Winds Still Easterly

Oh hello–I’ve just looked back at the last verses I posted here, and the last stanza, about the luna moth, struck me. Only male luna moths fly; the females eclose too heavy with eggs to get airborne. They wait on the tree where they entered their brief new incarnation, and the male finds them by their scent. As my partner said when we parted after he was ill, It’s more than some people get.

My thoughts over the past week have been too Easterly to tell. Easter has always meant so much to me. Winters were long where I grew up, and late winter was shades of dingy grey everywhere from mounds of dirty snow. They were never gone by Easter, but sometimes they were going, and at least some flowers were in bloom. New birth, rebirth, hope that this round will be a kind one–I love the idea of redemption, that things have changed, that they will be different from now on, if only by our faith we make it so.

Every day it’s a little clearer to me that this winter was decisive, and that something in me has changed. A few months ago, I referred to a real-life struggle over a loud neighbor and their disruptive activity. The whole quarrel had me so stressed that I became ill, but they backed down. They have been quiet for over a month now. One of my friends tells me I am a warrior, even though she saw it nearly kill me. Anyway, every day I breathe in the peace and quiet and love it more than I can say.

The relative silence that surrounds me now is–fecund. Pregnant. Even though I could, if I had not so many hours to fill on my own, sit down and meditate and never really stop, the stories are swirling around me. ‘Always the way to a new story lures,’ my Muse told me years ago: Samsara never stops finding new ways to seduce one’s attention. I know this, and am wary, but stories are also teaching vessels. So do I stay or do I go? And whose side are you on? We already know the answer to that is…

…there are no sides, not even one. Within the stories–all of them, if they are true, breathes the same wind that Taoist monks learn how to ride. The Night Mare is the Night Mother, but also the Night Ocean. Behind the sky we can see, lies another sky, which is Ocean. The monks ride the wind that comes from There.

Unless it doesn’t, of course. This could all be just–wind.

4 April 2021


The Blanket Chest

She folded the green woolen mantle away–

she expected to need it again, but not soon.

Summer was coming, with such a long day

that wearing it under the new sweltered Moon

would mean punishment, even to still-racing thoughts.

Nay; when the season winds round and grows cold–

under the snow winter’s bound to have brought,

she won’t lie alone, a dead lamb in no fold;

the garment the grass all around had stained green

would still serve its purpose, though stored here unworn.

Once when she ran through the fields all unseen,

she tripped and fell over a serious thorn

that lodged itself under her skin and her ribs–

till she felt herself flourishing strangely. A chill

from two or more seasons away sometimes gives

presentiments chances to haunt with a will,

then to show what lies working within the will’s mind.

Slowly she runs a hand over the wool,

and wonders if this was entirely designed–

this garment, this instant–this growing too full–

this lunar emplacement within a sealed room–

the glowing green stains of a ground without snow–

the fierceness, the plain rapid strength at the loom

where her hooves had grown hard at their work–even so–

she won’t want it out for a while–lest she change

her mind–which was troubled before it was hers.

Under this mantle, the strength to derange

that’s been driving her mad–is the same force that stirs

the blood of the lamb–and remembers its first

home and harbor, her heart. She’d grown fatally cold,

but the one gift he gave–though she still felt accursed,

she saw in its angles a cloth spun of gold,

and she saw it rise up and drape softly and long

all down the tall figure who stood in her way:

I’ll carry it for you; go weightlessly on.

The Sun loses heat at the end of the day.

Yesterday, the day after I composed this, I received an order for one lot of 13 Young Adult supernatural fiction novels purchased on eBay. I wanted to read a number of them randomly, in order to see what sort of archetypal material was getting in. The books I received are very interesting so far, more than I anticipated. And better still, they probably all belonged to one person–they all smell vividly of cedar. They were stored in a cedar chest. Last winter, I spent money I shouldn’t have on small cedar boxes, then was given a little painted chest that proved to be cedar. My bedroom altar is all cedar now, and so are these stories. The Gothic and the Sacred run so close together. And Soul Mates are just everywhere.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Blessed Foolishness

April Fools’ Day isn’t usually my kind of folklore. Even just a hint that there is any sort of trickery going on, and I tend to wait it out, eyes ready to roll. This time, I decided to be a bit playful and go with whatever comes. It’s foolishness–if I don’t like it later, it doesn’t count.

After all, who makes the rules around here? No idea. Isn’t me! I might be taking some serious chances here!

You might be able to tell that I have been reading Borges:

1 April 2021


Present at Your Own Conception

by the author of the lyric ‘Luna Moth’

Tightly curled leaf on the floor of the forest,

the creature within has escaped. Is that good?

Where will it shelter, alone with a bare mortal

skin and no blanket in all this vast wood?

High overhead, by the light of the lunar

and stellar design that winds round to an end

in the eyes of the one crying now–who was soonest

to sorrow, but also to comfort–a friend

to the patiently ministering angel then sleeping

tucked warmly away in a room of its own.

Maybe tonight when the hail and the freezing

night rain stream away and a strange, fragrant zone

enters here, where you breathe, and it tells you it’s sorry–

sorry you waited so long–but its vain

meanderings ceased in a strange dream of glory

to come when it settled to sleep in a brain

fast asleep without knowing how deeply the ether

enwound it in which–when hail started to fall–

then from a star-crowned forest tree its own creature,

a leaf veined alive with one long early call

encoded in each cell and now-withered tissue–

Once a green luna moth flew to my hand:

So like a woman, attracting a bliss you

can’t use, but still long for–Who planted this land?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Some Summing

This has proven to be a very active time of threads coming together and making more sense than usual. And still I don’t know how much I can write down. There is always a quasi-superstitious fear of upsetting a delicate process that is still ongoing, but that is not quite it; and of course, it’s all complex and constantly moving, but that’s not it either. It honestly feels like it’s all a bit much to talk about, as if I were making suspect claims. But I know where that voice comes from–that’s the same one that always tries to shut down anything that threatens to get actually spiritual. Its mockery gets planted within so early on. Resist!

As has been told, I had Big Dreams about poetry and a great obsession with it from my early teen years on. But when I was about 22, I read the Tao te Ching for the first time, and then the next several times right away, and had a conversion experience. Still the strongest one of my life, although mushrooms, when they came, were as revelatory. What to do with this? I was floating, so happy with the rightness of everything as it was that being ‘creative’ seemed too silly too countenance. I thought about it until I knew I was getting nowhere, then I went off to school at last in my mid-20s, with the intention of studying Chinese. When that didn’t work, I turned to Latin. Eventually I moved to the Oregon coast, and here I am today.

After living here for years, and after the work with the Holy Children was sufficiently advanced to be perhaps done, my recurring thoughts of Taoism, and then Buddhism, led me to join a local Dharma group. My teacher’s lineage was Tibetan Sakya. Vajrayana had always been an obvious fit with my nature, and the group was good, but I was still too obsessed with the work ahead of me as a poet to sink in there.

Since then, so much has happened that I have had to reconsider my position in this world and even as a person in a human body many times. It’s all cast in verse, and will continue to be for as long as I am able. I know that because…

Lately the poems have showed me the same woman we’ve been seeing–struck by lightning. Nothing remains but a black crater and some wisps of smoke. She’s gone, man, solid gone.

When I went in a hypnagogic state to learn more, I was shown a soft rain falling and filling the crater, and then the full Moon rising. The Moon reflected in water is such a basic Buddhist image that I can’t start there, I said; it’s a cliche, and I’m still an outsider. Keep looking, they said. Of course: My Big Dream of poetic initiation involved swimming through a lake to a cave beneath it. They are showing me my own story beginning over again, but with the non-dual philosophy that means so much to me incorporated. Entwined, all of our most important and beloved threads. That was part of the Taoist conversion experience–such huge waves of love for everyone who had ever walked that path and ridden the wind. I cannot have done that–but perhaps the poems can? Their sources have never seemed identical to myself, which is good because we don’t attach much importance to identity.

30 March 2021


The Pages That Remain

Where she was standing–there’s now a black crater.

A last wisp of smoke, and then silence–and stars.

Her long-trained attention had been–translocated,

and lightning got into it, leaving some scars,

but likewise removing a few marks and emblems

of earlier vigils that longed for an end

till finally–something was utterly rendered

sufficient. Child, take what the good Night Mares send;

the one who assigned herself heavenly mother

has heard your laments and received your pain here,

in the depths of the heart in herself like a lover

residing in folds of a garment so sheer,

you can read as it’s all written down, all the magic

love yearned for and made–till it met in return

love-letters criss-crossing a channel in fragile

dimensions of oncoming loss fit to burn

with the prayer on the altar where lightning is welcome

and shines in the distance each wide-open night.

One of your own restless kind has been telling

the signs as they rise and reveal the stark light

that takes root when the storm is both torment and harbor.

Once it has struck, and grey smoke flows like grace,

lightning reveals to its lover in darkness

not signs in translation, but those taking place

where a lake has been steadily forming since morning

when dew fell, then rain. When the crater is full,

and the mirror of stillness it is meets the bourne of

remembrance, a spirited Moon in a lull

between stations of change amid tears and a casket–

six carrying hands, a torn page in each one–

and two in her bodice, the one who lies gasping–

she’s struck but not dead. Would she still want this done?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Second Attempt

This is another try at the post I intended to write yesterday. It became a bit tangled, so I put up something else, thinking that might take some undue attention away from something unready to be said. It seems to have worked, for me at least! So for today, from yesterday:

‘Something else has been on my mind that I have not known how or whether to discuss here, although I may have made that decision when I posted my ‘About’ page. My state recently legalized the use of psilocybin mushrooms in the treatment of illness, including end-of-life care. As much as I have thought about putting my considerable experience with sacred mushrooms, the ‘Holy Children,’ to good use helping others face possibly frightening changes, the obstacles to direct involvement are many, and anyway, I am a poet, not a counselor. I have had to learn again and again that I help best from a slight remove, doing what only I can do. Many, many people are better at direct human services.

‘When I worked with the Children, I understood that I was becoming beholden to them in ways that I would feel being called in later. This has been close to the heart of my work all along: It not only has to come from somewhere real, with a force of its own, and has to be as true as my understanding will allow; it also has to convey meaning that the right reader will receive. That meaning is as elusive to me as anyone, but I trust that it will be there. They showed me this.’

Not much, but more than I had going in. This will take on some powers of its own soon enough. The Universe is already cooperating. The poem from the night before contained clues that I knew pointed to the presence of the Children in my ongoing awareness. I realized that I could think about those clues for a long time, and probably should, all over again. Then I clicked ‘save,’ closed the file, and decided to read some articles online. First up? Literary Hub, naturally, which led me to their feature on Merlin Sheldrake, in support of his new book, Entangled Life. A fascinating article and person.

Ringworm (I first typed ‘ringword’) is, in spite of its name, a fungal infection–one of countless common ones. My medical history includes a lot of odd auto-immune conditions. I am very resistant to bacterial and viral infections, but prone to minor fungal skin infestations. After my work with the Children, I thought about that a lot. Maybe I was already more closely related to them than a lot of humans, eh?

This poem also ties together the storyline that has been developing here, and my thoughts about broaching the mushroom subject. That they are tied somehow is obvious, but the ways how sometimes are not.

And, by the way–a ‘maggot’ is a story or followable thread that becomes, or begins as, an obsession. Poetry is my real maggot; always has been.

27 March 2021



a maggot

She dried off her hands, but the place remained wet

where her ring was so tight and the skin was so raw,

she thought of a name–one she must not forget–

when it came up, as if by some iron-clad law–

that this hiding-place harbors a species of mold

lately grown in a graveyard till, throwing off spores,

it found her and claimed her: This bit of her cold,

stiff hand is their own now. She’s walking outdoors;

she’s taking her glove off and letting the Sun

penetrate through the layers of skin, but no use.

She shouldn’t have given herself to no one,

and she shouldn’t now take up the reins to reduce

the speed of the racing that soon overtakes

every nerve as she shyly stares up at the sky:

What is this colony claiming the lakes

of the skin of my hand where my ring needs to lie

very tightly all round me? Is this what you want?

Patterns appear if you look very hard–

hands waving back from a field mushrooms haunt.

As if out of a valley of undersky-starred

constellations, these few who are many remain

no matter how dry all the bare skin around.

Weren’t we first married in sheets of night rain?

Aren’t they in part why we’re still altar-bound?

Nothing else matters; we’re underworld ghosts

ourselves when we wake up alone, not in bed

with the angels we wanted, but spore-bearing hosts.

What we’ve learned from this–worm–is–our species are wed.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

As of This Sunday

After updating daily with new work and comments for a month or more, I was not sure I was making enough sense or progress to post so often, so I decided to step back. It was probably a mistake. For one thing, I have no sense of time at all, so I just realized it’s been almost two weeks since I last checked in. Not what I intended! And the story–at last, there clearly is one, not a million fragments colliding–changes more than I realized; I have just been too close to see it.

Many years ago, when I was working on a novel that of course turned out to have a lot of verse passages, I saw a knife carefully poking into someone’s flesh and extracting on the tip of it a small white mass that I took to be a parasitic worm. The same knife, wound, and white object have returned very vividly, and this time, I don’t have to wonder because the visions finally disclosed their end. The verses tell as much as I am able to, and if they are not clear enough, all I can say is, these are mysteries!

My head is swimming with mysteries even now, just for having let my thoughts go there. I hope to be able to write down more of it soon. Here is a very new poem:

28 March 2021


That’s Your Sun

I could no longer bear not to look. I was faint

and afraid, but prepared for the worst there could be.

I drew in a very long breath, and a plaint–

a far cry made of song–sought the shore nearest me–

but before it made landfall, its sound-beacon died.

And as I came to, I forgot where I’d been,

stared absently down, and–the cause of the ride

that had been dispossessed of its rider was seen–

in flight–till the far, far horizon came near–

and when I awoke, I still lay in a swoon.

I swore I would try till I saw disappear

why I’d cried and been cried for while under the Moon–

and I did. When I looked down again, there it was,

a tiny white soul in the form of a worm

that shone from the tip of its quivering nose

to the tail upon which it stood upright, a firm

companion between shadow-planes and the haze

of the air in between, though its cries, ever small,

rang round us in dizzying, spiralling ways

so vivid–perhaps I could still catch its call

in the words of a song I once heard in a dream.

It swelled then–I feared it would burst. When a knife

sliced through it, it lay there exposed; if a scream

rises out of my throat when I waken–the life

revealed plainly gasping its wee self away

pulsed fiercely, and put out wet wings and–flew high

as the star I recalled when I first learned to pray

to the place where it came of itself–the blue sky

and the high Moon within and above it, the tip

of the knife, and the worm there exposed–and the sight

I could not reconceive by myself–but one slip

of the blade between layers of flesh gleaming white

as the word you’re about to imagine, my own

and only survivor–and all this is done.

Next time I wake from a faint, I’ll have gone.

Next time you stare at the Moon–that’s your Sun.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Meditation Cave

When I was 17 years old, I had a Big Dream that initiated me into poetry. It left me with questions that have slowly started to find answers over the years. My guide in the dream led me through water to a sacred cave and told me his name and that he was my Muse. He said urgently, No matter where you think you are, this is where you really are. That part I have not questioned; I have worked accordingly. It fits in with a long poetic tradition in my culture, if one now considered unorthodox, that poets are somehow connected with the fairy or faery world, the fey.

[Remind me to get back to the word-lore of ‘fairy’ and ‘fey’ soon–if you don’t know it already, it is fascinating.]

At the same time, the cave setting seemed to reflect the Buddhist tradition of meditating in caves–the dream had other aspects that suggested this. A poet with a Muse sounds quite Western, especially as my work has turned out to be so focused on love–not wide-angle Buddhist compassion, but a trained focus on one numinous individual who raises the poet’s energy to the near spontaneous-combustion threshold. Buddhist poetry is wonderful, but it is Buddhist; the Lovers’ story as it has come to me would be clinging to illusion by such terms. It is a path, but a circuitous one.

So I am a lyric poet who agrees that what I am making is in a way just another dimension or extension of conditioned reality. But if the content of the lyrics eventually points out that no human relationship ultimately lasts, just as no-thing ever does, or does not, ad infinitum–and it turns out in the end that the whole corpus of lyric verse was an elaborate scripture on finding the way that, after all is seen quite through, is revealed as one of the quickest and least laborious–well, our Lovers aren’t on the battlefield learning through much harder lessons. For the rest of those in Samsara, we are easier to live with, even good company sometimes. And there is a resolution to the apparent opposites; we know it, vaguely; we haven’t lived it yet.

That is trying to happen. Buddhist, Pagan, Christian, Mysterious Poet (that being my favorite religious affiliation): No choosing; if I aim for the moral standards each demands and meet most of them, remaining open to their more subtle teachings, I will be all right, and anyone who is ever influenced by these poems will not be led astray.

So it’s all for the highest good, as far as I can see. Hoping for the best eventual outcome still requires a bit of faith, but it’s clearing; I am the one still vague.

‘Apport’ (verb or noun) refers to an object manifested by a spirit medium during a seance. This poem posits that a weightless ‘nothing’ would be easier to bring across than one with physical mass. Or thereabouts; it’s a poem! But all nothing/ness refers to non-duality at the same non-real time.

16 March 2021


The Weightless Air

All the days as long as trickled

rain that slowly slides down glass,

and nothing but a sign that little

nothingness will ever pass–

ending with the same beginning

hovering before her here.

This is where she hangs her sinful

head and begs to disappear–

hearing in return a single

syllable that hums inside

half the heart that beats one wing of

such a pair: Well-known and tried–

left behind but not forgotten–

rediscovered by its own

reluctant maker–never sought for,

waiting where she goes alone

searching out the reason sleepless

longing haunts her heart so hard.

All night how much worry keeps her

vigilant. The way is barred;

an oddly shining object humming

troublesomely bends her track.

She hesitates but slowly coming

closer, fangs and claws attack

behind her–eyes but in this instance

she is not beholding true.

Will it vibrate as she listens,

will they hear each other through–

Only if the go-between and

intermediary air

negotiates an all-unseeing

nothingness two lovers share

will she find her daylight easy,

nights of song nor long nor short,

bliss between two wings hard-beating.

Nothing–this–their souls apport.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Looking Both Ways

I’m almost afraid to look back, but on reflecting, I think yesterday’s poem played a little trick on me. Why did bees appear? They have priors, but why just then? And birds all of a sudden? Oh. The Birds and the Bees. A little nervous pulse is throbbing somewhere, but so far it is only in the poems.

The constant return to the image of a child, usually specified as a boy, must be a Christian echo–but that doesn’t reveal as much as it might seem, if so. The Lovers are both in and out of time, so the woman might be seeing the man’s earlier stages, perhaps from more than one life. They will also allude to whatever archetypal imagery serves, as they are where it originates. They are in the Imaginal, so the rules are whatever they need them to be. It’s confusing from here, not least to me. The poems have a sort of integrity of coherence in the long run, so I try to trust them.

Almost Spring Equinox–that always brings some interesting magic. Preparations are under way!

15 March 2021



She held a silent, smiling child

in a brittle photograph long ago–

one which had faded all the while

its presence had waited for her to know

the child was unwanted then, and still.

Frost on the window glaring white,

litter inside the windowsill

where snow’s gotten in–good day, good night,

good omen–you first-rate waking sign.

How is he so familiar now,

though he must surely–dying lie–

Don’t tell me more than lore allows–

I have an absent sense of no

wonder the Moon is full and new:

Deep in the eyes of childish woe,

someone is signing sooth through you–

peeled like a slow grey shadow-ghost

off a thin paper surface cracked

and bent to a purpose known to most

of those of us here–old paper backed

by the name of the littlest orphan boy.

What if he’d lived only long as this,

knowing his letters would bring her joy,

if only the gift of secret bliss

he’d borne across nothing existing so

her pleasure would bloom a soul through skin.

Only a ghost, a child of woe–

he can’t take you home. Can you let him in?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tapped Out?

For the millionth time, today I almost slacked off. I could not see anything happening if I tried to work–my head was dull and empty. But my conscience is apparently stronger than my laziness, so I tried anyway. Results below. The main thing to know is, whether it is literature or not, it came almost straight through, in a matter of minutes. That is no indication of quality, but it is an indication that I am no judge of my own fitness to work!

My plan for now, as I have mentioned, is to keep working to maintain poetic records of something that is underway. Might not be useful to anyone, but that remains to be seen.

These two, the Lovers–now I am shaking my head. What are they up to? There are always layers of glass, ice, veils, various semi-obscuring materials, and yet nothing is really in the way. Such is the Imaginal: familiar, yet strange.

[Sorry about the formatting, especially of longer pieces. WordPress doesn’t like mine. but it’s easier to read.]

14 March 2021


Return in Spring

Nothing was there, when she picked up the panel of glass and stared through it, but suddenly–like

a pale drift of rain from a cloud lying low to the ground she could see it, the next lightning strike

that would certainly find her–the last had missed only by inches and seconds. She saw it take shape,

the cloud lying higher–and higher. Her hands were electric and humming. A wreath bound with crepe,

a note on the door warning messengers–this is the emptiest domicile now, and will be.

Sometimes I nurse the same headache all night, but it comes round again that he sent this to me,

the one who will now never, ever deliver. She puts down the panel, and sees in mid-air–

I must be the caster of shadows myself, for she’s scared half to death, yet there’s nobody there.

It rushes downhill through the long central column that bears her upright, but live lightning it’s not;

read for yourself why the literate blessing it means her burns through her on contact, so hot

flares that element meeting our common-air weather; she radiates warmth like a night-orb that glows

through the forests and storms of this dark holy night which will always surrender the ghost of its rose

to the one who first brought it and shyly bestowed it on spirits as all they stand round in a ring.

Won’t she be happy to know they still wait for her shadow to pass, as they struggle to cling

to her little grey ripple of hem as she draws it across the green lawn of the otherworld field.

My shy one, I also confess–in the night, when your eyes had been weeping, my own eyes were steeled

for the first hostile ray from the huge angry planet, the one that’s been burning your pallor away.

Walk out tonight if you dare, when the sky is as charged with high lightning as any foul day–

but tender as well, and just follow the source of the light you can bear till it shows you–no Sun;

under the light of the Moon you can see is the far stranger light of the lovelier one.

She was fearful that you’d never see what she tried so to show you; she gathered her powers, and–struck.

Only her face in the transparent glass was reflected with gardens where honeybees suck

a sticky exudate from flowers so willing, they lean on their stalks lest the bees pass them by.

What are you telling me, so humming vision, and insects that drone half-asleep as they fly?

Gather it all in an early-spring armful of very pale fragrance and very small leaves,

then share it with someone who waits in the mist for the dawn of the song nothing morbid bereaves

and nothing inhibits but seasonal changes of sky overhead as the rainy clouds clear

and she takes up a thin sheet of glass and she stares till she’s dizzy but certainly no one comes near–

till she finally opens and read it, the message he meant her to have–but she closed her eyes first.

No, he was not by her side to deliver its omens and signs, so the clouds swelled and burst–

then the spring came in earnest, with bees making music and blossoms so heavy–her heart hurts for words.

What would it matter if–petals were feathers–and struck in return?–never lightning, just birds?

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Polestar Sign

Today has been a very different sort of day. To start with, I have been trying to learn to work with runes a little bit, so the first thing I did was select one to represent the energies of the present time. I got the best pick, Wunjo, Joy. Good news! Within a couple of hours, a small eBay conflict had been happily resolved, I had received a parcel much looked forward to, and I had spoken with my Dad on the phone and been told that he has a girlfriend. This is great! Anything that makes him happy will keep him with us longer. He has excellent judgment, so if he approves of her, she is surely good people.

And then, with enough this-worldliness looked after, it was time to Work. It seems to keep saying that someone is looking for me, but that is all I know. And I am still a bit concerned that I seem to know a little too much about what I am doing, which has never happened before! I am used to being the last one to know what’s going on. My sense, which has been strengthened by visions repeatedly showing me pages and pages of paper, some written on and some blank, is that a change is coming that will amount to a breakthrough of some kind. Not that many people remain as actively involved with lyric verse as I have for this long, so I feel that what I will ultimately bring across will have considerable value. But I have to get there, and I have never been the patient one.

The word ‘patience’ appears in some form in nearly everything I make these days. Wonder why!

The connection the following poem makes is with fainting spells more than actual near-death experiences, but I once had a very strange episode that I think was both. Part of what remains untold has to do with actual erotic emotions and sensations as they occur not only in mystical or spiritual states, but along with so much of female embodied experience–untold, at least, in my culture. States of awareness we are taught to keep to ourselves, sometimes until we cannot recall them at all. The unspoken truths–the nefas, forbidden to speak of truths–are so powerful, and all just waiting to be told.

Will I get there? Yes. Will I get there, while I am still in this body, with these typing fingers? We shall see!

Meanwhile–that all sounds so highfalutin’. The poem says it better:

13 March 2021


The Polestar Sign

She woke up alone, after slipping and falling

(the ice wasn’t thin; you were heavy, and sharp).

How do you know where to go when they call you?

There wasn’t an angel who carried a harp,

and there wasn’t a Being of Powerful Brilliance

who loved her as if she should understand why.

There wasn’t that much of an anything, really.

High overhead, though–the Polestar a sky

was created to wind round with velvety midnight,

and all in its most shining rays–one she knew.

She’d seen herself in a dream with it hidden

beneath her long veil of dark linen–it threw

a spark of its splendid, invisible essence

so far through the distance–it pierced the strange heart

that lay in its path, in a gesture of blessing

that soothed, yet concealed a much farther, strange art–

which it waited with uncanny patience to show her

as if from within–as real magic unfolds–

and no one who isn’t inside its enclosure

can understand why the last secret it holds

hasn’t already…. Now she can feel in the thunder

that once was a pulse as the very sky raced–

She knew she had fallen; the love she lay under

was smiling so kindly, she came undisgraced–

and was vivid within her own spirit for love of

the word of return a great Soul had just told

to the ghost of its own most beloved: Another

high Polestar is shining. Love all you can hold.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Hollowed Out

The poems are best when they come too quickly for me to think about. I don’t want to know what they mean until they have said it. That takes forebearance–I am as ego-invested as anyone in creating dignified work that will not embarrass me! The problem is that one never knows which work that will be until it is too late.

Tonight, I saw a woman gazing into a mirror–not at, but through, her face. She was searching for something down the long hollow tunnel or tube she saw stretching away in the silvered glass. She found it, and then she had to understand it. Her perspective shifted, and she was not sure which end of the tunnel she was at. She thought she started out as the one outside looking in, but now? Someone else is there.

She was led to this place by a song that inspired her, and she was hoping to hear more. Magic songs, to retrieve from the other world. By the she returns from the mirror, she has all the images; now to retrieve their message. Lamb–springtime–sacrifice? Never mind; it’s still in motion; we might never really know.

Knowing too much is the real end of the line. Not much danger of that!

12 March 2021


Out of a Hollow Sky

The mirrored reflection led down to a hollow

that swiftly proceeded along a dark track

and twisted around till she felt herself falling

forever toward–where there’s no turning back.

The music repeated, containing the message

that spoke to her soul so directly she wept,

then opened again and again further lessons

and soon she was borne through a passage–windswept–

like a burden of feathers through uncanny weather,

and nothing of home in the valley in view.

I had a long hopeless talk with the leather

that once used to wear a live lamb–not a ewe,

because lambs of his breed seldom linger past springtime.

One little twist of the knife, like the trail

through the endlessly unreeling shadows here winging

across the bare field where she crosses the pale

and exceeds outer limits of bounded protection.

Now she’s a lamb to the slaughter, perhaps–

but she goes on unknown and unnoticed–selected

by someone who knows where the shadows lay traps

and where they escape from their own bad devices.

Darker the way, but her eyes start to clear.

Something is borne on the wind beyond ice, and

it’s melting the edge of the sight shining here–

The ice is reflective in moonlight, a mirror-

bright glimpse there awaiting its caster of gleams

that shine in the eyes only known to appear in

the very last moment before waking dreams

subside into daily, reflective, awakened

yet magical–weather–as if we were skies,

while under us–poor helpless children–poor maiden,

poor mourned one–we shine like spring rain to their eyes.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment