Monday, April 25, 2011

music muse

The darkness of his fire
emerges from the core, out of the void
He blazes deep down the roots
detonating through the crown
engulfing stray thoughts
and ideas for feeble verse
igniting straight up, moving through
undulating rivers of blood and
airy leaps of synapses
reconnecting luminous whispers

Abundant recollections teeming
in the lustrous pools of
imagination that bend space
part open the veils of time
welcome in ancient truths
again brought in through the egress
on the edge of what’s been alleged
and freshly understood again

His bass strings pull away from their source
opening cathedrals of ample air
His drumming binds my heartbeats
in polyrhythmic harmony,
a dissonant crash then dive into the puddle
lifting out strands of swirling wine winds
golden blinding air bursts into steam
breathed up mind’s deepest pathways
down through eclipsing masses

His voice sinks down the apple’s core
bricolage of the pieces pulled apart
dust devil of sun’s desire
gathers the lingering melodies
evocative bass lines
perpetual rhythms
into a brewing center which
opens to reveal
inner knowing
not sensed

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

I woke up with 'Love left the room' hanging around my mind

Love left the room
We missed it
Saw his shell still sitting there
and thought he was inside
Felt his children running around
and mistook them for him
in the lightning flashes of their eyes

Love left the room
Staying embedded in her devotees
but long gone from their daily temples
She submerged out of form

Love left the room
Became slowly apparent
in his absence
After dragging afternoons
saturated in ironic sunlight
cut into empty wintry nights,
one frosty back curled up against another

Love left the room
Her presence dissipated into focus
on what those hearts held
Running with the children
Profound and spacious in the mountains
Open to the river’s harmony
And that one union
slipped out the door

Friday, April 8, 2011

From an Atlas of the Difficult World ~ Adrienne Rich

I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour.  I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet.  I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age.  I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.

Thursday, April 7, 2011



Before Eve’s dawn of an era on Gaia
Lilith and Adam formed the roots of our walks,
together out of the mud
hardened into one love’s dream of life,
relinquishing whole power to hierarchy,
they sat out the dance of balance

The old ones dug and worked and formed it
The clay pots, heavy holding vessels ready to contain
Walking among those who feel
profound, solid, unmoving certainty down in the bones         
The container is open only where it’s open,
and moved with care it won’t crack or shatter
Respect its form or it resists all movement

The humans formed the mud back into
Goopy gods and goddesses
deep damp Venuses,
receiving branches and rocks and limbs,
anything that falls in
A softer warmer quicksand
shoving your face into the earth,
releasing it to breathe
then back in, through the roots’ bottoms
to the fiery core

Here awakened strands of
alive adobe emanate flexible from every pore,
breathing softly in your ear with the tides of earth’s waters,
dancing with creatures’ feet,
tickling an angled wing
Embracing fallen trees and
pooling in the leaves
Sliding down rock mudfalls
moving heartbeats through arroyos
opening bubbles of air in the rapids
basking in the sun to a more solid stillness
perfectly ecstatic constantly changing forms and
thriving with aliveness

Still in form,
Still moist
Pure solid and still yielding
Building an ever-moving morphing home
Refreshing form in each moment
into a whole

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

I am acquainted with the night ~ a couple of poems I love

Acquainted with the Night

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night. 
~Robert Frost

Her Kind
I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.
~Anne Sexton 

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

I met a tree

I met a tree
Root down deep
Solid long peaceful trunk, grounded strong
Striations, curves and booming extensions weaving through and from, 
up and out
Many-armed, branches twisting and swirling in a mad dance that 
evokes a calm center
Heartbeats encircled by layers of curious sweeping and creeping rhythms
Ever growing through forms into reaching V’s that extend with each breath

Magic at the tips,
leaves of open-cupped hands receiving the light and transforming it
With barely a sound of a shapeshifter’s chuckle,
making food for every part in its own way

Fruits that spring and hang, alluring in promise and full in substance,
Blooming soulful sweetness when you receive a bite
Leaving no craving
Not leaving at all

Staying perched, an inquisitive bird on your mind’s branches
trembling joy of a humming heart,
dizzying flight of the bird inside
free-falling surrender into body’s knowing
of what’s good
right here