A Hunter’s Heart

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The happening waits for no one, just fly

 

A hunter’s heart, a stone, then water
here for a feathered breath
then gone
with the mourning doves’ call
through the window at dawn.
Yellow roses land in the bathroom sink,
sweet sailors on the wind-
the ones who bleed milk white,
whose green stems snap
and turn to dust,
sphinx-eaten beauty
and how we stay soft
even after death,
the preservation of the gentle thought
that everything had its rightful place at the table,
long after we’d said goodnight-
safe under glass,
pressed between pages,
a cricket’s funeral and the ocean at your front door,
how you shocked me with how solid you felt
as if you became real under my fingers
as we walked the notes between planets,
each step an octave higher,
until the sounds became a frantic symphony
of wild horses tangled in our hair,
with hooves that bruised our willing limbs-
the discovery and the betrayal
of the delicate ones
who could kill
if they needed to,
sent out to sea in their tiny boats,
rowing through the spines of ancient books
rising from the water,
records of all songs and sorrows,
sweat, screams, tongues, & touch,
enmeshment,
and her voice’s echo down the hall,
reaching past all the birds and blood,
disintegration
and flowers on every surface,
a heart that beats for those lost beneath the waves,
hands up, sinking,
breathing in new ways now-
how lungs sprout roots,
architects of every pathway home
from eyes that never opened-
relentless adaptation
and the illusion of order,
still as real as skin on skin
and our names in your mouth,
behind curtains that keep no secrets
except the ones between them and the wind,
whispering:

Climb down now child, build the the ladder as you go. The Tower always falls
 before you are ready, 
and fallen feathers 
scatter, singing 
to the stars–
The happening waits for no one,
 just fly.

Nurture The Spark: The Living Poem

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One way poems are born….the living poem: The day I wrote this, I woke up feeling compelled to write down the images that were flying around my mind, in that strange space between dreaming and waking, the landscape of symbols and sensations barely touched by words (but still, they ache to be written, or I ache to capture them inside in my little glass bottle heart, take ink and turn them into something, scribbling in my journal like a madwoman, so I can watch little wings flap, and see a tiny fragment of another world…always trying to capture the ethereal, preserve impermanence – those silly but urgent desires to convey essence that is beyond logical expression.) As the day unfolded I quietly noticed that a lot of what I had written earlier was manifesting on a little faerie walk I was taking with my friend & her daughter. We saw a beautiful snake move like water into the space between rocks…the temple of the serpent…and then a moon carved by the elements onto the face of a stone….a spider in her web  between tree roots that held rocks like something precious… bees like tiny faeries in their yucca and sage flower sanctuaries, flying too close to my face….I had written these elements down hours before, and there it all was, being born in front of me. Of course the poem, once it starts to be written, takes on a life of its own, relating the inner world through observation of the outer world…but it’s the sweetest & strangest feeling to move through the day as if I am dreaming my life into being, connecting into the vitality of the present moment & relishing the interplay of the subconscious undercurrents and the conscious experience. I am always inspired by the magic created by openness, and the willingness to notice.

 

Medicine

I took only one step over the threshold
into my honeycomb caves
before I wanted to turn back,
to slink away quietly
beneath moonstone ceilings
close enough to touch,
bees on my lips,
whispering that all it will take is
three breaths past the web weavers’ doors
and seven stars beyond the sea urchins’ spines,
the path to all the places I protect
without knowing-
that this is an entry point,
a spiral path
into the temple of the snake,
meeting of the essential self
learning to move like water
where no space is too small to pass through,
where from the stone sprouts a shoot of green,
faith- raw, naive,
and every flower who opens here
calls my name-
urgent voices
riding cobweb carriages
and howling to the night,
laughing about how we can’t feel ourselves bleed
but we know it by the salt-kissed sting,
porcelain white colored by crimson blooms,
comets made of ironstone hearts
breaking across the sky,
the way cuts harden to heal-
the wisdom of skin,
merging and falling
as we walk the circle
to the center.

Through layers of lust,
blinding-
the salve and his sword,
the rose and her thorn
their urge to attach,
and then one stronger:
detach,
re-arrange,
pray to the present,
to the breath,
the silence,
the arrival
at each gate,
where only one thing is asked:
remove your jewels
and make your descent,
strip yourself of each coveted garment
and rise,
naked and trembling,
not with fear
but with lightness:
ritual incineration,
electric bodies melting
into a vein of pyrite,
fool’s gold mine by the river.
We are untouched by greed
and kissed by the one
who leaves specks of ruby
on our tongues-
unmetamorphosed desire,
unpolished still.

I watch for all the things you don’t say.
I am a bricklayer who befriends earthquakes,
building her home amidst
the crashing
with the red-breasted bird
who eats the butterfly,
grabbing her from the spider’s trap,
savior. saint. sinner
devouring
in silence.
Another transformation
in this theory of mirrors,
the reflection and the shattering,
energy provoking energy
and deliberate movement
across the ice bridge-
its frozen song melting
into the soft opening
between danger and beauty.
Channeling Ms. Lonelyheart’s fire,
this little sacrificial love lamb
chooses to carry herself into the flames.
This time, this time I will get it right,
burning my own fortress to the ground,
the foundation becoming my altar
where I dance in prayer,
destroying every flag we have ever waved
in the name of anything false and fickle,
all that has stood for anything
but love and liberation.

Inspired by the enchanting Matilija Canyon in Southern California, a gem of my beloved home.

You Are The Little Seed

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where it is not enough to simply trust, but to surrender so fully you become

 

 

You are the little seed
who only bursts
in fire or flood,
harbinger of wonder,
something from the other world,
who sits in darkness waiting,
inside a burial chamber
or a birth canal,
aching body soothed
by a constellation’s kiss
across winter’s cheek,
where early morning
owl songs
bridge
here
and there.

You are the patron saint
of moth-eaten love letters
read in blue light,
the earth fallen innocence
of wing pierced skin
and whistling winds who say:
The beginning can be hard,
because nothing stays the same,
but don’t stop now.

You are the tiny star
who only dreams
of the explosion,
breaking open ceremoniously
into the light of nothingness,
where it is not enough
to simply trust,
but to surrender so fully
you become,
proclaiming your presence
in the landslide
of shedding skin,
carving a path of courage
through fragments of mirror
dropped from the sky,
shattered by the sounds of angels,
reflecting your unfamiliar face
on the ocean floor.

You are the sweet one
with razor teeth
who gnashes on truth,
leaving to find beauty
in an alien landscape,
returning to the calling
that you will listen to now,
because you have to,
collecting every tangled thread
beneath your loom,
like seaweed on the shore
of a place that feels like home,
though you have only ever lived
out at sea,
beaten smooth by tides
who speak in concentric circles
of memory, visions
and voices
lost to wolves and moonbeams.

Then, a spindle-pricked finger
and a drop of blood,
watering your white dress
in a garden of roses set alight,
petals singed and singing:
Keep going little one.
Don’t fall asleep again.
See through the eyes
of the ancients
how they learned to live
all those years,
alive in the tenderness of being,
how being born
was the first radical act,
and how letting go is the next.

They breathe through you,
and you can see them
in the lines around your eyes
when you laugh secrets,
or when you open
your mouth to cry.
Clocks tick inside trees,
dying in parched soil,
beneath which lies life,
dormant,
ready to sprout something loud,
unknown.

Your resilience is resounding.
Remember.

The clockmaker
and the starweaver
sit together
at the sacred hearth,
comforted by a strange stillness
that turns the golden key,
opening,
awakening,
breaking some spell,
and the thousand year rain
begins.
Grow.
Now.

Inspired by the magical land of Joshua Tree, California

Find Your Anchor, Your Golden Thread

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Carried by the call into the unknown

Your spine grows longer against the edge, replacing bone with rock. When it becomes too wide to reach across, and it is only you and your old tales wrapped in leather and leaves, find your anchor, your golden thread. Take with you every singing cell and every emptiness you gave a name to. Morning star catches a ride in your hair & all burning thought is ashes now, sinking under the wings of birds. Let yourself dance through the labyrinth of the beginning, mysterious child of the divine, water-breathing creature of the wind, head thrown back, bones confused by an unfamiliar angle. Muscles used to whiplash are most at home in constriction, & hold their ground until the song comes through, uprooted by the unexpected. Keep moving through, this transformation will cleanse stagnant blood in the mutable river, stones and branches offering vital bruises, skin prickling: alive. You lay old swords down in the inexhaustible flame at your fingertips, forging the in-between way. Dullness has no place here—you are carried by the call into the unknown, treading softly in the darkness, hands gripping lightly, so lightly, to the thread that guides you home.