In Observance of The Grandmothers

They're artistic adventurers.
Parachuting where Spirit calls,
they backpack their hammocks within.

Eating where they sleep,
they adore corner views,
reading the blueprints of
each other's homes for inspiration.

Like snowflakes,
each unveils an original tale.
Les doyennes
double quadrilling the first alphabet.

They are infinitely patient.
If one line cast
does not return what they seek,
efforts continue on another.

They trust implicitly.

They move with an economy of energy.
Rarely do they scurry,
although a scamper
is occasionally witnessed.
They dance en pointe,
at times, leaping through space.

Zen mistresses, responding
to all comers and knocks upon their doors.
They love guests and stories,
so be in no hurry.
Their experience of Time
is different than yours.

Though their influences
are eternal,
neither shepardess nor goddess
is awarded greater favor.

They counsel stillness and movement,
thus mirroring
our divine heartbeat.

They teach that to expect change
is vital to a joyful life.
They instruct by example,
remaining true to their natures.

Their dharma is the Cosmos itself,
spinning continual renewal.

They've labored as sailors, aviators,
homemakers and illustrators.

Wherever there is a line drawn
or a track laid, so are they.

They are children of
She Who Is Always.
They are Creation Whisperers.

12/04/07

maenad drums

Ancient prayers chanted,
elements invoked to intimacy.
Fire. Earth. Water. Air.
I wildly sing:
Come. Come. Come.

Shadow cast, bonfire lit,
I tendril beckon the god,
my lord and lover, twice born.

Welcome, I bid you.
Enter circle drawn.
Pluck succulence.
Sip sweet ripened flesh.

Here, entwine me
with fermented frenzy.
Spill in mounded field.
Heat. Limb. Damp. Breath.
Wildly we'll siren sing.
Here. Here. Here.



1/7/08

Embered Memory

I early learned to entertain self.
Countless hours spent hearth gazing
during long, cool summer nights.
Even before old enough to light it,
I sat entranced by golden glow.
After a day spent pollywogging,
it held my interest nightly.

Two small rooms away,
grown-ups sat chewing fat,
while stirring the daily news
into their cuppa joes.
Kitchen windows black
like scrying mirrors,
backdrop to debate and laughter,
trumping pinochle bidding wars.
After growing bored,
I'd melt invisibly away.

Rorschach designs in knotty pine paneling.
The sizzle of deep frying redwood sap.
Ribboning licks of dancing light.
These, some of the ingredients
I used to fire my imagination.
Visions appeared among the flames.
My world was colored by warmth,
as barrier to obsidian nights.

11/11/07