pied piper

Kokopelli,
Sacred Seed

Kokopelli
calls to open.

Corn Maidens:
eager buds
honor gifted
in being chosen.

Kokopelli,
Strengthening Reed

Kokopelli
speaks for vision.

Young Braves:
centered inside,
counting coup,
courage on mission.

Kokopelli,
Wisdom Song

Kokopelli
flutes the ancestors.

Elder Chiefs' circle
straightened firm,
Old Ones' stories
messaged in bones.

Kokopelli,
Sirens Song

Kokopelli
plays down rain.
tickling
sticky thigh memories
among Murder of Crones.

Kokopelli,
Sacred Scamp

Calls you to listen,
when Coyote pads land
and Raven scopes air.

Feel pulse of mirth?
Kokopelli is there.

Ask for melody,
lilting laugh
or note rung clear.

Payment? A smiling heart.
Kokopelli will appear.

lazarus heart

i lost a boy.
i lost the boy,
and i was lost,
believing
i was forgot.

then he came back.
came back
to lose himself within me,
to soothe himself,
within me.
again,
he left
and i was lost.

still,
he came back,
yet forgot he came back,
and we were lost
to each other.

then this boy,
this boy i thought
l o s t,
lost his life
only to be brought back.

many were the dreams
in which i heard him call me,
many were the dreams.
yet,
believing i was forgot,
i did not answer,
until
the day,
i came back
for myself.

i came back,
to remember,
that what i'd believed lost,
was found,
across time,
across space
and even
from cross death.

memory is miracle,
and we are never lost.


july 26, 2004

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **


adieu, avoir, arrivederci:
(a birthday present)


life and light calls.
i must needs take this
heart shadow,
bathing its erasure
in midday sun.

seven years
in the boneyard,
seasons passing.
odin's winds swirling,
muffled inviting laughter,
while miss havisham's dust
clad me in gray veil.

a husband came and was left,
discarded for fey illusions,
a triangular dance eons old.
dark night's thick fog
whispered lies,
until this morn,
this mourn,
this morn's
declarative no more.
for,
living desires me.

melody stirs soul,
beckoning me,
backstep cross
threshhold
of hades' queen


hear now beside me,
embraced harmony.
cemetery gate clangs
as recess bell releases,
oscillating new song,
new courage,
new world.

june's i do

left right
in out
bread butter
mouth ear
pen ink
knife fork
lock key
nut bolt
nail polish
cup saucer
plug socket
salt pepper
match flame
needle thread
pencil sharpener
bottle corkscrew
magnet compass
heaven hell
sunrise moonglow
violin bow
bell chime
jasmine scent
flower bee
you me
all one

neighbors

weft and weave

last week,
ebony feline
strolled by 
through my early a.m.
botanical meandering.
owner of crossing paths was she.

day ago,
woodpecker suggested
I engage unmet neighbor,
who could not see her drumming.
"point me out up here," i hear.
there, atop telephone pole,
tapping tapping tapping
creating smiles among we three.

this morn, on walk,
was brought to bend
by hatchling swallowtail,
shivering
in miserable drizzle.
hitched a ride
it did,
on my finger.
resting now
on purple petunia,
til cleared for lift off.

answer for a query

elementals

breezing, air whispers.
a dancing caress of invisible invites.
yes, strand slides upon cheek from tease.
'what?' it asks.
'you define yourself as chignon?'
it smiles at the helmet headed,
lacquered in defense against.

gull song lulls,
i step among broken open,
ground by shifting edges
me and blake share knowing.
glass birthed from heat,
a lightening strike quenched
in liquid salt.
rhythm in pulse,
in repetition
in endurance,
in foam dissolving
into
faceted light.



i took to the open road last august. like salome shedding veils,
i departed desert sands ruthless fire, returning to sirens' call
of craggy coastlines, hydrated beach and redwood elders.

spirals, blues and watercolors are one medium singing
themselves through me currently.

the words are there, standing just off stage awaiting their cue.
fingers are again itching for faces and clay.

as for winged victory, i know her well.
gold miner. gold worker.
i found, i fashioned."

Gaian Divine

tactile:

ocean breeze cleansing soul
wet clay, oozing through fingers
sandy toes wiggling in wave foam
effleurage petrissage
giving facial massage
cashmere yarn
silk velvet

oral:
pink lady apples
garden picked peaches
fresh made lemonade
parantha bread
personal culinary experiments
spring water cupped to drink
licking an ice cream cone
cognac

occular:
lighted night sky
river movement
butterfly dragonfly tag
wind mussing globe willow's tresses
lover's grin
Rod McKuen's poem,
"When I Was Nine"

aural:
hawk song  
wind chimes
beaver's burping
children's giggles
friend's merriment
migrating cranes
happy dog yips
thunder
creaky redwoods sway
church bells

olfactoring:
heirloom rosebushes
lavender fields
bearded irises
russian olive blossoms
towel dried babies
rain soaked desert
herbal soup simmering
old grove forests
ocean tang



life is good. it's good to be us.
spirit of divine ever present

Parchment Charmed

Antiquarian's exclamation,
unexpected uncovering.
Cradled in palms
gently brailling worn cover,
bindings loosened by time.
Archeologist's delicacy
softly brushes breath
across particles,
releasing dust of ages.
Cobwebs enchanting,
veiled till now.
Tender whisper turns leaves,
tracing fortune's path.
Lips resound ancient muse.
Poetic duet spans eon,
a ladling of troved gems.

Hexigram

this versus that
this not that
this leads to that
this or that
this and that
this is that

Prophecy, Forsooth

Out of Time.

Out of?
As in lemme
run to the store
and pick up a quart?

Out of?
As in stepped
outside to grab a pack
and didn't come back?

Out of?
As in
time out,
time delay,
gone fishing,
taken a break?

Out of?
As in
doled out,
passed out,
drawn out,
logged out?

Out of Time?
Well,
there's no time
like the present.
And, if not?
Well then,
it should be
taken out
and shot.

* * * * * * * *

chickens scratch in dirt,
like quilled pen writers of old,
seeking choicest phrase.

and now,

a soup pot of
syntax, synonmyn and syllable
are simmering on my stove,
so....

please enjoy the delicious gift of this:


How To Eat A Poem

Don't be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice
that may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon
or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.

~Eve Merriam

New Lesson Plan

The Universe and I agree,
some Starry nights hold a gift for me.

While Freya chants a runic tune,
her Nornic messages are woven in dew.

A memo to a memo requires focus.
"Pardon me, sir, is that the humming of locust?"

"Besides," Coyote teasingly chides,
"don't you already have a degree in hocus-pocus?"

"Con te partiro," quoth Raven taking wing.
How epic the aperture shows this Spring's fling.

Now back to my studies, I'm off to roam,
through Eleusinian fields with
a slender graceful tome.

~May 20, 2009

* * * * * * * *

You're master of what you've lived,
artisan at what you're living,
amateur at what's next to live.

* * * * *

You build lifetimes
as spiders build webs.
Lots of trials, sometime
to fit one strand.

~Messiah's Handbook:
Reminders for the Advanced Soul

* * * * * *

The Warrior of the Light recognizes the silence
that precedes an important battle.

The silence that says "Things have stopped.
Why not forget fighting and enjoy yourself
a little." At this point, inexperienced
combatants lay down their arms and
complain that they are bored.

The Warrior listens intently to that silence
and understands that somewhere
something is happening. He knows that
devastating earthquakes arrive without
warning. He has walked through the
forests at night and knows that it is
precisedly when the animals are silent
that danger is near.

While the others talk, the Warrior trains
himself in the use of the sword and keeps
his eye on the horizon.

~Paulo Coelho
page 55

Last Blood

I become my womb Saharan:
sere, barren.
My fertile crescent changed
by time's hot winds.
I am uterus come to terms
with the absence of coming to term.
No bloodline contribution
did I procreate.

What gift did I deprive my world of?
What missed opportunity?

Oh Daughter,
my own self renewed,
forgive me.
Forgive me.
Or Son, awakened beloved,
You too,
you too.

And yet
yet,
how full and pregnable I remain.
I, earth tethered and still conceiving
that hidden within
is an underground spring
nourishing
a perpetually blooming
oasis desert rose.

2003

Destiny's Jester

Your voice,
like a gulp of cool, clear water,
after a long dusty trek.
A harmonic note, drumming through my skin,
outside in.
Pounding hounding,
through eons of dreams.
Who knew that a beloved,
once cradled chuckle,
would chime within so deeply so long,
resurrecting ghosts from my ancient boneyard.
Here were sensations
I thought long ago dirt buried and sphinx mute,
insistently clamoring
to stand risen in the light.

Once... just a moment before, whilst smiling,
you did as your grandfather directed.
You gave me delicacies sweet.
Into the glass jar you reached,
placing candies of easter color
upon my open left palm.
You welcomed
after I whispered shy thanks.

A paisan's pronouncement
accompanied our quiet exchange,
imprinting itself unbeknownst, in me.
Did you hear this phrase often?
I was teased you know,
on the car ride home.
Even your first told me she'd heard it,
yet that is another tale
for a different page.

What I recall though,
has shadowed me
these many moonlit miles since.
Always there echoing, quietly beckoning.
And so, I returned
to reflesh self
amid familiar aromas of memory,
all rung
by a soul resonating sound.


2004