from the awe
of natures cycles, the storm left,
moving inland. Or was it merely
I was now moving outland, leaving
storms behind?

To those who remain:
this is my prayer, at last.
I dare not intrude.