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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Hard to Sleep; Hard Not to Dream

Still just hours away from flash-point:

21 August 2015


You Can Work Your Will

Long all-over lily layers line the pond’s deep wet green face.
When their blossoms open, watching from the shore, have we seen grace
together, or have we beheld the closing of an inland sea?
Leaves grow long and choke the source of water where the nearest tree

stands one bare inch above the line that used to be the highest tide’s.
We shall dream sweet dreams deep underwater past the line that hides
the secret we keep diving for. Forever’s in our sight and mask,
and still we have to slide down further everywhere. Just tell; don’t ask;

release my hands and let them work, then twine them fast, then wave us all
around, as if we’d no more need to hold ourselves above the wall
that ancient superstition sought to raise and keep above our heads;
watch it rise and watch it fall; it’s covered endless newlyweds;

it’s lent its lore to all our living, dreaming, fainting, needful minds;
and when its found its own again, such dreams will rise. Wild timeless finds
dance, tracking back, as if in pain; as if in doubt; as if—in—tears.
Wild love’s danced you out of time, and shown you where one soul appears

to know the central shining place toward the mirror’s middle eye
as everywhere about you I might lie alone, but never lie.
Child of honest after-midnight, take me back, for home’s long lost,
but sit beside me on the sand where seas will rise where tides are crossed.

Out there, maybe far away, see all so many green leaves dance.
Waves from oceans understand that leaves must bow to circumstance,
and eyes must feel the salt mist blow the dust of land where new tears flow—
Lilies laid across a lap that’s sailed across a pond—they know

an evening lets its eyelids flag and fail and give soft way to night.
Everyone I’ve ever known’s been met. A green wet graveyard’s light
shines well toward us like high waves right off a sea that’s seeing—High
imaginings that—You don’t have to live. You can go home and die.

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Just last night, in fact. A song in praise of one of my favorite things:

20 August 2015


Sometimes Sleep Comes Through

You’re going to make me feel weary come morning, you old stolen blanket, you cold stripe of air
that leans to the far other side where the wall meets the floorboards and scurrying—that happens there.
Old man, your shoulders are bones and they break through the little soft walls I’ve erected of sheets.
Now I’m just bound to wake up rife with bruises. Soft night winds, and then—subtle music repeats
Reel it all out, and from padded seats watch it. Walk down the river outside, then come in.
Watch it again from within your memorial launch; steer your boat; make a new wake begin
as you set out to sea with the magic your most blessed birth showed your mother, till—she showed you ill.
Raise your sad wet salty eyelids, and see with the both of your eyes you are beautiful still,
and ever more beautiful each time you move through a series of changes that all dance like weeds
a river runs through with the cold mountain clarity oceans rise to as they fill strangers’ needs.
So much confusion, such heaps of black midnight cast forth where we’ll claim it and make it come true,
and then the next landscape where layers of gardens come spiralling out of love’s last dream of you,
and then. I am woken. I’m weary. I’m still holding onto the steel at the end of the grave,
staring toward the tight-closed wooden casket in which death lies waiting for song’s love to save
the bright hours of everything lyrical, magical, splendid with why I still live here with you—
And then we down tools out of time and time’s reasons, and sleep comes so kind—Sometimes sleep sings you through..

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Journey Work

13 July 2015


A Life’s Long Journey-Work

I’ve got to go outside right soon; for near another Moon’s eclipse,
a Sun keeps homing in; keeps gliding far too near; a sentence trips
from off a tongue that’s not my own—and not a sequence I could want.
Just don’t only understand; it’s twisted, and it seeks to haunt

the magic that keeps singing, singing loud as morning blossoms through
a world of springtime, whilst we lie awake and toss and turn and view
the future through the dreadful cast of lies before and after—here.
Lay your little warm hand back of my wet neck, and say, No fear

can call you back from out of time, for timelessness is where we are.
Fate has proven groundless; we’re a common set of eyes a star
trained gently whilst, in widely-spoken parlance, bright as full-Moons’s lore—
I shall lie down lonely, then wake up with you. She’s who keeps score;

he’s who you’ll want to be and greet when after-evenings draw down dark.
Down the darkened shallow doorways, alleyways beyond the park
where fruit-trees blossom, swaying shade on shade like branches bearing limbs—
Make me go to church where only angels sing beyond false hymns,

then tell the lonely angels who remain, we’ve loved them long; we’re well
acquit of those who only want to tell the world it’s gone to hell;
sometimes souls seek out perdition; ours have cast it off so long,
life’s a job of journey-work to turn mind into real live song.

Little, softly fingered hand who holds my own with such wild trust,
I shall surely fail you—as my own hand trailed away, and dust
secured it through a passageway that makes the sad lungs climbing here
hold out for fear of breathlessness—for fear of taking on new fear—

for only wanting, really, in the end to breathe love’s scented hand,
and hear me hum beneath my breath the song of love’s first table-land,
and then to hear—beneath the deep green passageway new dreams will find—
You’ve heard your own and only voice, its singer, and love’s kind, so kind.

Walk down by the morning tide’s high watermark, and watch the waves.
Swaying in and out, we’re children viewing our own open graves,
yet really feeling—deep, reverberating—steps to come: Let’s dance;
no hanging back; I’ve got to lie down. Journey work: We’ve cast-iron pants.

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YES to Marriage Equality: This Sea Loves You

This is just a bit of spontaneous celebration for the many, many lovely and loving people in my town who are now free to marry their lovers forever.

Why did they not have this always? We know the answer; it is painful to contemplate.

This, our new/old harbor, is very tender. This post is for all of you, whether we know each other or not. If you are here to find a safe and loving home–you are probably already my friend.

I am as spiritual as I know how to be, but I live here on a practical basis. Please do not ever think the two can be separated. Love is love. Spirit is love. God is love. The people who live in my town, more than any place I have ever been, live by the code of love.

You, who live by love and believe in love, are more than welcome to be here.

1 July 2015


The Sea Loves You

We are almost always likely—more than even ghosts in white—
to walk abroad long after darkness seals our dreams in after-sight,
then shows them back as we both lie awake, just staring, sky before,
and little clouds of sad wet pain behind. Behind our eyes, we bore

the burden of a hurtful trail, a line from there, where we come from,
toward the bad new magic that just hates us so, we might succumb—
if that is granted, god to flesh, but now, by god, it’s worn off well.
No one gets to die and be a victim of the nether hell

that’s never held a single inch—by cross or square—that’s angled through
like crying voices, doves’ or ours, that rise toward the coming view
that lights the living casements of the bedroom where we meet and pray.
I will watch these windows day and night, and yet—I’ve heard the way

the tides will turn their softest selves to help the far strange wave come in.
Someone’s riding there, upon its back, or in its wake, a-spin;
there’s a good wild rider who just wants to come ashore and sing;
there’s a mad wild look in eyes that cannot wait to cease to bring

the hurtful currents that once drove them mad toward this mild good beach.
I shall lie alone all night again, but not sway out of reach;
only let your voice and eyes meet mine, and love will grant us grace
to lie beside the turning tide on beaches where we know your face,

and shine it forth from mirrors as the pools you stare well into form.
Only love is deep enough to know its waves will outlast storm.
Gather in your own two hands the tear-salt water love stares through.
You were never going to die. You love the sea; the sea loves you.

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Pain to Be Shared. Be Well, All of You.

29 June 2015


Pain Has Just This Place

Pain has no living place where kindness may, in good faith, conceive and breed.
This is sad pain’s resting place, a series of doors down a hallway that’s heartless at need,
but knows it is always a short breath away from the last that might somehow be gathered up here,
then ferried out, just a wet set of soft pieces that used to be human but now bend our ear

with songs they were yearning to hear, and then caught—maybe, sometimes—in fragments bare memory bore
toward the last landing where love’s shining catch was laid out, then scaled, and then gutted—as sore
were the eyes of the children who witnessed this carnage—unless they were stoic and strong—as they are.
I shall lie under a shadow that glances like you when I seek my long soft bed. The star

that guided my spirit past old contradictions and hands that showed only their backs as we danced—
Magic has lain in our way far too often; we’re waking right now to a field spirit-tranced,
and only a little sad lingering doubt shudders over its own sore left shoulder, and still—
Mine is the hand that has held all the strangers’, and I’m the one they’ll still dispense with at will.

Angels amass and in single file lower their wings and seek signals of lovers who’ll bleed
forever if they will not close their false eyes, then open and raise the eyes I call at need,
but they are still angels, if I and my own call them low, and they’re sighted as caught on dead ground.
I am my soul. I and my own will cry out all this night, till my own soul has found

the hugeness of human transcription, the serial lines where the eyes that glaze over first note
that we were still scrying and scribing, our lives lying parallel, great singing creatures who’ll float
aloft on the coming of storm-clouds. Lovely one, one I would settle with one level breath,
I’ve got to go home alone now; you’ve already left me. I’m now facing more than one death.

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