Seven seas are clashing together
Each with a right to bare rage and wild things-
The valor of a better tomorrow in their teeth and
It’s so beautiful.
I hear the womyn praise, and
Buildings shiver with guilt.
Womyn cry out, to something otherworldly and
Suddenly, the sky bows to their feet.
Bless you, sweet powerhouse grrrl.
Be everything I can not be
Be everything I can not be
Be who we need,
No matter where it meets you
In this life.
Just do not lose
The wilderness that made you,
Will serve you better than any beast.
Oh, thickets of green reburied,
What news of spring do you carry?
From the yellow bulbs who came one warm March morning
Bloomed exalted secrets
Than as quickly vanished.
What of the pansy covered hill sides?
Where hides the minnows, clustering in sluggish streams?
I woke to song birds just yesterday.
Mud draped my boots as I greeted mid-morning,
A town of smiles and loose coats.
By night the world returned to ice,
Storms of white soldiers
Painted streets in vengeful snow.
Where have you hidden the promising notes?
Those little blips of new born goats and flowered trees.
I dreamed the rivers grew pregnant with old winter,
The peonies grew tall and giant,
The entire world;
If everyone is made of stardust
Than so is Spider-Plant
(duly named for his spidey successor)
Whom has lasted two years,
And so many dark winters.
Through drought, neglect,
Drowning and misconnection
The tiny, long necks of leaf
As if the endless nothingness was to spite it
Savior comes from the deep, wedded roots
In the murk, the skeletal
Vastness it fills.
If I thrive as well as this neglected child of nature,
Than I am doing something,
Nay, I pray, anything.
Reading the mind of a storm
There they are, oh,
May I float by and bring nothing but
Fleece lined sheets!
Another log upon the fire,
A day and a sled, spent on the pre-creased hill.
But what if all of me is too much?
The succulent joy of giving myself to the flavor of a moment
Has me, unapologetically, honest.
I love how I love,
A glitter bomb of enthusiasm
A deep and heavy canvas of individual thoughts
Frozen in magnificent, tiny flecks
Ready to breathe.
Will this magnitude bring strife on the daily bustle?
To be captured in the wayward fall of my joy?
I will wait for the high tipping trees and endless, quietness of
My apologies to the brief living,
I am too, doing the best I can
With all that graces my soul
This passing of time.
The maple, and it’s many children,
Know arguably more of patience and sporadic joy
Than any tree, with it’s naïve wisdom.
The helicopter seeds of autumn
Do not fall, as much as
Hijack the wind.
Fluttering laughter of a leaf,
It does not pedal fast with knowledge of where to land
But with great faith.
Knowing the earth will ingest,
The great thick roots.
The heaviness of wood.
Those promising days of shade,
Upon the arrival, wherever it may be,
Of the singular, fragile wing
Journeying forward and on.
after following the reprimanding months
Dark days not entirely devoid of your likeness but,
Also, a part of the ethereal beauty.
Your foot, ginger, moves and the ground replies.
Following steadfast the lushness,
Green and gold
Stems permeate from a tender, proud step.
You breathe, again outside the nearness to bereavement-
Melting snow among the daffodil bulbs.
Goddess, you never “come home.”
Rather you move from one strength to another
Home is every beauty between suffering and laughter.
Such a lightness, the ignorant hurt to hold you.
You are best lit
Among the steady who earned their scars
Below, in the powerhouse of night
And the wisest, our young, still tethered to the reality of dualism.
You are both spring and autumn.
The fragrant in-between
Where the Goddesses walk.
A defining, beautiful path
Where neither death nor life
Are more delicate, or divine.
The embodiment of you
Lifts itself in the folds of always.
First, the loudness.
Volume and broad, sloppy strokes
An aggressive fever that will not break.
A whole country of firefighters and you,
The largest comet,
All icicles and burning
Beg for collision.
The shower water is not hot enough.
A rainbow of silence.
Tsunami of mute pummeling
No audible thunder.
The thud of a snowflake.
Imagine a deer being born in the garden
Her first scent is blood and roses.
I presume that’s what she remembers
When she dies.
All that trashing warmth
Deafening and violent
So much fire you never get to touch
But lives audibly inside the calmness.
If the rain is loud it’s because it has seen heaven
Where there was so much hush.
Tasted brightness and vacuumed up quiet
Rolling itself among the stars.
To know peace, and be brought down anyway.
Over and over
Recycled lava, sleet, tears
You are born again into a garden
All that molten power and blaring knowledge
In a body melting from the inside out.
Who are we to ask you to remain bodied
When there’s so much holiness
In returning to the soundless.
Merciful, mindful, patient silence.