Transitions

I stand in the door
one more transition
one more shape
one more becoming before i rest

i’ve endured the darkness
and beheld the stars
i’ve committed the blasphemy
of bending time and space
i have lifted the seas from their beds
and beheld the treasures hidden there

i have wept an ocean
and walked it dry
i have run the spine of the night
and held the winds in balance
I have walked though the hole in the zero

i have cast light and shadow
i have forged weapons that few can even imagine
and i have given blood to the earth

storm and shadow
i am
and ever shall master the skies
and lift the fallen precious ones
into a new light
a new
dawn

Amid Bracken, Along the Brae

In another Place
One of the Far Places

I walk the Deep Forest of Xu-Hector
For I am often found amid bracken along the brae
And this is indeed my favorite Season

I poke this rotted stump
With my staff . . .
I guess I am never so sane as I am here
Under these patient oaks
Under these cyan skies
I toil not nor do i spin . . .

I look up into a cathedral of scarlet oak leaves
And bear witness to the day
To the laugh slash of this brook
To the undulation of the grasses
As they whisper hissy secrets to the wind
To the dance dancing leaf shadows dappling
The meandering waters

The wind
Playful as a pup
Tugs at my clothing
And then runs on ahead

I can feel it before I see it
Something is here
Something . . .
Something is here . . .

The Artist

 

She pictures an open door
the Sun when its spent
She pictures the corridor
now vacant with lament

She pictures the empty shelf
no leaves upon the tree
She draws me outside myself
but never pictures me

My Quickening

In the crackle-sharp air of that blazing Autumn afternoon
I stood on my Grandfather’s porch
and felt myself ‘feeling’ for the very first time

The grey, porch paint
The dust in the driveway
The skies burning
Azure edged
Sharp enough to cut you
The flaxen-gold collage of the maples and oaks
and ever-dying apple trees

The wind was walking the hillside
and something sonorous sang me into Awareness
Somehow my hands had become things of strange and surreal beauty
as I pressed them into the wrinkling membrane covering the Universe
My child heart shuddered under the enormity of Reality
and everything took on a texture like something out of a DMT vision

Somehow I knew without knowing how I knew
that I was everything I could see, hear, smell and more
I was the child standing
and something standing beyond
And the man I am now

All watching

All at once
Yet . . .
In a place outside Time . . .

I have walked under many skies
But never again
one so Real

the possession of all that you own

“I might not be able to buy happiness with that much money, but I could make a down-payment.”
“Hon, obsession with money blinds you to the art and texture of your life. You become the possession of all that you own.”
“That much money. . . I’d be satisfied.”
“There is no lasting satisfaction this side of the grave.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro

When you’ve played the game with Death

“When you’ve played the game with Death as many times as I have, you come to realize that you can’t win, you can only postpone defeat.”
~ from the Handbook of the Reluctant Tyro