Things got a little stranger than usual last night:

11 November 2015


Here and Gone, Alive

Soft, as I fall quite asleep all alone, the little hands rise up and shadow the light
that wants to leak in, but I dare not attend it with anything real. I’m all watchful insight;
the clock wants to fly all around, every this way and that, till its hands tell the time they first bore
when they were a fine pair of sailors who’d sunk and then swum to a beautiful, far distant shore,

and I was the lone, lovely pair of eyes watching the two of them climb over waves like old seals.
Nothing reminds me of love like the flavor of autumn, within which the blood that congeals
breathes out its last essence, and that blends with smoke, and the weeds at low tide, and the fog-swollen air.
We fell asleep holding hands, long ago, and now we know why. Mirror-sky rendered fair

by visions who’ve swum to a surface we’ve tried to abandon but cannot, shine back to my eyes
the ones we were used to. Please open the pair of them gladly and—presently, sights will grow wise,
and we will go forward together forever, a little more Sun coming over the hill,
the usual light of the true Moon subsiding as human love goes down in waves with a will

to build up again to a high hilltop fortress that never knew war or its false light and pain.
Soft, if you’ll meet and not mind that I’m so very tired of the all-night dead-soldiers’ refrain—
warriors lying in floods of red wounds, and yet crying out for a shy, sidelong look—
Let us awaken right now, died of love, but mistaken—We’re liquid with all that love took—

When I can’t quite fall asleep, the hands gently held out to meet me run rich with young blood.
Precious, the pair of them; don’t let them find me when I am in heat; I’m not their form of flood.
Winding between us, the worried hands meeting in circular figures mean clock-dials and haste.
So sad, so early, so ugly, so unwise a jewel I once was, when I thought you were paste

that held flesh just barely on bones that were spines inside books that held all the wise spells sought in vain
till this very instant. My child, I was riddled to ashes by seas burned white-hot under rain;
I turned the next page with my heart in my throat, and our souls shone right through. Let me read on and on.
I’m fast asleep now; I’m dreaming; and yet I’m alive, and the pain—it seeks dawn, yet it’s gone.

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Feathers on Scales

According to some traditions, the soul at death is weighed against a feather.

And feathers, by other, more recent traditions, evolved from scales.

4 November 2015


New Feathers on New Scales

You lift up your throat: It’s constricted by insects. You, love, have cherished a grave for so long,
a million white wings all set forth like spring blossoms as you sigh and writhe and frail bones turn to song
you’re now to to make, the music of everything—wrung out of everything never once love.
You’re going to see it all set down and laid, night after next, like the ghost of a dove

that sought out but never, through all her exertions, discovered the ark she’d been sent out to find.
All the globe carved up all over a table—It looks like a preordained sweet orange rind,
the type ancient virgins once tore into ribbons. If one stayed intact, future bliss was assured.
If one should break open untimely, you’ve already died, and your soul has for ages endured—

all it has to, and will. Child, you’ve bloomed into ashes; the flies all buzz round here, but butterflies, too.
Walk with your hands by your sides till you reach the next margin beyond the great trees, where the view
of all the broad ocean keeps breathing, keeps seething, keeps minding the heart at the source of your soul
that someone behind you has hands and arms held out and always, just always, will offer the bowl

that’s angled to catch the pure rain of high heaven. The dear smile behind the glad strength of love’s will
comes staring through you and your dreams in the moment when Suns rearise, while the sky is quite still.
You’ll have been beautiful then for the strangest of times. You’re a comfort to mere mortal men,
though it cannot quite show in your mirror if you will not let any mirror behold you. Child, when

the song rearises for which you first opened your throat, you will feel yourself drowning. No fear
lies behind this. You know you are holiness woken to hold itself higher than floodwaters. We’re
the wing-bearers; we are the bright-winged angels; we are the stone at the source of the grave:
Lighter than magic, and borne on the wings of wild doves, wild with song, it was you I would save

from even the faintest slight hint of complex and unhappy remembrances. They’ll all-ways try
to find you and use you again for the strength of the soul you imagined would teach you to fly;
let only the ones you most love hear you sing this. Sing it out each time you breathe, but your throat—
Feel just how many they are, and how holy—the angels whose scales favor every new note.

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All Souls

Something different happened last night:  My two usual poetic measures combined.  They weave in and out of each other here, which may make a first reading a bit stilted.  The lines do scan, if the right emphasis is found.

The content springs from some very important understanding that is just now, after many years, becoming clear.  We are more and more profoundly convinced that there is a type of sentience in the stars, and that some degree of access is possible.

Right now the veil is very thin indeed.

1 November 2015


A More Than Up-Turned-Bowl

One little word held so much secret knowledge there, where we both wept.
I shall lie awake all night until the knowledge souls have kept
between them hidden, words in lines that always offer lonely terms
to one who’ll just keep reading, reading on, till holy love confirms

that this was made as love kept watch, and secrets hidden lay revealed.
I can know my own self but a little; so much love lies sealed
behind a wall that’s deeper than the grave I’ll never lie within.
Burial fires all down wide shores, won’t you wake up to rebegin

the choirs of anciently mindful lore that hum through the maze a mind can be?
I’ll only go around, around, around once again if we all agree
that this has to come to an end in time, and then stare well forward as stars align.
You shall be loveliness held by stars as beauty’s owns standard. Most shining mine,

we met where the rushings of rivers together came deep underground to a cave that glowed
more radiantly than a liquid bowl in which stars were mirrored. Our old work owed
a debt to the place from which it came, but now it flows freely, rich and thick.
One little word kept all alight, the candle with all the next world’s wick

I heard you as you lay not at all as fast in sleep as you are in mind,
and something deep underneath the breath you knew you breathed reached out to find
that mine nursed the touch of skin it prized, and why it will always turn again
toward the sung light this song was made by, here in your presence, by rite of pain.

Under the bed: It’s clay, it’s metal; it’s full, if you want it so; and it smells
the luminous air of the coming-to-being that used it to house an idea that wells
with such benediction, our old words fall silent, and all the sighs coming to live with us—just—
don’t want to remind us of how we fell down. This well’s all a maze; we are word-wells of lust.

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Happy Birthday Forever

The 18th of October was my late partner’s birthday. Two years ago I celebrated it with him in Ireland—in a cancer hospital. This is what happened this year:

18 October 2015


What You Sought, and What You Found

My eyes will simply never open wider. Yours will lock mine in,
surrender all the dreams your strength of mind has gathered, set the spin
that sends us dancing round and round, and then they’ll open further—yours.
Deep inside, the stair that climbs down ever lower corridors,

as ghosts walk by in solemn shifts of spirit-flesh—as wet hands melt
toward the midnight meeting-hour when finally the love-words spelt
out loud between dreamt beings who cannot but hover through the fold
where one old garment keeps its secrets warm, though long black time is cold:

Find that little envelope of cotton rag, and prize its lid
away from all the lovely letters someone in your soul once hid
toward the higher moment when the purpose that gave ink to lines
that wavered through a mind so subtle, they inscribed their own designs

arrived at its most dreamt-of place where songs are kept recorded, each
and every one, and when we play them back, the ones who made them reach
a nearer stage of understanding where they’re from, and why they came
to sing out loud in such a place. So hard, so sick with riddled blame,

so fertile with such inadvertent sadness, and so nightly lorn,
I might have to cast my eyes aside and pray to all unborn
imaginings, don’t ever let your best attention sway at all.
This is no mere meeting-place of gods and mind; the deep dark fall

calls down through skies and trees and level fields and lasting mists and black,
black new and no Moon nights the human crying ghost who calls love back,
delivers it its newest message, holds its hand although it’s faint,
and stares down through its eyes so ancient—there’s the longest love-lorn plaint,

and there’s the meeting-moment; there’s the place of tears that outlast pain.
Open only slightly wider—dilate love, then come again
upon the silent rise where all the winds the very tides raise high
turn into storms up on the land—and you thought we came here to die.

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Next to Promised

13 October 2015


Our Next-to-Promised Land

Little fingers gripped my hand so tightly all last night, they left
a set of tiny, bleeding-under-skin remarks. We’re born bereft
of why we ever want to wake up here and see this small world through—
till when another set of eyes flies open and they sight love’s You.

Woken on the 13th of the month as god’s new no Moon shone,
set at once to gathering weeds where long wet sweeping skirts are thrown
across the high green fields of weaving stalks and trailing leaves as we
go dancing out before the morning lark and swallow—Woe is me,

for in the sad wet underbreath that used to make a song of pain,
I can still lift up my eyes and dream of blissful, nightlong rain,
ocean waves off tides so high, the satellite that drew them here
recalls to me the ghostly, long wet soul that gave sad way to fear—

and tenders through the slightest crack that lets the light sift in and glow
the miracles of risen magic shadows into newborn woe,
then waits, as patient as a saint, for hints and glimpses, signs and sighs.
Little fingers, please let go for just a moment. Let’s lock eyes

where—gleaming for a bare, strange instant—someone very lunar waits.
Let’s us walk, hand held in hand, toward the source of several fates,
knowing as we sway toward the final meeting-place—he’s kind.
If your undertaking makes me bleed, we’re on our way to find

the healing touch that shivers through the lifted flesh that sad touch needs
to understand the leaning want the love inside deep music feeds.
Maybe, when next dawn appears as breath that lingers long on glass,
little stains of blood will trail away as lives and journeys pass

before the ancient staring source of vision in our dreams as were.
Hand in hand, we moan out in our sleep, then words become a blur;
reading turns to singing, and sheer clarity shines dawn so true,
we’ve another million pairs of eyes within that love me you.

Love a million Moons from now, and all of them the wisest souls—
only let them love you back as you keep calling, calling. Roles
are changing, child; they always have; a new sweet hand inscribed you this.
Far too early, eyes flew open—dancing—skirts—old fields of bliss

remembered past the luring threshold subtle winding thoughts kept sealed
until the very moment we—cannot betray what we’ve concealed.
I shall never cease to sing and pray and dance and hold your hand,
but till you’ve woken faithfully, and finally—no promised land.

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Stars Are Sentient Beings, and They Sing

23 September 2015


Blessed Equinox

Gemma—Gemma Renee

Strong Beauty’s Live Bond

Overflow greener than fields at the height of glad summer, come shimmering over the sky
we hold up our weary heads just this last midnight to watch as such pale flights of magic sweep by,
then wind down and catch the wild lot of us watching. Why was that cloud so surreally low,
and why was I waiting, with you by my side, white in spirit; in flesh—red as blood’s last live flow?

As I grow faint, maybe one of us tends to the other, and dreams settle in for a spell.
Only one not letting go of my hand, the depths of the dreams we can never yet tell
lead all our trained eyes down and over the verge of the well that this ocean’s mistaken us for.
We’ve got a long way to lie sweetly low, sometimes singing ghost-anthems, sometimes white in sore,

sore membranes that hold out twin wings that catch air. Maybe you waft by my side the sweet flag
that determined our needing to fly forth from here—all irises, over a pond fringes tag
with criss-crossing messages lettered all over, hoping the one of our eyes might receive.
I’m watching steadily, high overhead, the source of the light the last soul will believe

before it conveys us the weariest series of words set to nothing: cold drafts of dead air.
In the immaculate moment when no one ghosts by and no magic portends cold despair,
hold out you own first-portended sweet fingers and palms, then shine white as the Moon as she glows—
Overflow greener than fields round the distance of prayer’s holy place—where it guards the sole Rose—

Clouds fill the sky as the rain we have waited for ever so long gathers, leaking small tears.
I shall lie down by the side of the shadow wherever night rain turns old pain to false fears,
and all that is less than the strong, signal meaning of prayer as it turns itself—greener than spring—
Shimmering over the next song’s horizon—you’ve waited forever—my Gemma Renee,

red, hot, and swollen the eyelids who’ll carry the burden of you past the room that’s been locked
for such a long time, all it’s held’s been forgotten, but pain. Pain comes singing downhill, with a shocked,
scarce human, dissolving strange look on her face where lightning’s been striking since time out of mind—
There was your name, as the look on my face recalled you to be where we’ve always aligned.

High and low tides, and the rivers that drink in the fresh and salt waters as both come and go—
Please know how gravity lays its hard, numinous hand on our veins, then recall how they flow
toward the green ribbon of higher-than-tide-lands, and all the vast acres of forest beyond—
Time has no future, no past, and no ceiling—but this: We’re enwreathed in strong beauty’s live bond.

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Rising, Just Steadily Rising

This has been a blessed day in a blessed market town.  New, this is, as new as can be:

20 September 2015


Rising, Just Steadily Rising

The mother of all of us—rivers and branches, and dry twigs and leaves that just lately there hung—
I’ve opened my eyes to the lovely young morning we both would have been if you’d only just sung
before we—congealed in a dream , the sad recently killed game who raced on and on through the maze
that no one behind either set of our eyes could ever have called out, These scarce-mortal days

have blood for a serial rhythm that all the low, soft, tender sky never knows how to read—
whilst standing about, good or ill, always watching. She a sad sight, broken body in need
of tenderness shorn of all thoughts of its source. Reach out, most shyly, but feel your hand held
where some very beautiful, magnetic wonder has always called out, and you’ve always been spelled.

When I was only a wee sense of shadow toward a glad moonbeam as moons rose and shone,
I held full sway in a lantern-lit hall as the Moons of our world told me, never alone;
never the slightest bit out of our seeing; never without the least touch of our skin;
you’ll raise your eyes on and on and dream lightly all night, and come dawn, wake again, and begin

to shoulder the trouble that once made us very much wonderfulness you could never attain.
All of your presence of mind and a little bit worn out danced muscle and pain—so much pain—
Riddle the page of the music before you forever, then fall back, and let your soul sigh.
Eyes turning up to the wonder of Mother—Rivers and branches, I can and will die.

If we’ve awakened too early, my hand will reach out, and your own will wait, beckoning, still.
Nobody knows where the whole spirit goes when the last solar rose climbs up over the hill
that usually blocks out the stars we most cherish—as nobody knows where we’ll lie down this night.
Rising, just steadily rising, and never not rising—I’ve loved song with all life and might.

Hello to every poet round these parts.  Have a blessed Equinox Holy-Day.  Welcome, autumn!

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