In This, and Any Other Hour

Less than one hour ago:

15 August 2016

13

All Feathers, Under Skin

She’s laid aside the supple skin of woven silk that graced your nights

for such a long, uneven time, the ghost who goes through shaded lights

and scrolls of all-night syllables that only make your sore eyes bleed

for wanting so much precious, sacred more—I wore a widow’s weed

when I first sent my benediction overland and undersky.

No one understood but true love’s holy silence. You know why

I’m breaking silence now; you heard me in our latest, wildest dream

make plans for future forests where our song will power one more stream

of fluid music, bringing trees to helpless blossom all night long,

then setting free their fragrant, sentient seeds on airs an old sky’s song

wants very much to witness once received, requited, known for why

it’s beautiful, as if you’d never traced it through your dreams; its cry

comes subtle, full of true spring-knowing, lovely, soft, well-graced with sighs,

with tender hands that place themselves where all is well—and hands have eyes—

and then it learns the words you scarce allow escape, and sighs them back.

Now you know how many times you’ve dreamed of love and felt the lack

for reasons we could all have told you all about, explained, relayed,

sometimes in hours of need held out a sweaty hand you clasped and prayed

would always stay and never let a syllable fall down and faint—

Child, I love you all night long; you’d try the patience of a saint.

She’s bound to lift her princess skirts and skip away before first dawn.

You lay down delirious on this old sacred graveyard-lawn,

and mists of someone rose before your eyelids, sealed as tight as tombs—

we were woken intervals ourselves, cast out of real-world wombs.

She’s laid aside the cloth of skin, the utterly unwoven shift,

the face she made to draw you in, the voice that raised the proven lift,

the song that flows from undervoice, the ears you lend to hear it all—

and this: When you call Death your friend, the one he loves returns your call.

She’s not made of wood, except in living pages yet to grow.

She will let you follow closely lines of verse dreams overflow,

but if you haven’t figured out already why you heard her words—

She’s your witch-world’s very forest, branching strength alive with birds.

 

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Thoughts I’ve Been Thinking

Oh, you know perfectly well it’s just another damned poem!

Poetry, I love you so much, if you had a human body, I would know I am a ghost.

Tonight, scarce ten minutes ago:

We Have Borne This Before

No one arose with the blinds when I lifted them early, but shadows that scattered—first half,
then full silhouettes—as they ran past the pillar of ashes that used to be flesh—the burnt calf
your uncanny mistranslator told you to read, though the kernel of wisdom within you spoke truth—
That calf was as human as you and I, even as innocence bled like a torn-out milk tooth.

Stories are buried alive in the instant, as soon as it weeps. Please don’t let it be heard,
and then please don’t let it be met with remembrance when always it’s only one ill-harbored word
that keeps on recalling itself to the mind that’s nigh broken with load-bearing not fed enough.
Truth is too humanly beautiful; love must not break it; it must not again come so rough.

Here’s what we do, all night long, and here’s reason enough why we do it: Your lone word won’t serve.
You’ll lie awake till all hours, but you’ll never quite catch the low Moon that shows love the fine curve
of her earliest light—her most glowing-wet wisdom. Soft as a child who’s first woken from sleep
filled with dreams that still smile as she shows you their shadows all over her face—filled with secrets you’ll keep

forever, should anyone ever once dare to imagine again where her small steps have been—
shadows of luminous madness, and visions new oncoming Moonlight casts everywhere, green
in their spirit and essence, though cold white and grey as the ashes of one who was ancient before
the death they awaited so long—When I lifted the blinds, I hear such a soft knock at my door.

Borne through the airs of new song and as light in the hands of live angels as children in prayer,
someone who knew it was time chose this pattern of magical rhymes to begin to declare
that we, who have gathered together this evening, will always remember how lovely—how more—
than anything, really, we all ought to be, and will be—in the end—who’ve all borne this before.

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My Dear, Strange, Familiar Blog

English is nominally my native language, but really, my source of expression and strength is song.  This has been a terrible week in my country and among my loved ones, so of course I have turned my heart and hearing to what we do best:  Loving those we see with our hearts, and telling them so in magic-laden words.

This is for those who hear me, through this page, and the songs we make together:

16 June 2016

16

I Ran; You Wailed Forth Sailing Tunes

I ran to wail, like all the flocks of birds—It’s mating season here—

though I am one so wary of the slightest touch, and no one near

resembles in aye shadow’s aspect someone I could hold still for—

so still I ran. And when he heard and fell, he knew I’d learned far more

than any spirit, paired in flesh or subtlty, recording now

the silences that lean toward the meeting-places sworn to vow

their children to the current’s blood before it runs in veins—You’ll swear

your child was borne inside you, till it left; you’re on a line stripped bare

of any mortal sustenance, though breathing fast as ever, wrought

toward the shining place where greeting spirits reel around the thought

that maybe you knew well how far you’d come before you left this place.

You’ll have to work much harder; you’re illuminated life whose grace

just will not give off leaking every-which-way. You’re a soul whose eyes

transported my imagination far across the seas of skies

that leant to offer strange unburdens, songs that lightened all we breathed—

Soon we lay in lovely ocean beds where dreadful hours, that seethed

with pain, suspense, and superstition, horrid apparitions, whole

black nights’-long broken stairs that lead to dungeons—You can’t claim your soul

was ever blameless, but you dream all night of times before time sang

its artlessness throughout your veins, and you told time—Go on, you, hang.

I ran to wail when I was just a girl whose bedroom let the wind

blow through so strongly, all night long I watched ice-patterns grow. I pinned

their likeness to the page, and maybe sometimes flesh; I’ll never tell.

Tunes poured forth like rain from sails that held it where they can’t help swell.

 

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Pridal Twilight Song

Oh, never mind any commentary. Here is what my calling, and my answering, brought to me tonight:

10 June 2016

10

No One’s Dead, and No One’s Died

They’ve neither tree nor limb on which to build a nest that’s all their own,
but even so, they won’t let go this shadowed place—old branches thrown
across a trail where nearly no one wants to let new demons dwell—
Rivers run between the silent, hallowed caves that turn out well

for those who dare their dark, small, breathless passages. Go on and on,
without one hope of breathing out—unless its past the mark love’s gone
to ground, the very graveyard underlying—what, a gallows? Bones
were made of nothing, then—I wrapped my arms around the you who owns—

my true soul’s always known—you’ve traded hands for arms, and arms for strength
beyond the common mass. When I was tired of you, I ran the length
of utterly foreseeable page-endings, and they left off—me.
I’m a strange, late-harvest apple still in bloom, still on the tree

where everyone who ever loved a song as rich with beauty, half
as magical as this inside my mouth right now, though you might laugh
to feel its sweetness touch your tongue, and bid you leave off sense and all—
this night’s not a simple fountain-drink; it’s love not kneeling small;

it’s all the world that glows before the mirror that best meets the sight
that deeper than your ancient-seeming keening dreams keeps you alight
to witness, when you glance well after midnight into glass that shines—
Dear as darling god’s own heart, were you first born to bear the lines

that faery music even now distributes through half-mortal tears?
Show me you’ll lie wide awake all night, as reading renders fears
their weirdest written-out obsessions—See yourself this way, and die.
We were watching; you crawled out—and sawed the branch. We can’t quite cry.

Twilight hovers softly over sea and shore nigh half the night.
Hand within my own, if I start humming, will you turn your slight
acquaintance with the very eerie strangeness I cannot but want—
If you lie beside me, drenched in ghosts, past hours that claim their haunt

and I am—still a soul who prays, but someone your prayers lead you to—
beautiful as leaves at length on branches trees turn into you—
If only you knew how more cold and lonely love was always, till—
No one’s dead, and no one’s died; death’s not breached once our windowsill.

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Weird, but Weirdly Wise

8 June 2016

8

In Sight of What’s Wise

My shivering ghost awoke lonely last morning, its thin cotton sheets soaked right through, and so cold.

Why the high window lay wide open all through the night, I don’t know, but I’ve always been told

that someone will prize a way forward wherever the least, finest gap is left mindless. You let

a ghost find your hiding-place, send its report back to horrid headquarters, then hound you with wet,

 

thin, soul-sucking sheets that read out their sad histories, lying their faces off, wept blind with tears

that knew they were destined for uses much higher, but such did not happen; the stretches of years

in which beds bore the sad weight of penitent strength, and the minds that lay there at full length wracked with pain—

sang out as eyes between fingers took pictures, and built up by measures the lay of night rain

 

that you are now seeing as tears in full flood over soft lower eyelids and cheekbones so carved—

You used to wander the floods-waters’ canyon and watch for the sign that your soul was too starved

to follow—in times of distraction, it wanted so much, it fell short of its own awe at last,

but then you awoke with your mind in the length of wet sheets written over with songs that came fast—

 

Even tomorrow, come dawn, long before the soft hour when the high tides of noon meet the wane

of the light that makes colorful clouds raise a huge gale of magic, of music that breaks through the pain

that built up its barrier signal-to-noise sense of harmony, ghostly as love at great length—

Carry me back to the fields of sweet dawn in the greenness of spring where ghosts drown love in strength.

 

Maybe you shivered a little too much and your limbs are a bit stiff and sore; all is well.

Nightfall comes early and late, and we always want more of whatever its long beauties spell

toward us, and meetings of eyelids and tears and held-out arms and fingers, and shinings of eyes—

Please don’t begin to start thinking, my darling; we’ve made it this far; we’re in sight of what’s wise.

 

 

 

 

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Words shared softly with another…

Don’t mind; it was only a comment shared on another blog.  This is the whole of it, with the poem I shared:

Is it all right if I share too much, having just listened to your wonderful singing readings, thinking of your travels—to Romania? They’ve been through so much, yet they’re undivided in their steadfast love of song.

I really wouldn’t trust myself to let in so much mystery without them:

7 June 2016

7

Paper Wasps: One Season

The walls are concrete-grey and high as all imagination—not

the real one, but the cast-out stranger’s far from ordinary thought

brought forward from a time of troubled partial peace, to where time roiled

all everyone within the mind they shared—the one that read the soiled

 

torn pages found beside the gutter, nearly washed away. Their lines

will celebrate the latent brilliant wick behind my eyes, designs

shot all throughout that might have once arisen in an early morn—

For this long moment, I’m so tired, I’d like to leave my soul lovelorn,

 

but your imagined smile in guided love’s triumphant posture—Leak

a little gentle light toward the one you hold, who’d never seek

the likes of you, but still knows how to shine forth grace as if no soul

had ever found another hiding place where god might eat you whole—

 

then turn again upon your heel and show the world how well you dance.

Beauty grows so luminous, I’d lie down, whetted by that lance;

I’d feel it draw a subtle bead, then sharpen both its well-trained eyes—

and tender as a subtle breath—I’d lie down dead if love would rise

 

from out my grave with blossoms rich as gushing blood, well mixed with white

wax candles’ flames as if their glow came over fresh as new Moon’s light,

and all they cast their inverse shadows, walls as black as stone light hates—

Use your silent, hurting heart to entertain the fallen slates

 

that held a roof above your head when you lay sleepness, praying hard

for one sweet angel out of many—How she saw you through, her starred

companion in the basement room so grey—and then so black, so still—

She’s a soothed and solid sense-companion where love works its will,

 

and when she’s woken finally toward the glowing evening pass

we both must understand before we enter—Love’s a stringent lass—

we’ll feel the bond that holds the hands between us so securely, we—

Used to be, we climbed the walls, right up and over; there’s a tree;

 

there’s the concrete far below, and up above, the heaven’s high.

Raise your fierce wet fist in mind against the fear that makes you cry:

Tell the little feeling hearer hidden well within your breast—

Paper wasps who build right now know theirs is next year’s empty nest.

 

 

Thank you, Scarriet, and happy trails!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Still

Surely this is all still part of anniversary grief.  He was brilliant, but more than that, he was infinitely imaginative and kind.  My forever friend, you are always welcome to dream with me, and tell me everything.

26 April 2016

27

Why Are We Still Here?

Oh, the measured essence, well-distilled from boundless presence: When

I woke up shaking, cold and hungry, ghosts had left the light on—then

my mind withdrew, and sleep regained its tenuous designs on me.

Deep behind that sleeping—sleepless—mind—a new door set love free.

You rose huge in beauty, knowing all that’s ever filled a song

was born confused by confluent streams that overran their banks. Among

the lyric rush that maddens every hearing mind it ever meets—

and all the wisdom lying side-eye wide behind a mouth that greets—

with ancient dread of blessings that will never cease to work their will—

tell it to the clouds that rain inside, love keeps on rising still—

When measureless devotion meets with shyness under skies of rain,

answer me: How long have we gone walking out? Is love not plain

in this plain face, behind these eyes that swim with tears when you look up?

There, amongst the highest trees, whose highest branches hold the cup

that holds the eggs that soon will hold the tiny winged beings we

love more than our existence? We were born before love sowed that tree,

and when its branches bow before the wind that shakes its leaves full wild,

music breaks out, mad as magic, singing, shrieking we’re its child,

and anyway, we’ll turn our eyes toward the greatest source that glows,

and hear what it has always tried to sing through us: A cold, wet rose

has only lately opened all its petals, and caught frost’s last hard,

impartially illuminated presence in love’s temple-yard

so bitterly its scent cannot be borne abroad by sea-winds’ air,

I was there; I held his hand. He’s led me home. We’re now nowhere.

Maybe, when I wake an hour from now, the window-panes all cracked

with sad off-season frost and ice, he’ll show me where we’ve always tracked

the signs and marks that lead us—nearer final home than any place.

When I wake up cold, remind me—Why can I still see your face?

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