Beginnings and Endings
Thor’s fist and forearm on my left
tall, diaphanous maidens glide by;
a voice on my right whispers,
‘Those aren’t born of Reasoning’
Thor and the maidens signal no endings
People sublimate to build a nation;
when their work becomes feeble
they make hammers with alloys
and built-in obsolescence
Choosing to be true
Garcia Lorca was shot dead. Joan of Arc
chose death by fire over life in prison.
Both signaled endings beyond themselves
Innocence and power are reclaimed with truth
whether one keeps his mere body or not
and parts return to the whole;
Garcia Lorca is still alive,
his laurel wreath glowing in translucent light
and Joan of Arc ascends to her God
Revelation and thinking things through
are made in different camps,
like spontaneous creation and reporting the facts.
Who are you?
You, behind the dark and light forms flowing near,
Behind the mirrors and doors,
Behind the angels and the demons,
Behind this versus that,
Behind thoughts and their frames,
Behind desires and fears…
Who are you
Who teaches that the less there is between us,
The higher I fly on my own wings?
They hold the secrets of our past and future,
revealing how we create our worlds
from memories made long ago
like those of a clam and its surf;
shell and surf becoming
a pair of jaws drinking milk,
irritations becoming pearly teeth,
on to a mercedes with a roaring motor
we’ve quieted down, opening its hood…
we catch ourselves in our dramas.
Back to the sea
I want to go back to the sea
where light and dark are one,
where I come from.
Back to sea waits and wiggles
where the will to be
(not greed) trumps right and wrong.
I would be a tiny fish, alive one marvelous moment
or a big one, snapping up the little.
The sea sings, ‘the one who doesn’t know me is an orphan.’
I will go to the deepest space I can find
and listen to OM — I want to fly
where my wings first formed.
I like to think you are my ancestor
and that I still wear
your wings and beak and eyes
I watch you skim deep waves with your mate
and high over the water circle your domain -
you dive straight on your mark
and close the distance left between us
Self Image Is Destiny
There was a little girl
with shining curls,
not one in the middle
of her forehead;
daily she was told
they were beautiful;
they grew thicker, shinier
like the coat of a young alpha wolf.
As the girl grew older
she began to hear she’d caused
the hair of her friends
to be thin and limp
because she was claiming
the most care and attention
and she caved in, shrank from view;
her hair dulled, turned limp, fell out.
Then the hair of her friends
didn’t look so bad.
(It’s lonely at the top.)
Reflections (after Rumi)
A cloud passes unseen,
you see the shadow it casts
Pulled from your source
you long to go back
Desire makes your heart skip a beat,
in the lock of your fear a key turns
In time all images are spent
like gold plucked from a sleeve
While you sleep in darkness
something within you shines
You deem yourself a donkey’s slave
yet ride a magical horse
While your body fades to dust
you hop from roof to star
Your body is but a shadow
of a shadow of your love
A Reflection (after Rumi)
How does softness leave a petal,
or hardness a stone?
But the parts, when lost bless,
bring you to all there is,
the Friend you seek beyond them.
Killing the Christ within
(written after reading comments by Benny Morris on ethnic cleansing)
Ethnic cleansing is sometimes justified
he tells the crowd
which roars approval
claps and shouts
what goes around
doesn’t come around
when you’re armed to the teeth,
St. Peter isn’t there this time,
just an old man
sucking on an empty pipe.
A cock crows twice
and keels over.
He sees the cock drop
and tells the crowd he’s had a sign
- it’s up to them, self-chosen,
to kill the Christ within
- the Beast is still set to rise,
pitiless as a second sun,
at its appointed hour.
a suicide bomber foresees her death
dynamite strapped across her chest
dark hair covered, smooth tan face
she ambles down war-swept streets
past trash and sewage
across fields and into a shop
busy with affluent citizens
her purpose to blow apart
those who drove her family
from their land and lives
who degrade, day to day
and slowly starve
those they rob
she would not be broken
she would light a fire of hope
a martyr opening the gates of heaven
and hell, with an orange string
held to her heart.
Rivers pool in our hearts
before their vapors rise
to rest between us …
you are life
holding on to a body
for a time, and so am I
Let not fear blind us to what we are
and where we’re going
or to the worth of others ascending;
let’s simply live
listening each to his own still voice
and do what is right in the moment.
(short poems and sayings)
It’s said, ‘You have to kiss a lot of frogs,’
wet ones, eyes bulging.
Many do, yet never find a prince;
find grinning frogs in their mirrors instead.
A green fish, nearly too old to breathe, rests
under October’s thin ice. Early snowflakes
melt above him. Soon fish and flakes will
leave the viewer, who says he owns them.
Some have said that Sound and Picture
are more fundamental than the Word, better
vessels for magic, superior tools for the artist;
but, like fire, language is a gift from the gods;
words can create both sounds and pictures
and turn them into poetry. Words are wands.
Words are matter
bound to sound;
truth rings or not
between their lines.
A bowl of cherries is just a bowl of cherries.
A hawk circles over a farmer’s hens
while the farmer plucks cherries for his pies,
pops one into his chin.
‘Impulsive’ is said to be
eager without looking
then – surprised!
Some with that habit
age to ‘old and wise’;
others become old
with a vengeance.
Dancer and red fish dream,
one under satin,
one under stone;
glide like fireflies
from their covers.
His poem about a perfect lover
is well-crafted, but no one lives there.
In the east the color red
promises new beginnings and prosperity,
brighter versions more energetic,
darker ones elegant and powerful.
What is permitted may not be forgiven:
listen to the still voice within
if you would walk scathless through your days,
your own master, blameless.
For David, the Painter
‘Sometimes I want to paint
something as corny
as a sunset,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you,’ I asked.
‘Maybe you could paint it
like no one else has.’
But he shook his head,
‘I have an image to think of.’
He paints abstractly
and, instead of things, an idea
that life is an unending plateau.
His paintings remind me of sunsets.
Some New Scholars
(verse commentary, after Yeats’ “The Scholars”)
by William Butler Yeats
Bald heads forgetful of their sins,
Old, learned, respectable bald heads
Edit and annotate the lines
That young men, tossing on their beds,
Rhymed out in love’s despair
To flatter beauty’s ignorant ear.
All shuffle there; all cough in ink;
All wear the carpet with their shoes;
All think what other people think;
All know the man their neighbour knows.
Lord, what would they say
Did their Catullus walk that way?
They used to be forgetful of their sins,
now they seduce their students, pretend they’re
young themselves, but can’t remember when they
felt love’s emotion without self-consciousness;
believe beauty is clever, not ignorant.
The older ones vacation in exotic places, the
younger wear disdain and good will; all wear
the carpet with their shoes; all think aloud
in the same domain of political correctness.
Few in the humanities or social sciences dare
have an original thought that works (I recall
one: “pecked to death by doves”; its source
was speaking of her friends).
All know the members of their crowd; it’s still
important to know the right thinkers. In a town
I passed through, those teaching for the local
college bought their uniforms at Sears; the one
with pecky friends asked if Catullus was an
astronaut, then confessed she’d mostly read
classic comics, adding that her specialty was
for John Milton
When we’re young, arrogant lambs
with heart and wool
the world lusts after
we preen and swagger
all the way to hell
by a poet)
change radically -
willing, totally -
crawl from the fire,
rise to the light
(called by the same poet
Those who stayed home
ask, ‘why look for trouble?’
and ‘who needs to be a hero?’
as though they have little
left to discover
but you reached
into hell and heaven
for secrets of the journey,
show Him planting His apple seed
that holds the fruit
of divine knowing
in our Garden
then creating us
His chosen seekers and finders
He plays on rims of chaos
testing his intent to live
and subdues himself
by choosing not to obliterate
certain foes and faithless friends,
remembering his urge to kill
before being killed must be on edge
– else he could forget, grow helpless
and life be lost — maybe his;
he’s come close when playing
with all he’s got for a good cause
not certain if he’s right or not
which doesn’t make him wrong
for being where he is – he’s only caught
I’m not the body
I move, own, am tied to
giving thanks today
as I consume the flesh
of friends Tom Turkey,
plants I love,
along with air and water…
What is this communion,
one form devouring others,
transforming, mind giving credit
for the privilege
to a god?
“The only tyrant I bow to
is the still voice within.”
Knowing the difference,
he chose between dying and living.
Regarding Van Gogh’s Advice
Not to Be Afraid and Not to Try
to Make a Painting Pretty
It takes courage not to try
to make a painting pretty.
Few souls can resist,
the desire to please requiring
that ugliness be hidden.
Tell it like it is,
beautiful and ugly,
the best you are able -
serve no other master!
Was that commandment made for man
who has so much to worship, and forget?
A Van Gogh baby is big,
drooling, eternal -
a fat promise
held by a vigilant mother,
her apron wrapped tightly
over simian bones like a second skin,
strings hanging like tails.
It is in related gestures too -
their straight backs,
a jutting hip,
a small leg dangling
and hands ready to reach -
that love and attitude
raise immortal heads.
In first grade, I learned long fingers indicate aesthetic bent and
vision. Felt discouraged, until I saw pictures of chimpanzees
with very long fingers, long arms too, especially adapted for
grasping and swinging.
One of my professors remarked that in his experience people with wide
triangular eyes have benevolent souls and those with round eyes evil ones;
his own eyes were remarkably wide and triangular, and when he saw me
looking, noting their glint too, he frowned. Every time he heard his round-eyed
dog bark, he put it in a closet on a vegetarian diet; it lived five years.
And so it goes: white, brown, short, tall, plump, thin, old, young;
we make one better than another because someone has to lose, we think,
so why not play more games like who can be truly kinder?
As a child…
As a child I learned to hold spiders, snakes, toads and lizards,
the feel of life, stroking their small bodies with care.
Years later at an inland college I saw a teacher in the faculty lounge
kicking a cricket side to side, enjoying its terror.
I dodged his shoe and picked it up; a scream from across the room
whipped deep into my back — other teachers had been watching
(and crickets didn’t belong except in poems).
I took it outside and put it on the grass, faded, its presence scattered,
but still beautiful and black.
(Childhood learning was at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History.)
Many have longed for a world
ruled by wise women and unselfish men,
a civilized, lovely space
where every being is free,
finds his own place
and is understood,
a heaven on earth.
Plato planned an ideal realm
resembling the one longed for above;
he said poets would not be allowed,
were hard to control and told stories
of gods and goddesses, how they lived
before, some say, man fell to earth.
New York City (1996)
with the heartbeat
of the world
we have a sense
of action snowballing,
of impending upheaval.
In my neighborhood
a darkness beyond the ordinary
has been settling in
for a long while.
It penetrates the daylight,
walls of buildings,
pores of faces.
We know it is never too late,
but is there a future here?
That is the incredible question
in this City of high energy
where people of every kind
live together in a harmony
unheard of elsewhere.
We play out our dramas
deep in the womb
of a sleeping volcano,
await the purifying fire.
big white fish hiding
under red October leaves
closes, opens lips
brief as a firefly
a goldfish glides under weeds
in dusky water
carp swims up my scroll,
turns into silver crescent
predicting long life
the lucky kind, curls 3 times;
yellow base means death
my boots sometimes sink
climbing over a snow bank,
ice cream cone steady
To follow the Christ spirit
manifest in that one
who was a son of God and knew it
even in the bloody eye of his storm
open to what the winds would bring
open to dying, to being born
is too difficult for me
I opened all the doors once
and turned my life authentic
but love won’t bear another undergoing
I think, looking back -
still, today appeared a hurricane
and I am walking in it upright
Don’t call me christian though,
a follower of doctrines;
I’m a co-creator, in alignment.
The agnostic is caught in his mind
by his god and by his devil
to be and not to be:
maybe devil and god exist; maybe neither
maybe mist was always rain
and rain a shining river
there are no answers, he believes,
but the questions are eternal.
a push and pull
wearing down concrete,
leather and bone.
Like wind and roses,
stone and sun,
each shoe’s life
depends on crafting,
what it is made of
and what it rubs.
The magic footprint
Whoever puts his foot in the side of the cliff
where a giant footprint is stamped
will be granted the wish he makes while his foot is there.
In our town, this is a living myth.
Over the past 30 years, four have tried;
one fell into the sea and broke her hip,
the others say their wishes have come true.
I look, see what I intend
and it comes to pass, if I let it be.
I can change my mind, too.
No need to climb there.
Not hard to forget
Lights in many shades and hues
danced through corridors,
around corners in his sleepy eyes;
his lips and fingers played
lose and find
with the timing of a master,
the power of a magnet;
he was a drummer,
had words too, having kissed
runes of wisdom and wit.
The man sought to understand
in depth and provoked
a steady flow of delight.
Then he sank the float, saying
“I’ve enjoyed my performances with you.”
So much depends on illusion.
sign of the tiger
Though often alone, I’m seldom lonely.
Born under the Sign of the Tiger,
I can spot a demon or thief miles away
but do not close in
unless loneliness holds sway
You and I
I know, from dreams, we played with Minos,
ran in Minoan marathons
and later met on Everest,
spying for different queens.
When did we first meet?
It was yesterday, this life;
you harpooned me from across another room,
love and lust penetrating in equal measure.
You wait now for me to do your will,
then go about your business.
Again you tell me not to dream,
you need your freedom.
I can give that now before you need it,
skipping all that was in-between.
I love freedom too, in my nest as well as out.
We have said hello-goodbye many times.
When the untold suffering to come
propels humankind-in-need to find new ways,
maybe you will see me whole
when we meet up.
The Future’s DNA
The future unfolds
the intent of living things
to die and to be born.
The caterpillar inches towards death
spinning its cocoon
willing to grow wings.
Chalk and Board
(or Cheek and Tongue)
Vice makes virtue possible to know,
like white chalk on black or green,
thus there is no role I would not play -
sage, madman, robber, king -
changing skin and gait
on a Shakespearean stage;
the more identities I can have,
the more knowledgeable I can be,
not re-act mechanically,
or let myself be led by Loki spirits
This reminds me of a dream
in which a traveler lost his way
but that was before I found the devil
(though it took some million years)
who kept me hopping leg to leg,
loss to gain and back,
self to self, parts missing:
the one with a stash of scalps
who told me I’d been chosen
and others hadn’t.
Plea to a friend, to act wisely
When have you or I
stopped pursuing folly
before many falls?
There is a Zen saying
that some horses only need
to feel a whip lightly,
others in the marrow of their bones.
Questions Emerging From A Dream About Eating A Pet
Does all food, including medicine,
when we eat we make what is
not us, our own?
is eating, like touching, a way to know
the illusionary nature of form?
are rules made to be broken
in ways that work
like – bite off more than chewable
if very hungry (and learn what you learn)?
I AM OM
Lord of Heaven
give me your blessing.
Color me with your light.
No other can purify
like You, the Ocean.
You make me light.
You are mother, father,
child, friend, companion.
Satguru, Lord of Heaven
show me what I am,
what I am becoming.
You are the Star guiding
me home, the Lover
who inspires me to transform.
I belong to Light.
I am Om, Om Shanti.
(Satguru means “the true teacher”; Om Shanti means “I am a peaceful soul.”)
Child of God, do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
Is your self-esteem high?
Deep is the ocean
of unlimited love,
The child who knows her
is not an orphan.
Child of God,
do you know who you are?
From Small Bird Bones
(Published by The New Press, December, 1993.)
My Daughter’s Footsteps
drop at my door and fade.
I wonder, then know
what she wants to hear…
who I’ve ignored
all day, again
(having other things
asks with her
that I tell her I love her.
Small Bird Bones
My cat’s eyes
shine with tenderness,
his tail furls
and curls with intention.
Soon he will meow long
and scratch the screen door
until he’s too tired
to see the fallen sparrow.
I want to let him go,
see his black body fly
like an elegant arrow -
have it over with -
but hear my first cat
high in a tree,
small bird bones
caught in his throat.
à la Baudelaire
L’Invitation au Voyage
Allons en voyage, mon frère
où ensemble nous nagerons
à travers les sauvages rayons
de la lune, à travers
les mers violettes, en fleur
où il n’importe que tu m’es menti
mon cher, où le soleil
brille quand nous voulons
et nous nous aimons.
J’aime que tu existe.
(for Jack Noyes, who hunted butterflies and black widow spiders)
He told me
what he did
to women and animals
all men kill
the things they love,
that I would understand,
being a woman.
Child with a Shell
He touches its teeth
fingers its inner ear, smoothly glazed
like a pink fish-belly.
As he feels further,
echoing sounds from the center -
he holds the empty hull
wondering where the sound has gone
and looks for another shell.
Invocation to the White Goddess
(The Celtic Muse)
Isis of water, earth,
Fire and air,
Hear my prayer.
See with me,
Touch my tongue.
Let me speak to pierce the hearts
Of all who worship you.
Hold me as your child,
That I may know
What is real.
(Ref. Robert Graves, The White Goddess)
(for Minoru Kawabata)
He taught painting in Manhattan,
a wisp of a man, almost transparent,
who knew the world was within himself
and what he intended came about,
but didn’t seem to know
or care that he was famous.
He showed us what is possible,
finding the seeds of what worked
on each student’s canvas
and ways to coax forth their powers;
in his care, we grew as artists.
Beyond wisdom, missing nothing,
he found exact gestures and words
to calm the space and lift our spirits.
Though he spoke little English,
he touched our hearts with such elegance
that we outdid ourselves.
Manhattan, I’ve loved you…
from the moment I arrived,
I knew I’d been chosen.
I love your love, your savoire faire,
your wider skies,
your lights, theaters, fruitstands, harbors,
smells of perfume and salt water,
the magic of your ships and towers,
your tales of freedom and tomorrows,
the tongues and colors of your people,
all your styles,
your open eyes,
all that you make possible.
Knocking on heaven’s door
Those who knock on heaven’s door
know Who opens it,
playing, building in that space,
painting, weaving, singing, healing
In that place Spirit turns
words into wands,
water into wine, crosses oceans,
rockets to the moon and other universes
Some call their knocking change of heart
and what comes forth, amazing grace
Some drum up sacred sounds,
dance on them and grow a world
There is no limit to what can be,
knocking on heaven’s door
My friend tells me...
my short poems are my best…
I start with the wind at my back
and get scared
shut and bolt the door
and on and on
as though the wind
is still there
(regarding “short vs. long” poems:
The Poetic Principle by Edgar Allan Poe).
is a misfit
those who would control her
like plato’s escaped prisoner
delights in discovery
and seeing further
though she may be
blind like homer
and when her faith
wiggles out of its cocoon
into a poem
it sometimes has wings
Compassionate warrior, philosopher, poet,
my father showed chivalry to women
and good will to all
I learned from him what is possible,
not what is common now;
he chose to be guided by honor
when I need to discover higher ground
within myself, and hold it,
he is my beckoning star.
6 short poems:
soft and warm
reminds me of you
touching my arm.
The blind king no longer hides and by midday light finds every corner.
Perceiving players and plots unite, the inevitability of truth,
at sundown the king declares all is well and vanishes.
I squeeze your hands
and run my fingertips
across the tips of yours
then between your fingers, up and down,
then all my tips against your palms.
You shiver; life is good.
Come to me in the night,
your body off, soul to soul;
we will fill the space,
move without moving, making love.
Poetry, Dance and Music
Without these three wise men leading
we are not living, but trudging
through the mire of a base existence.
We need the sounds and sights within
before us, making magic happen
singing: this is what we are.
After all controversy surrounding Christmas …
there is a winter solstice
carrying the promise
of another spring
and a Christ within
wiling to be born.
The blue spruce was white against the sky
and clumps of shadows frozen gray that March,
a pale year, our coldest month in many winters.
My uncle’s beard glittered with crystals,
he said a mackinaw was not enough
or the fur-lined boots he wore;
the cold paralyzed his fingertips
through fur-lined gloves; still,
he was hunting because he liked to hunt,
and his fingers curled with warmth enough
to pull the trigger. A squirrel fell from a branch,
flickering crimson across the snow.
Then another. He said we had our dinner
and floundered through the drifts
to pick up the bodies.
He said he wasn’t dependent for his meat
on any city’s butcher.
A black and white snapshot shows
aunt Heather, six years old, seated at a piano
staring hopefully at a page of music.
Short sleeves puff near her pinafore straps,
plaid ribbons tie back her braids.
Her third, right finger is on a key,
those on each side point upward like a spatula.
Though Heather had a teacher,
she learned to read numbers instead of notes -
that seemed easier, she said, but
only notes were in the second book.
(Her teacher said she lacked interest.)
Heather made me promise, on principle,
not to depend on teachers
and to keep to difficult paths.
C’est à l’intérieur...
Le soleil brille
sur tout le monde,
sans juger, mais
c’est à l’intérieur
que je suis heureuse,
Où es Tu, mon Dieu?
Où suis-je? C’est moi-même
que je dois retrouver,
pour sentir Ta chaleur.
It Is Inside…
The sun shines on all
but it is inside
I am happy, or not.
Where are You, my God?
Where am I?
It is myself I must find again,
to feel Your warmth.
Out of the cave I called my home,
beyond the mere life of this body
the universe is disrobed.
There is no place now to fall,
no desire to shrink.
I see myself burrow into earth,
hover over the sun
or walk down a street –
I can see everything I’ve done,
pretending many roles.
I can transform into a living cross
or a mummy wrapped in white
spiraling in space
if I choose,
as I’ve chosen before.
Beyond this mere life
I’ve traveled many roads
in the all-seeing eye
creating the world;
I was with Homer and Aesop,
in the water Christ walks on,
in hurricanes and harvests.
Don’t say it cannot be,
that these and other things
don’t or didn’t happen;
I know what I know.
And here is my test for truth –
the exact consideration,
and what works:
beyond this body’s walls
where I live
the machinery of bondage
in heaven and on earth
Life digs itself
Following Ayn Rand, some critic claims
an avatar only has power
to the extent he is believed,
without considering this might be true of Ayn
And so the eternal game continues:
life digs itself
bees make honey
All of us have been in places
no sane person would choose;
mystics say life experiencing itself
is the purpose
And that the avatar is born,
or becomes, so empathetic
he is able to dig anything
and transform it, mind or matter,
bring forth life from death
Critics secretly believe he negates
their own discoveries;
they protest, watching from a raft
at risk of flooding
From mist to shining river,
egg to feathers
flying with power,
seed to ancient stick:
life digs itself
The poet Rumi calls it creation dancing
in a passion for God
An eyelid rises
in the middle of his forehead
and Pegasus gallops forth;
the drums of time
beat on heaven’s door:
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
While Pegasus dreams
his playground forms,
a watery mirror
Narcissus runs toward, knowing
a god will meet him.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
He watches in a trance
the wings below
shining with light
not knowing how to let go
of what is drowning.
rum a tum, om ta rum
rum a tum, om ta rum
I had exotic plumage once
soft, brilliant green, gold, red
I turned into a swallow
frail and lice-ridden
What was I thinking?
Like a tree whipped by winds
a saint leads a twisted life,
turning time and again
towards light to straighten
until, beyond the pull of opposites,
she glows like a sun.
Like rain dropping into the sea
like mist evaporating
when boundaries disappear
I grow larger and larger
The shape-shifter that sets me free
unveils what I hold too tightly,
lives behind my masks and in them,
in stones too, and mere words
Faithful as a rising sun
love appears dressed in light
to unite with me, to create new life,
when I am willing.
I spend my nights
in a case grown large,
watch serpents in the noon sun
swallow their tails,
glide into river reeds.
Nefertiti will bring a womb
for me, soon to be her son,
hoping I will not blame
the small thought
life in death
death in life.
Everything that is
vanishes; after sensation
that most delights me.
We sat on thrones
built by slaves,
captured in the stones,
found, whether king or footstool,
man does nothing
he does not choose –
but much he will deny.
An old woman
inches through the drizzle,
taps her stick
along the foggy shore
looking for something washed up.
We will begin again –
I have found my middle way,
coming round full circle
after touring the world
in many pieces
and putting them together.
I can see truth and wisdom
on paths I believed
opposed my own;
what seemed contrary
belongs now in my larger world.
And almost suddenly
I find myself centered.
must and should
A book must be an axe for the frozen sea inside us… (Franz Kafka)
How does one come to write with the power to melt a frozen sea?
With force, daggers invade at large;
flowers penetrate our timid hearts less than they should.
It is better to live one day as a tiger,
than for a thousand years as a sheep. (Tibetan Proverb)
I agree but would prefer to be
anything I choose
neither trapped nor fleeced
captured only while I’m willing.
I am Kali from the West
I came into this world
as much from Spirit as any male deity
but am often perceived by the fearful
to be less holy.
In my mortal form, men believe I am flattered by propositions
and pleased when they tell me what to do, who and what to love.
They think I am fulfilled when they try to force obedience,
saying that what they want is what I must want –
like those they hold in thrall.
Few in this drama guess the rage in my heart
and the secret plotting I do to render the bullies harmless,
fighting each other to mutual defeat, shorn of luck.
I drink their blood afterwards, wear their teeth in my necklaces.
Here is my story in a myth:
In a time out of mind a Spirit visited earth
to destroy what is decayed and corrupt;
She carries a snake for a staff, dancing East to West and back.
Between one noon and the next many mortals fall into Her crypt
and all become slaves who would enslave Her.
On the Road
rocks turn to dust, seeds are barren,
a tail of greed wags the dog
(the one who kills
the goose with the golden eggs)
half beasts slouch
toward succor and safety,
fall into fires
with withering angels
never say die
whose path is holy
not wanting to end up on his horns
she refused his friendship
and ended on a sword
some approach suing for redress
and soon find weakness
with their arrows
in a world ruled by struggle
there are choosers and the chosen,
each depending on the other
young girls, coatless in winter,
pull in eyes;
the big fish don’t always
catch the little
wolves dine on fresh lambs
until the lambs turn into tigers
(the tigers into saviours)
one with great love and knowledge
walked on water
beckoning others to follow
and they still believed in death
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