I’ve swum and I have paddled
For years, all senses addled.
To finally break thru
And surface, all things new.
Today is a beginning
I’m somber and I’m grinning
I’m in, but coming out
Grace protect this tender sprout.
Category Archives: Poetry
Bleeding Light and Memory (without images for page structure in the poem)
When light struck my soul and I blazed
fierce and exultant into awareness,
I bled radiant joy like the horizon
bleeds the sun at dawn.
And when I gazed into the glass of exultation
(seeing darkly thru that glass)
I knew myself and was
glad and wonder-full.
Until it rained
titters tinkling,
then rebukes raging, lashing at my roof
and thrumming drumming until
I saw no more darkly and thru a glass,
but thru the storm and eerie green glow
of radioactive remarks and careless cerulean (cruelean) comment,
alas. I came to know what I was not,
and I was awful (dropped an e I did).
Into days long and same,
passing people of 2 kinds that
belong and never see beyond,
never see within.
But still I pluck
throbbing buds, thorn
blood price cheap,
and hold them out
on my side of the glowing glass
(dark, through)
and wet with stormy tears
and the washy rivers of assumed presence.
But flowers fade and grass withers…
wheat words last forever
dying and reborn
to die and be born again,
as life and glacier glances grind
and move without mercy
till I am caught
between that frozen moving flow
and the dark rocks.
Bones strewn around me
in pick-up sticks of
careless hands and players
who tired of children’s games
(forgetting they must become a child)
until at last long
awareness bursts yet again
from heights dizzy and brilliant
and bleeds over me in fullness
and in terror tinklings,
thrumming and cold and stark
and cold blue clarity.
And I remember who I am,
and know what I am.
A lass.
Will you find the mercy today?
Will you find the care?
Will you go gently into our long night
and rage, rage
together with us to bless
the living of the light?
You too are dual natured,
all ye who sing sanctifications’
sweet and austere song
(old and new in one fighting)
(dead and alive in one struggle)
(corrupt and incorruption deadly dueling)
You….are US.
and we are you…but
without arms,
without eyes,
without mouths
we scream loud
and cry for release…cry out for
midwives of mercy to meet us,
make us beautiful for situation
and delivered of our awful charge.
OPEN YOUR EYES AND EARS FOR US.
See us…
hear us…
do not fear yourself,
to stare down your stormy floods,
but see, glean and grow glad.
Oh Pharaoh’s Daughters, reach down
and lift up from the reeds and mud.
Light strikes in blacksmith blows again
and soul sparks chip off and away
As She sings and joys over me
(and you).
And on this day
I intention and remember,
remember the radiant flood
and bleeding light
of day’s eternal promise,
remember the rolling thunder
and frowning floods of painful
gushing gouts and waterspouts
in the long years walked in
the country of lost men
(and despair),
remember
the pangs,
the waves,
the start of labor as I,
pregnant with my own mystery
and full of knowing
began to emerge
and break forth, touched,
warded by Grace,
and kept from the pit
which has tripped so many
and eaten them
like Goya’s devourer
chews and rends
(let their fate haunt you and give you holy hush and silence).
They too are
Eve’s sons,
Adam’s daughters,
trapped
and
yet aware…
who fell by dreadful hands
and eyes of no symmetry.
Dare. Look. Feel.
I will too, and somewhere
we will fight off the things
that so easily entangle and be
free again to fly and
Bleed Radiant Light.
Bleeding Light and Memory
When light struck my soul and I blazed
fierce and exultant into awareness,
I bled radiant joy like the horizon bleeds the sun
at dawn.
And when I gazed into the glass of exultation (seeing darkly thru that glass)
I knew myself and was glad and wonder-full.
Until it rained
titters tinkling, then rebukes raging
lashing at my roof and thrumming
drumming until I saw no more darkly and thru a glass,
but thru the storm and eerie
green glow of radioactive remarks and
careless cerulean (cruelean) comment, alas.
I came to know what I was not,
and I was awful (dropped an e I did).
Into days long and same, passing people
of 2 kinds that belong and never see beyond,
never see within.
But still I pluck
throbbing buds, thorn blood price cheap,
and hold them out on
my side of the glowing glass (dark, thorough)
and wet with stormy tears and
the washy rivers of assumed presence.
But flowers fade and grass withers…
wheat words last forever
dying and reborn to die and be born again,
as life and glacier glances grind
and move without mercy
till I am caught between that frozen moving flow
and the dark rocks.
Bones strewn around me in pick up sticks of careless hands
and players who tired of childrens’ games
(forgetting they must become as a child)
until at last long awareness bursts yet again
from heights dizzy and brilliant and bleeds over me in fullness
and in terror tinklings, thrumming and cold and stark
and cold blue clarity.
And I remember who I am, and know what I am.
A lass.
Will you find the mercy today?
Will you find the care?
Will you go gently into our long night
and rage, rage together with us
to bless the living of the light?
You too are dual natured, all ye who
sing sanctifications’ sweet and austere song
(old and new in one fighting)
(dead and alive in one struggle)
(corrupt and incorruption deadly dueling)
You….are US. and we are you…but without arms, without eyes, without mouths we scream loud
and cry for release…cry out for
midwives of mercy to meet us, make us
beautiful for situation and delivered of our charge.
OPEN
YOUR EYES
AND EARS
FOR US.
See us
hear us…
do not
fear yourself,
to stare down your stormy floods,
but see,
glean and
grow glad
Oh Pharaoh’s Daughters,
reach down
and lift up
from the reeds and mud.
Light strikes in blacksmith blows again
and soul sparks chip off and away
As She sings and joys over me
(and you).
And on this day I intention and remember
remember the radiant flood and bleeding light
of day’s eternal promise,
remember the rolling thunder and frowning floods
of painful gushing gouts and waterspouts in the
long years walked in the country of lost men
(and despair),
remember the pangs, the waves, the start
of labor as I, pregnant with my own mystery
and full of knowing
began to emerge and break forth,
touched, warded
by Grace, and
kept from the pit
which has tripped so many and eaten them
like Goya’s devourer
chews and rends
(let their fate haunt you and give you holy hush and silence).
They too are Adam’s sons, Eve’s daughters
trapped and yet aware…who fell by dreadful hands
and eyes of no symmetry.
Dare. Look. Feel.
I will too, and somewhere we will
fight off the things
that so easily entangle
and be free again to fly and
Bleed Radiant Light.
Kulani
lie quietly by my side
like a still lake.
My heart beats
on your heart
as we hold each other’s
breathing in our arms
What I Want To Say
It’s as simple as it can be.
I’ll leave the clothes off my words
and address you nakedly as anyone can
Each one was perfect–
that is what I want to say–
PERFECT
The perfection found
only in loving.
Do you understand?
It seems against everything we know and
It seems against everything we believe and
It is true.
To say “I love you” is a humiliation for
It is the Absolute Narrowing of Possibilities
And everyone, down to
the last one
Dreads it…and wants it…
For only in narrowing is found
Endless widening freedom.
Firebird
Plunging, plunging with screaming speed,
Oh Eagle of Flame, Whose lidless eyes
Have looked into the Light behind the sun.
When all other creatures are blinded
You soar–and then–faster faster
With talons outspread–You plummet to earth.
To spit fire and speak
Speak of Her! Firebird–Flaming One
Give me words of purity!
Walking Free
If I could walk free through this shadowed place
And Time was on my side, Charissa Grace
Would step on flowers’ fragrant in the air
And keep my head up for to see you there.
My level gaze made confident and sure,
If I was free, if we had found the cure,
Then I would sing of sunsets in the night
And we would swing so high in radiant light.
And from my gut would gush great gouts of joy,
And I would ne’er again be sorrow’s toy,
If I could walk free through this shadowed place
And Time was on my side, Charissa Grace
.
Ghosts
“We were dead before the ship even sank” she said.
Thin tendrils of pain wreathed round her face
unnoticed and they left scratches unseen.
The Dutchman walked the decks in her eyes, and
in her voice was the echo of wailing and tentative tongues
trying to tell themselves they were sailing
on the ship of the dead.
Her hair crowned her soaked skull, a holly wreath
presenting her own crown of thorns and those claws
dug in to her waxy and pale fishflesh and clung
like limpets and mirrored the
cold and enflamed tendrils of grief.
“One by one we fell, overboard” she droned, as if hypnotized
by the drumming of the waves,
the thrumming of the engines,
and the humming of the wind
in the torn and tattered sails.
“Gone, given up by the ghost we gave up the ghost”
she murmured.
“We fell into the vast
and bottomless sea,
and the ship Sailed
unheeding on into
the long and everdark night.”
I thought on these things
as my feet were burning hot
in the bright and gritty sand,
and my face baked in the grip
of the gleaming sun
and the taste of salty strain
and the happy ache of
love’s labors in my bowed back…
and I was fiercely glad
that I had never taken that voyage.
Winter
From far out in the center
of the naked lake
A Lost Loon’s Loud Lament
Echoes the cry of someone.
My love, we did not arrive at this place
To remain whole.
We came to lose our leaves
Like trees.
Trees are broken in winter and start again
Drawing up from
The Great Root.
Like Trees
We live again.
Longing
I am longing,
as a sailboat
longs for water,
Longs for the
cool swell of the river.
I am longing
as a dark soft curl
of a woman’s hair
longs for a flower.
I am longing,
as the blueness of sky
longs for the rhythmic
fables of bells.
I am longing,
as an empty cradle
longs for someone’s
tremulous sleep.
I am longing,
as a mirror
longs for
Reflections.
Such a longing.
Such a long time,
such a long way,
Such a longing.
Cornered
And I find at long last
the days taste of black licorice and
camphorous witch hazel
scrunched over my heart,
and ground-in dirt and gritty green and gummy pain
crust thick and stale over its surface.
I pull my brown drab blanket closer
and cling to clotted adhesions
of inner and outer worlds in collision.
Cornered, walls of the past and the future
hem me in. Raw, bleeding tears
and tears
where I seek to
strip away small comforts
but only tear pieces of me
off with them.
cornered.
and how deep runs the river,
how cold the current
how silent the stream.
South Delhi Roadside, 8 A.M. by Michael Creighton
One of my very favorite poems ever, appeared in a newspaper years ago…I am blown away at the capturing of the power of a Woman, and the ready relish her man takes in being hers.
She is lovely, I think, as she sits,
one hand draped lightly over the shoulder
of her breathless companion, the other moving up and
out, as it punctuates the monologue she is murmuring
in his ear. Even from here, I can see that fines lines
break and run from her eyes, and banks of invasive gray
have taken root in her wild black curls. (Later today,
I will read that Sharon Stone has proven older women
can be beautiful, and I will think—was there ever
any doubt?) My God, this woman looks like a queen,
except she is sitting sideways, balanced,
on the back of an old, black bicycle.
The late April heat is already up,
and anyone looking would see
this man of hers is hard at it; his pressed
white shirt had become untucked in the back,
and the slick bare skin at the top of his head
is pearled with sweat. I wonder
if he finds himself wishing
he could trade the load he is pedaling
for a bottle of cold water, or an FM radio.
Suddenly, the corners of her lips elevate slightly,
and taking his right ear between her thumb and forefinger,
she tugs. His head snaps back, mouth open wide,
and he laughs with such force
that even the dogs drowsing
in the dusty shade that lines this road
lift their heads and sing.
As She Sleeps
I watch, fingers for eyes,
as she Sleeps
night pulled inside her,
down her eyes
like a velvet blanket
I touch…face, and see pain flying away,
ducks from the pond
breaking
dashing in the dark
feathers fluttering feebly
all that is left of the fight
i stroke and see
strife shuffling off
shambling shibboleth
gross golem
gone.
my hands heal, they speak,
and call the sun
rising inside her, restoring her to
light to
love to
life…and life.
my lips preach with
a kiss upon her brow,
and she sighs
and i know the dawn is come.
Hounding of the Hares
After A Kill There Is A Feast.
Toward The End, When Dancing Dies,
The Hounds, Drunk On Hares’ Blood
Begin To Talk Of How Soft
Were Their Pelts, How Graceful
Their Leaps, How Lovely
Their Scared, Sad Eyes
Regression
Regression
I have seen, in my solitude
Very clear things that are
not true.
The poet does not pursue
the fundamental “I”
but the essential “you”.
Things to ponder:
a heart that is solitary is
a heart no longer
But when you criticize me,
Catch also
a cricket by the wing
and accuse her
of chirruping!
Going and Coming
In misty morning’s early grasp
autumn rituals of smoke
and crackly leaves
lay strewn around about…
and I hover
twixt two times,
two places and wandering
from side to side
and place to place
and me to me,
fading, forming,
transparent and thin
dropping (fig) leaves.
this tree longs
to slumber
and lay dormant
awaken and
break free…
I take on form and visage
and gather threads together
of my true heart,
and feed to life’s
warp and weft and beam
till I am fashioned again,
with face and substance shining…
me…
Her glowing Grace-Kissed Gleam.
Waltz Time
3/4 time the music swirled
unfurled and rolled along
while life just twisted, doubled, curled
and sang its starry song.
Pastiche, panoramas, plans
click by like slides before
the slumbering spirits too drunk on draughts
of dreamy days of yore…
and nights of normal life, assumed,
taken as granted and gifted
while life just twisted, doubled, curled
and sang its white swan song.
Waltz time strains echoing through
A life time of refrains
But Joy endures with compass True
To dance, to love, Sustain.
Vintages of Grace
The road rising from
earth to eternity
carried on by
terroir and terrain
a zigzag of
gush and glory.
the road from
heaven to earth
is trod by
brass brazen angel feet
who carry
hints and clues
of heavenly vintage
and teach us
that from grapes of wrath
will come forth
vintages of grace…
Present in the Vanishing
And I endure, face forward
into steely storms of bracing
whiplash crystal raindrops.
Whirlwind tempests,
tendrils, tongues,
tempos swirling in,
they ride and run like tides.
Face to face I stand in place
free in myself but chained to me.
And I endure, face forward.
Shall I dance,
invited to Solstice
morphing and spin,
silky and gushing
wet my heart essence
to caress this creature?
Encase and bury her
inside a tomb
of rest, a womb
of becoming?
Every blow,
every storm
strips me clean,
disappears me,
reveals me
Transforms me,
calls me,
uncoccoons me
Until I endure,
face forward.
Tears into Gold
Deeps call, cry, and break
on my heart in salty misty sheets
and then dissolve into tearful torrents
and groans.
There is much to weep for in this life,
and against too…and they stain
and leave their telltale tracks
(sandpipers cry and running evidences in the waves’ edges).
And yet.
And yet…from tears work a Power
A Grace
A Love
Benevolent Rumplestiltskin takes my dross
My straw and spins my
Tears into Gold.
The Terrorist
BACK! Git Back,
Burka Bound Bitch!
you dare to undrape
and go graceful and glad?
You are nothing but
double trouble and toil
and you violate my space
with your notions of liberty.
I SWEAR! Ima
BLOW MYSELF UP!
Ima blow you up!
Iffn I don’t git my way.
Your soul belongs to me,
your heart, keep it hidden and draped
in my fables of your self!
You undraped is the universe
shitting on me special
(I’m soo special the
fucking UNIVERSE makes a point
to shit on me!!)
You uncocooned
is affront, threat!
Fingers jammed
into my ears
and palms over
eyes and mouth
you are
seeevil-
hearevil-
speakevil!
You have no place like me…
for I have been
natural borned
to my bone crusted throne!
Earned by springing from
the spiritual loins of
My Ancestors…
the great woman haters of history…
the great race haters of history…
the great religion haters of history…
the great sex haters of history…
We OWN you!
Burka Bound Bitch,
wear the skin I assign you
and be that
hairy bear-befuddled
muscle bound misslemuscle
I say you are…
WE SAY YOU ARE…
and are not.
I swear!
I blow it all up
and show everyone…
unless you stay
chained in 2 chains
you horrid gender freak.
#15
The poet is a more
desperate person
than most…
she must
get it all down
before the
ages are up.
Which, as any poet will tell you
Is A BITCH!
Silences
Caustic and toxic silences
Scream with cowardly cadences.
Sulking, skulking coyotes
round the campfire,
Shadows, darting in
and nipping at my heart.
Worrying teeth and gnashing jowls
behind which hides…what?
Cowardice?
Callousness?
Cowardice?
Who knows,
for silence rules like Stalin
Over a bleak and barren land
from which the songbirds
have gone, have fled
before the Glower and Growl
of Self…
of Silence.
There are silences that kneel,
silences that cover over a multitude.
Silences that fall like snow
and make all things pure
and new and whole.
But this silence is
the nasty Hangover Sweat
of one drunk on self
and laying waste to the land…
yipping
kipping
howling
nipping
ripping.
Suffering has voice but
Silence, dumb and gibbering
in its self indulgence
Towers over all.
Scenario
in the midst
of the slant silent snow
the bird is rising away
from the wild and barren tree
eccentric knotted twigs
bending forward ‘neath the wind
and horn-like
at the top.
You
You.
Fair presence
Whose
Name
I cannot
name,
only
“My Dearest Darling”
only
“My Heart”
You,
whose
Name
I cannot
name,
Because
it is
my
deepest
Breath
Haiku #9
Haiku #9
face in quiet night
softly holds the fire glow
in her smoky eyes.
catching her portrait
in gold glistening harvest moon
her very essence.
she smiles quietly
lovely effortlessly free
laughing in the night.
Chrysallis
I ran across this in a folder of poems, and I honestly cannot recall if I wrote this or not…I always include info about the author as a footnote when I save someone else’s poem, and I did not with this one…and yet I just do not think I wrote this. It is in my style, yes, but some of the words are words that surprise me…but then again that often happens to me.
At any rate, this poem is about me and my inner woman who longs to be set free…and also about my inner eternal self, encased in this carnal cap waiting to manifest the metamorphaeo that is ongoing, and soon to show forth.
Chrysallís
She is more
Than the
Chrysós of
Her word shaped
Cocoon
Swivel behind
Each syllable
And feel the
Moving segments
As she atones?
Is she soundless?
In her Chrysallís
Or simply
“along with,”
“among,”
“after,”
“behind,”
“beyond,”
She is mine… not mine
She is pupa to imago
In each split-second
I wrestle with her between
Each wing expansion
Sharing the veins
Of Pure (H)ellenian
Blood
All Day Long
I think about you all day long,
In quiet lulls and lilting song,
I think about you all day long.
I always ever have so thought,
Before I knew your name I sought,
I always ever have so thought.
The silences redound with song,
Those cataracts of thunderous throng,
And I think about you all day long.
Years come and go, an avalanche,
Days sprout like leaves that spin and dance,
Years come and go, an avalanche.
And on that day that is my last
The culmination of my past
I’ll think about you…
All Day Long
The Yardbird Sings
Sleep is a thready nuisance
That separates me from my heart
My heart.
Dream-clouded Prison walls lock me in
This world.
Liberty hour comes again,
and I
Can walk the yard until
The guards…sleep…setting…others…
Shout “Back inside Yardbird!”
Someday I shall fly and follow
That same path my soul flies,
My Heart leaps up like the stag,
Like a falcon unhooded
Rises, and rises,
Like Icarus to the sun drawn
OH! Would that the Sun melt my waxy wings
That I would plummet and fall
Into myself, into my place
Like homing pigeons returning to
The Long Loved Last Home.
At last, we shall meet and meet and meet
And I shall wake
And be home.
The Heart’s Red Door
And I await a sign,
from You, Director
Maestro of Mercy
and stark eyes.
Beckon me…direct me,
and I a flute
to Your lips
shall my soul trill
in response,
and I will move.
But oh Rose behind the Sun,
enlighten me
Your benighted and blind daughter…
Am I coming out?
Or entering in?
Draw me in,
Redness of my Heartbleed
To the cross which hangs
Heavy…
Between
Heaven and Earth
Spirit and Dust
In and out…
Me and myself
And You.
The Simplicity
I hide behind the simple things
(not the easy)
so you’ll find me;
If you don’t find me,
you’ll find the things
You’ll touch what my hand has touched,
Our handprints will merge…
The august moon glitters
In the kitchen
Like a tin plated pot
(it does that because of what I am saying to you),
It lights up the empty house
And the house’s kneeling silence
Always the silence remains kneeling
Every word is a doorway
To a meeting—one often cancelled—
And that’s when a word is True:
When it insists on the meeting
Untitled
Untitled
At last, I am with you always in the peaceful dreams
Tokens from Flathead, hot-tea hopes, all have driven
Wedges through blankness
Towards that oneness that I always hoped we
will achieve,
Where you are is where the Rose unfolds
and brings an answer
men have watched for from the
now of time
I feel I must dance and sing to tell of this
In a way that, knowing you,
You may be drawn to me.
I sing amidst despair and isolation,
(those seeming entities…HAH!)
I sing of the chance to know you, to sing of
Me and you. You see, you hold me up to the light
In a way that I never expected, or suspected,
Perhaps…
I am yours to die with, to desire—I must not
Ever think of me. I desire you
If the wild night of a February day be true.
I pledge to be truthful unto you,
When I can never stop remembering…
Remembering to pass beyond you into the day
On the wings of the Dove.
Take me from myself in the path of the Day assigned!
I prefer “you” in the plural, and
I want you to come to me
All golden and pale
Like dew and air
And then I start getting this feeling of
EXULTATION
A Poem I love…not one by me
“What Do Women Want?”
by Kim Addonizio
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.
Babel
And then,
from the beauty
of the distant and pregnant horizon,
full of feeling and love…
looms a tower stark
Pillar prick into the sky
that twists or numbs
and love turns sideways
and shunts to the drain
guttering and skuttering
into the dirt.
And once again
love lies discarded
and untouched.
Babel,
alas.
Crystal Clarity
In the 11th hour
late, when wolves tire and
fall silent while silence howls for them…
Firelight ebbs and heat
retreats anemone like
as Cold Frosty Fingers touch it, poke it.
I rise from slumber, and smoke is blown away by
Cleansing icy arctic cold breaths.
Puffing and Huffing and blowing it away…
drowsiness dashed in the face by icewater
Thrown like wedding rice…and Deliverance
Waves her smelling salts under my nose.
My eyes snap open…wide…
awake, fully awake, again.
Thralldom swept aside,
indulgent chocolate emotional bon-bons tossed
Out and into the streets of never was land.
I open the door and let the frigid wind
embrace me, ravage me…
scrub me clean and cleanse me
North Winds of Truth and Sanity.
My eyes are open, and I am free,
to walk and look in
Crystal Clarity.
On the Beach
On the Beach
in sand, feet planted firmly
world spinning and whirring for moments
and moments
as tides advance in quick ranks
the foot soldiers of time
licking at the shore, nibbling with
foamy teeth and laughing in sandy throats.
I have watched decades for tide wars
and dances, as life ebbs and flows
in flux always, changing always but
steady, reliable…tangible and present.
I have seen it go around, and then come around again.
I draw comfort as I stand
and flex my toes in the loamy sand of you
and listen to your tides
quick and bright in small steady waves of order.
I have stood through storms, and through
Waxing, waning waves and winds
as planet you whirls and spins and turns.
And I have seen the tide come back in.
And I am content,
in the wind.
Jewels in the Dung Heap
And there,
in the midst of the dung heap
a simple pearl, formed thru travail and trial,
given birth to by Lady Wisdom.
Daddy died and farm lost
and fresh start which was so scary…
perhaps just the beginning
of the end?
But a flock of friends,
well, really just one oyster
swallowed this solitary sand grain
and made a pearl
Faithful
Loyal
Considerate
lelo on low,
on medium,
lelo on high
angels we have heard on high
GLORIA
Fresh…yes.
So simple, yet so rare
in the dung of narcissistic natter.
and the tumult fades,
drowned out like flames soused
by living waters.
Fallout
A storm came last month
Frightful winds and torrents
of tumultuous Weather
round and down
Beating on house,
on covering, on
Leaf and Limb.
Shuddering the walls
and singing a nightmare
lullaby to thready sleep.
When I woke, I went outside.
to take stock.
Sit. Look
at the damage.
And I saw a tree limb off.
Greedy ham hands
grabbed and wrenched
with windy stringy muscles
and huffing tendons and
tore it asunder.
Sap oozed out
of the rent trunk
as the tree wept
in pain and screamed
in sticky inarticulate
pitches.
I had to let it weep…
maybe it would heal
If it could harden
over and miss,
remember the limb
lost in the storm.
But perhaps it wouldnt.
The tree has not decided…today.
Still soft…but not sticky.
Still weeping, but not flowing.
But always missing,
remembering its wasness
on the way to its is-ness.
I saw a woman walk by…
she had been in a storm
and was cousin to my tree.
Awakening
Wraiths of mist rise from a pond
And smoke settles in leisure over
our valley as sun mounts to
the rim of our small mountain world…
So also forms so gradually
In the dull flesh of my dim mind
a wreath of thought…and then I wake
I find
it’s you…
You there beside me.
Sailing On
In the ether movements of the slipstream
my desire rises…lifts…groans great.
WHY??? Why cannot I have those like me, and me like they?
The wind carries laughter,
faint and exotic music…
happy screams and squeals
guitar riffs roiling up
and howling down
roller-coaster blues
rhythm and blues
Music of the gut,
sound of the loins
Sirens sounding,
and I, unlike Ulysses
cast off chains of my limbs…
so I can move…dance…
smile and lilt
and drink
For my chains are inside,
and my mast is unseen
I will listen…
I will look…
I will dance
And sail on
Slash and Burn
When great gouts of fire furiously
roar and run red, white, hot
and fast…sometimes
the only thing to do is slash and burn.
Tractors, mechanized beasts
screaming in heat
straining thru living
wood and hairy brush
as animals run and fall.
Slash the heart fast to save it.
And then burn…back to the fire with fire
and heat and fear matching fire and fear,
to stop the raging monster fast…
some gone to save all.
Today, memory fires
gnash, clash, snatch and
clutch at my heart’s
throbbing and raw throat.
Dry tinder laid by
yesterday’s careless prunings
catches…holds, and then flame
hungry minotar roaring
running raging
Amok in my heart,
hooves and horns
sharp and acrid
the slash and burn
of love to stop loss.
and I am aflame
I am passion
I am loss
I am love and light
and I am hurt
Until the fire dies,
never sated but eaten all
there is
and there isn’t
and new growth
begins again
Waves of Creation, Waves of Me
In Waves creation runs
from the center to the ragged edge
from seething molten orange gouts
to static ponderous peaks frozen by
waves of wind
and Air.
Waves beneath me, around me, above me
pulled in place and parked, punked
by gravity waves and bridles.
Tidal waves
Shock waves
Sine waves
Light waves
Mountain Waves
Cloud Waves
Star Waves
I surf,
conscious at the intersection of all waves
Id waves
Ego waves
Super ego waves
Body Waves
Mind waves
Emotional Waves
Spirit waves
In the name of the Father (waves),
Son (waves),
and Holy Spirit (waves).
Last nite
Last nite
I sat out on the porch
The Stars sang overhead
Your voice sang in my ear
My blood raced and sang red
Red ran my love’s desire
And wetness sprang with joy
Your laugh set me on fire
My answer soothed your need
You looked for someone deeper
You wanted someone strong
Impetuous and steady
You said you wanted me.
In two nights we will wander
In summer vineyard growth
The stars o’er head will shimmer
And sing that ancient song
Of love, desire, and loving
Of kissing, touching, longing
I think that I am falling
But falling ever up.
Last nite, I sat out, talking
Just talking thru the evening
Melodious wondrous youness
Your voice my soul’s lost song.
Haunter of Worlds
You, who haunts my world
Echoes of meaning sounding like doves
Calling and cooing ‘cross the tumultuous river
You come walking
High fiery chariot flying
Wreathed in ribbons of flame
Yet where you burn ruin undoes
And the torrents tumble up and back
Source drawing all to Thyself
A great diamond draught
OH! Emissary eternal emerge!
Dare to glitter bold and green
And translucent
Dare to transcend and leave behind the fears of them
Who would equivocate and dilute One Truth into all truth.
Stand stark! Reek of Eternity-fire, my Smoke, and FEAR NOT!
Coals from that altar seek lips, seek kisses…
Press past blistered parchedness and decimated crispy ashes!
Glide, RISE!! Singular, unafraid and distinct!
Set apart, and unstoppable…
You…who haunts my world
Dearest Haunter of my world
Do Not Forget My Love
Do Not Forget My Love
Charming as you may be,
I wanted you to have me.
I wanted you to have me.
Do not forget my love, you have yet to conquer me.
Conquer.
Charm.
Tame.
Delight.
Love me only.
Conquer me completely.
Hold me always.
I’m yours for the taking,
If you dare
The Must
As I have commented before, I think wine is the central metaphor that best explains the journey of Life, and the task we are all given. In that post, I said that a good bottle of wine is the distillation of thousands of relational decisions made well…and that I long to be the distillation of thousands of relational decisions made well.
Harvest is/has happened, and Crush is upon us (oh CRUSH, be upon us always)…during crush there are many tasks that must be carried out, and one is called punch down, or pump over. This is where the conglomeration of grapes, seeds, stems and other things that may have been able to make it through the sort and into the fermentor are all allowed to sit…this union is called “must”. The solids soon float to the top and form a cap, and that cap has to be pierced with an implement, and punched back down into the juice so that flavor and color can be extracted.
Some wine makers use a pumping method, where they pump the juice from below over on top of the cap and create a mixing via that method.
Either way, the cap of skins, seeds, stems…the conveyors of what is precious and desired (the juice) has to be pierced, assaulted, and then ultimately removed at the right time to leave just the juice and its extracted color and flavor to ferment, transform and become wine.
I worked Evening Punch Down one year, and I was struck by the highly metaphoric parallel to my life, and the process of sanctification. I bring my harvest to the King, and He receives it with Joy, good fruit! And then He puts it through the crusher, and presses out the juice, crushing what I had brought of my best and greatest steps for Him…
ANGUISH!!!
But ultimately peace, and with time, a good wine that brings refreshment to others. As I worked, and thought, the parallels grew stronger and deeper, and so I composed this poem to talk about that whole thing.
You need to read this out loud to yourself, for there is an intentional rhythm to it that emulates the rhythm of the punch as it operates to pierce the cap and mix the must with the juice. Let your mind wander, to the work of the WineMaker as He punches down your “carnal cap” into the good juice in the Must of your life.
and of course the double entendre of Must is a major clue.
Anyway, without further prevarication, I give you The Must
The Must
I.
In still night the must calls…
pure flute and woodwind spice
scents rising soft, unseen
on bright brass trumpetings
of cunning magic hidden
to work a wonder war
on this old dreary world.
The deep bass heartbeat drums,
comes thrumming thru the must,
and swelling symphony
resurrects rituals
so old, so new, so fresh.
The dewy year looks up
to see the conductor,
and hear and breathe and live…
… in still night the must calls…
II.
We ride steady and tired
from our loving labor
and crusted with our works,
and wondering when we’ll end
tonight and sleep, and when
we’ll rise again, awake
in the new day to work
refreshed, to live again.
The cap is full and thick
and covering liquid fire
that’s running deeply dark,
so purplely rich and red,
the twigs, the stems, the seeds
and skins…the must so red…
beneath the silky skins
so softly rich within.
III.
So we punch down up down
again…and…then again.
Arms push and pull, backs bend,
wide smiles of working joy.
We’re captured in its rhythm,
the rhythm of the punch,
our hearts echo the singing
so red beneath our skins…
How many times, the punch?
How many years have sung?
Is this song That, played over
thru wooly years but changéd
instruments and players…
or do we bathe our spirits
in echoes of the echo
of echoes of The Song?
IV.
And still we punch…the air,
still, pregnant with passion,
a blanket full and heavy
with yeasty moist desire.
We plunge in–out–and breathe
in heady air that gooses
our heads giddy with wonder
and with creation’s dancing
and fragrant must desire
(Desire! Oh Desire…).
Sweat beads, drips, white blood running,
and falling into red,
and tumbling terroir breeding
its brick-bronze grape blood brew…
“unless you drink my blood
you have no life in you”…
V.
Then wet washing, flooding,
the ragged rinsing scours
away all evidences
of work, and only wine
is left fermenting…singing
and playing in the darkness
orchestral magic mysteries
and alchemal aromas
(plum leather chewy cherry
bright red chocolately berry
red purple blowzy jory
cigar-box smoky loam).
The lights dim, darkness drawing
the velvet curtain closed
but underneath: the song,
the must, and still the song…
VI.
In dark night the Must beats
so stridently inside me,
its pounding rhythms driving,
its needing, capped and covered
by Crush, and skins…and silver,
the silver punch is raising
and down again comes piercing,
and punching, rending roughly
the crusty carnal cap and
then pulling up the Must from
the purplely unknown deep
(deep calls out unto deep). Oh…
It breaks my stubborn body,
and rends my soul in darkness,
still the Must calls from body
to body…in the darkness.
VII.
Up and down and up and down
it pulls and thrusts and pushes
the jangly pain and joy…
The pungent Must shall mingle
with living dirt that’s red,
red underneath the skins, and
The Song! The Song… is floating…
It beckons, drives and drags me,
chained captive to the Crush and
the skins, the seeds, the stems and
the Must moves on, and in and
the Must moves thru and sings out…
in the night…
in the night…
in the night…
In still night the Must calls.
Falling Up Forever
So…
you see walls blowing out
Hurricane Charissa has come
pressure changes,
waxing, waning
antiforce of nature
Hurled at walls
are my heartbeats,
my words, my
face-first running
slamming.
I will shatter
your fist with my face
Face like Flint
and resolute.
I do not swerve.
I do not turn aside
Comet Charis
flashing fiery
in your sky
Portents of doom
to your darkness…
or to you.
your choice false one,
prevaricating one,
sneering
you will wear
that sneer inside out,
and find it smeared
on your visage permanent
while you scrub
with this cloth…
no wait,
THAT cloth…
no wait,
wrong gloves
and name.
LEAVE OFF FAITHLESS FEARFUL one.
Stop.
why?
?
You stand at a precipice,
crystal and sharp shards
behind you, dazzling you
with a million reflections of yourself
Narcissus indulged
but before you…
walls blown out
I pay no mind to walls
and yawning beneath you
the gaping gorge down
and down,
with whooshing whispers of…
…something…
Step off.
I dare you.
Step off and
fall to me, and
find yourself
rising in my arms.
For my world is upside down to you…
to live,
you must seek
to give away your life.
To be first
you must be last.
To be the greatest
you must be the least.
To be strong
you must be weak
To be wise
you must be foolish.
To fly up with me,
you must
Fall
with Charissa the weak
with Charissa the fool
with Charissa the last
with Charissa the dying
For I am falling up
and though NONE
go with me
I will fall…
up
Till I am flying away
and ever enter In,
higher up
and deeper in.
The Great and Long Reduction
It’s been three decades.
Longer with than without…
and I see the reckless words of callow youth–
dried husks, dead and cast away.
How small! How single! How hard!
Thank our Captain and our Shepherd
Faithful Husbandman
Vinedresser and Sower
Patience poked deep into the dirt of time
to plant my proud poems and bury
my plaintive pleas deep.
To die. To leave the dirt behind,
The husks split by Night’s trial and Death’s
Danse Macabré.
And the love emerges still from stalks
Staked and made strong by time.
Eloquence wanes as love remains waxing
eloquent in gesture and deed and glance…
…I love this Journey-Dance.
And I love you Jane,
God’s Gracious Glance.
Watching Time Pass
how long will it be for time to pass…
I sit inside,
inside male skin and inside my house…
and I watch others go
about in the world…
comfortable, freaking unconscious
of the THAT THEY ARE.
My candles are lit,
and I sit
at the window
and listen
to the gears turning
tock by tick.
They march
in time to time
passing easily
but I must sit
as time passes
because I just don’t.
Velvet River
ALERT! ALERT!
The following poem is of a sensually charged nature…if you are one who loves to take up offense and carry it like a badge of honor, if you are easily inflamed by the actions and words of others that you disagree with and then choose to be offended over, then you need to skip this post.
It is about desire, about connection, about the wondrous and primal physical analogue to the mysterious spiritual ecstasies that are woven into the warp and weft of our being human. After all…we are spiritual beings who are having a physical experience, and yet we are also physical beings who are having a spiritual experience too (otherwise, what is the point of a physical resurrection??? Hmmm????
Anyway, I am not hiding on this blog, and I am going to share. Look away if you are afraid, and read if you dare.
Velvet River
Darkness grips
with velvet claws and fastens
Fat and swollen
all around the bed…but soft
and welcome.
The darkness of becoming.
The unbecoming darkness.
The one at whose door
evil darkness can
only scratch in
frustration, shut out.
The darkness of a womb waiting.
The darkness of a room…
bed waiting…body aching…
The darkness of the moon,
watching
Then you come,
sliding and gliding
hat low over
one steely glinty eye
behind which hides
a wide and glowy winking eye
merrily seeking me.
your tie askew,
your blouse undone
I lay in the darkness…
in the grip of velvet claws
Fat and swollen…echoing
my fat and swollen river banks
And the velvet river
wakes and stirs.
you sit
on the bed
and touch my legs
with that eye,
that glance,
that want.
And the river runs
velvet and soft
and your
touch is plush
your tongue my hero,
my champion.
sounds in the darkness
cannot be heard elsewhere
and i groan and moan
with longing and desire
and then
we plunge
into the river
and breathe
underwater
Charissa's Grace Notes 
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