Poetry

  • Tonight I had wanted the moon to be milky
    But she came to me with teeth instead
    Small and serrated
    In a porcelain dish
    That girl: she took the sharp young things in her silver hands and left them right on my doorstep, laughing,
    So I had to sigh and swallow them down into the dampness of my home with gratitude
    (One does not deny the moon her gifts, even when they come with teeth.)
    It is the first hot moon of summer and the grass is only beginning to know itself after all the pillage of winter.
    It is only timidly blue, in the way that birds sometimes hide a color beneath a brown fold of feather, flirting with themselves, I suppose,
    And only small packs of crickets minstrel about, in the moon-basked city of blue blades.
    They uncross their long creaking legs, always in a dance with death, and gasp forward into scattered filaments of song.
    There is no time for silence under the first hot summer moon,
    And the rain strokes down across the old sleeping mountains in harps and waves.
    Some of the drops get snagged on the thick lights of old stars as they fall, and are fated to spend eternity in their ancient arms, listening as their creased silver mouths give the history of everything, in the Stoney old language shared by only very old stars and by whales.
    The moon is dancing high around the world, all thighs and spirit.
    She always laughs when I ask her for a song, and she fills my bones with gifts that don’t know that they’re gifts til much later.
    I think, next moon, I will leave out a tea candle and some wine for her. A string of white bells.
    I will barter her gladly for stories, for dance, for the soft words of old stars.
    I will ask her for a love who speaks my language. For a thimble, and a soap dish of light.
    For now I drink the sharp rays in, catching snippets of down-drifting whale song, and their hostage drops of rain, strung like cats-cradle throughout the sky.
    I think maybe that’s what makes the net, holding up all the stars.

  • What is the Thing that calls you through night?
    Your soul will never rest
    Until you drink it’s light.
    this space is carved for you out of First Mother’s bone.
    The symbols are steepled and written in stone.
    purple where the heart of an animal beat
    Now Lost to dust-rhythm, your starcrusted feet
    Call you back into the heart-temple-home.
    Return to the path
    Reopen the tome
    Unravel your wrath
    And the books in your bones.

    Pluck through thickets of stars
    And through deep-needled trees
    With your arms outstretched like galaxies.
    Take up your scepter
    fall to your knees
    Be humbled again by your own destiny.
    Return to the path
    Drink deep of the tea.
    Moonsteeped
    stardrenched
    and found at sea. ((The honey held sky
    The new eyes to see.))
    The beat
    The pulse
    Returns to me.

  • The sun was too much mirror
    So I pressed into the wood
    Where something sacred pooled in rust and busted diamond shells
    From the sun-punched bones of old trees and the quick love songs of dragonflies,
    The folds of hot feathers are scratching out a broken psalm.
    I feel lost to the paper song of
    Book spines hugging open
    In painful bursts of light.
    And my bones can hardly hold the hooks of stars that burn beneath all things.
    I feel the song of blood, and the sudden war of bloom
    Chewing quickly through
    Some lame grey twine I’d bound them to.
    I wonder again
    How flowers survive in this world.
    With its hot sky hinging on their halos
    And the dust- mouths of catacombs sipping at their roots.
    We are alone, so I let my lips graze against the sweet pulse of a thistle
    Our shared electricity pulling me from filagree to spine.
    My toes are folded into the story of a stream
    Falling Through the web of dust pretending to hold me.
    In a moment, we are bones.
    Pages dipped in flaming ink.
    Stories told through Starry teeth.
    Time worn hands cats-cradle us
    in a basket more moonlight than matter.
    And I somehow feel safe here, in the dynamite of everything.
    And the great human hurt.
    I know that the thistle will hold to my kiss, that the stream will fold my stories into her emerald skirt.

  • Before I coiled into this body
    And fell onto the earth,
    I was buoyed by a sack of stars
    Afloat between my death and birth.
    my spirit was a timetorn milk…
    the sky was black and folded silk…
    I trickled from one dark room to the sweet next, ((Dancing))
    From deep sweet musky mystery to the beating drum of breast… .((Alive)).
    I cross the threshold into this place of terrible beauty,
    And I forget the sharp eternity of my own name.
    Everything is gorgeous pain,
    And Still my soul remains the same.
    As I grow and shed and dance and grieve
    Still,
    The Night
    Is my reprieve.
    As my skin moves into beautiful decay
    alight in my eternity,
    All this sameness stays.

    When I die
    May I unyoke myself
    And slip off this tight shoe
    may my soul dance up and bloom away,
    and my memories fade to blue.
    Still, may all my sameness stay
    may all be me;
    May we be you.

  • I was born in the untame wild
    And the night taught me one thing:
    The home I hold is Deep and Deep
    Its blue and bold and moonbeam-steeped.
    I built it up with sticks and stones
    And ocean bones
    And heart debris.
    And no small force
    Could come in here
    and break the lamp,
    and take the things.
    The moon is singing in my ear.
    I build my home.
    I grow my wings.

  • the mothers of my mother’s mothers
    are rising up from pregnant dirt
    hand to hand and breast to breast
    in heart and bones,
    in pain and hurt:
    these women who are stories who are circles,
    who are Holy Dirt.
    The Ancient words of ancestors are sewn into the hoops of skirts
    These people who are poems who are tangled in this web of dreams
    they are wrinkled stars that burn in beams.
    They are ancient wise who bleed on trees.
    They are dead and rot, and birth and breeze.
    They are well and healed, and whole and free.
    They are all revealed
    And sing to me.

  • The Apple Picker

    I was of the trees
    Hotly, fully, soot-soaked woman.

    Bearing lips and knees
    Slow feet sliding across night-cobbled streets
    Through silty swamps and constellations;
    Starkly naked in the drinking dark.

    My blind steps straying off the course,
    My lips: not braced for strike,
    and saying all of the vulnerable things
    To glasses of water, and thieves alike.

    A white-hot bud of useless thunder rumpled loudly through me.
    I was softly smoldering,
    Before I gave birth to me:

    I wandered, hips and knees and grace and and map-less, somehow,
    Came to this place.

     

    I have so many unwritten letters:
    You could pluck me from a winter vine
    And intertwine with me.
    But if you leave me,
    Warmly, fiercely free
    I will grow
    Into a glowing apple.

  • Silver Soul Surprise

    Hold the bowl of your hips
    mouthward, toward the moon

    Howl out tenderness (Death is just a room)

    Scrape stars from your lips
    Sunrise: coming soon.

    Dew drops drape your hips
    Pull off your cocoon

    give up your wolf kiss
    To the fading night:
    Perfect tender lips
    Take up luscious light
    Sky skims off the black,
    Throws off starry shawl
    moon lace at your back,
    now you’re standing tall.

    Stand up naked now:
    Shake this world down right
    ripple party-pray
    At the fading night

    Walk your own footsteps
    String your own high-moon
    Hold the dome of sky
    read the sacred runes.

    Thread the needle with this: liquid-love-desire.
    Climb your homespun rope,
    Let it take you higher.

    Crawl back into this:
    Wet earth,
    mother dune:
    whispering fierce and whole,
    brown and bathed in moon.

    Take your little home: breasts and teeth and bones
    Bent armed praying tome
    Slide slow back into
    Womb-dune torn with tombs

    Look death in her eyes;
    darkness always looms

    Find yourself within:
    Holy
    Body room
    house of skin and hips
    Tender temple boom
    Soul that tears and rips;
    Heart that calls and Blooms.

  • This morning I woke with some peace in my bones,

    And smiled around at the chorus of souls

    All feathered and furled in their small human homes,

    tied together and curled up with sinew and stones,

    All walking the world and drinking the air

    With lungs on loan

    And hearts that tear.

    All blinking at birth,

    All singing death’s moan,

    All tethered to earth,

    And never alone.

  • Something In You

    Something in you is changed,
    Something wild and right.
    The part of you that is animal shines
    Out wetly
    In the dew tonight.
    You howl
    and drink the midnight sap,
    held holy, up, in ancient laps
    of ash and elm
    and dewy realms//
    you rise and sink in cold and inky moon glow.
    you call out in a voice that only Crow knows.
    You unfold your head and dance,
    entranced with your own shadows.

     

  • In The Beginning

    In the beginning, there was a fury of noise

    Black cloaked maidens spat ribbons of gray stars,

    Arcing into brilliant rivers,

    And shaking off their casings,

    They fell across the empty blackness;

    Fell

    into a white, etheric dance.

     

    In the beginning,

    Ancient spirits peaked through invisible doors and

    Plucked through thickets of stars

     

    They pulled their black hems across the threshold-

     

    They came: solemn, dark, demonic, godlike, gross, and gay-

    The sorceress of night, the grandmother of Fae

    They came one after another

    With long and timeworn faces

    To watch the unfurling of the Great Spiral.

     

    In the beginning, you were there-

    And I.

    We sat dewy-lipped with silent smiles

    In the center of a great seed,

    Watching as All-Everything snaked across the sky:

     

    The greatest drum pounded proud songs out into new ears

    And the first tears were formed and fell across the face of the night,

    Watering the seeds that would sprout into All-Life

     

    We held our hearts and whispered songs

    Into new and unborn palms

    Breathing in and out anew

    In the sacred tongue that filled our lungs and slipped from lips before the dawn of time.

     

    It was there waiting for us,

    And written in the sky:

     

    The secret language of everything.

     

    It is there still

    It lingers silent in the center, waiting

    To breathe fresh stars

    Into the spiral anew.

  • The Ritual

    Fashion an altar of the souls of your feet:
    Sticks and stones and ocean bones//
    Save the thickest tears for the center.

    Let your roots roll out from underneath you
    Until you find the perfect place (you will know it)

    It is untouched by the wind.

    This is the place where you are tethered.

    Lay your stories down here
    Lay down all your wind and rain.

    Pluck a twig from the right tree and lay it across just so.
    Bleach your bones in the sun

    One deep scream
    Three drops of rich umber blood

    It is finished.

  • Tarot And Tea

    I am making soft and purple waves in this world; I am drinking in tarot and tea,
    I am slicing my stories on silver slivers of Moon.
    I am seducing myself
    Back into Self Love,
    Basking in a new womb.
    Sliding into One Rhythm with my slow hips-
    My twisted spine, my stained fingertips,
    And all the stories spilling through my skin in black ink.

  • Peace

    There is peace in the space between and breath in the stones
    There is sun in your lungs and song in your bones.

  • Be Still Child

    Be still child

    And listen to the sounds of the stars

    You came naked on the backs of the celestial storks

    Writing fresh folklore with every foot step

     

    You crept over the blue threshold

    Through manifest and manifold

    Through tumbleweed and milky way,

    Starspray, and mothers milk.

    You grew through eyes of needles and bundles of sage

    You knew through rings of trees, through wings of bees

    through amber sap and rage

    You came upon this moment in the golden age,

    Smoulder cheeked and comet eyed

    And that

     

    was just the start

    you lit a fire inside your heart

    and crept through fields of sleeping stars

    to hang your moon on the back of a mountain

    and open up all your eyes with a gasp

    clasping all the impossible moments with tiny hands

    you drew a circle in the sand and

    somehow, it saved you,

    As you gazed through the grey dew

    and gawked at all the silver strings

    strung out between the mundane things;

    shoeboxes full of dustmites and eternity

    and me

    somewhere, in some imagination

    as every layer of time pealed back

    I was you and you were her and all the hands were dust to dust

    And ether to ether

    Grass and earth and stones beneath her

    Ancestors and bones to teach her

     

    Be still child

    And know the nectar of nothingness

    In the beginning times when you and I were seeds of stars our heartbeat was a future memory and the melody that the sun tells to the sky

    Let this momentary lull within your skull be your long lost lullaby

    Let the sun slide down your tongue

    Let the moon be your window

    Let the river run through you

    The water is alive.

     

  • The Country Of Dreams

    Now I lay me down to sleep

    The will of the goddess, mine to keep

    She holds our lulling heads at night

    And speaks through stars and firelight

    I pray the mother gives me sight

    And lifts my lips to drink in light

     

    She emboldens the weak

    And visits those who seek

    and leak moonspeak through peaking slits in milky eyes

    She rumbles in the echoes of your cries and mumbles through the gentle music of your thighs

    She tumbles with your tears and bleeds with your births

    We walk upon her, as the earth

     

     

    she lies always across the threshold

    just beyond the veil

    In the long green country of dreams

    Where the moon hangs boldly on the boughs of the trees

     

    Her lips are wet with pearls and moss

    She whispers her tidings into wanting ears

    And soothes those who have loved and lost

     

     

    At times she rises up; a burning light to behold

    These times she stands on crumbling ground

    Her long grey glances profound and old

    She pears through silver eyes with primordial sight

    She is our long lost guiding light

    A wavering lantern

    An impossible flame

    As ancient as any sun

    She remembers the days when her daughters and sons were as one

    And beheld her their mother, the witch and the bitch, the number thirteen and the howling pitch

    the early earth tone, that rakes your bones, and lifts the fog

     

    have we all but forgotten the rotting of our cities? the people cry out and the wastelands burn

    styrafoam castles melt into small impossibilities and a few muses muse and seek to believe

    the last little embers can still make so much steam

    The great mother bleeds, she sings and she seethes, the stars and seeds whisper of her return

     

    The music of the spheres is ringing in your ears

    A memory that is not your own passes silently into the marrow of your bones

    And suddenly you know her, you’re born of her, her children all are your brothers and sisters

    And she beheld them, her little children, standing in their own feet

    She wore many faces

    And striding the earth, her feet touched many places

    she loved the world across all of the races

    She strode across the magic lines that encircle the globe and bade blades of grass to bow down to her and the wind to whisper her many names

    And even today she silently reigns

    And we build skyscrapers and strip malls across her war-worn face

     

    But in the nights, in the country of dreams,

    Still all of us bow down and worship in the language of bones

    And meet in secret circles of ancient stones

    And when we intuit or empathize

    her light peaks in through the tiniest window of our eyes

    Into the paper plastic world of today

    And slowly, as seeds sprout and cities burn

    We transmute

    And we reclaim

    And she returns

    Long may she reign.