my Beloved sings
as my dance unfurls
for him alone.
trillium,
fresh-faced flower
nods along in time
the apple tree’s gentle mosses
sing the harmony
tadpole provides a liquid descant
as i spin and whirl
the glimmering light of ages
flying from my shoulders
fingers glowing
overflowing with the amber
of purest love
he strikes the drum hard
my foot strikes soil
roots are strong again
again the drum!
left arm flies,
bold to the sky
fingers curl and open
as flowers bud and bloom
i dance for the God
who loves me
I dance to mend the sky
the five-colored patchwork of tomorrow
requires decisive movement now
Friday, August 16, 2019
Tuesday, August 13, 2019
Intermingled
you are distant
and yet intermingled with my essence
my very cells
carry you within their walls
as I am carried within yours
for all eternities
this one,
and every other
any rebirth,
you will find me
by your side
the very moment
I am able
to fly into your arms
when you have them
if you have them
oh Treasure House of Delight!
there is no other
in all the myriad Worlds
worth knowing
there is only you
my very cells
carry you within their walls
as I am carried within yours
for all eternities
this one,
and every other
any rebirth,
you will find me
by your side
the very moment
I am able
to fly into your arms
when you have them
if you have them
oh Treasure House of Delight!
there is no other
in all the myriad Worlds
worth knowing
there is only you
Tuesday, August 6, 2019
Overheard at Cafe Occult/Ethereal, PU #325872FS0900
In which we are privy to private mullings and
conversations between supernatural beings who either know or know OF
Aziraphale & Crowley and the entire situation depicted in Good
Omens. These two seem to think it’s only a program for entertainment. We
are enjoying a blood orange cafe au lait in Parallel Universe
#325872FS0900, at a table somewhat kitty corner from the loud pair whose
words these are.
Your shape
is meaningless to me
(apart from pure nostalgia);
and yet I find myself
longing pointlessly
for your arms around my shoulders,
your wings shielding me from dangers.
Your particular incarnate forms
(as varied as they tend to be)
are Home in ways nothing
(& no one) else
can, or has been,
or could ever be.
It’s always only you.
For tens of thousands of millions
of years
(as counted by this little Earth
tripping around it’s Mother Sol,
the way the humans do)
always
and only
ever you.
We dance at each Beginning;
We dance the Ending home;
Strange how the humans quake
at the echoes of our wedding dance …
to fear Love boggles the mind,
fractures souls.
Ours sparks
universes into Being
dotting star nurseries across
the spilt ink and velvet of this
and every other universe.
Your eyes flame, your heart apparent
in each minute shift
of muscle,
each pulse that triggers pheromone’s release,
every creak of bone -
none of which you strictly need.
“My Empress, my Queen,”
your voice is reverent,
tremulous, and in this moment,
overflowing with an incomprehensible awe.
I roll my eyes,
(I ought not, for your devotion is pure,
rooted in your own experience of me,
experience I cannot fathom,
and which I feel wholly unworthy of)
for nothing so extreme am I,
(at least to my own self-understanding)
but you,
Delight,
you never quit believing
in a me I cannot begin to live up to …
“There is a story in the world you live on.
About a demon, an angel,
an antichrist (is that the right word for
the child that triggers the end in that one
monotheist pantheon?), and a tire iron
at the End of the World.
I will stop adoring you,
saving you,
protecting you
only when Crowley would
stop doing those things
for their Aziraphale.
Which is to say, never.
I will not abandon my World,
my Universe,
my True North,
the only Home I’ve ever known.
My Center of Gravity,
Cauldron of Creation,
Fearful Weaver of Destinies,
Author of Health and Illness.”
I am no such thing, Troublesome Old Fox.
I am no such thing.
“I watched you measure the strands out
for these generations.”
Which means nothing at all,
except that I have done my duty,
ensuring the children have what they need
to do theirs
each in their time.
Being bodied means
all that pomp and circumstance
is reduced to the sensibility of
Waiting for Godot,
without the reward.
Besides, they need to Trust THEMSELVES.
No one else.
Neither you, nor me, nor anybeing
has any business interfering with their world.
So we love them;
let them question,
let them choose.
Let them build their own
realities.
They have no idea the power they command.
No understanding of the meaning of
their Gift of Naming.
They are unique in the multiverse.
So let us sing a Song of Awakening,
a Song of Healing,
a Song of Soul Recovery
A Song of Spiritual Kintsugi -
where they become Themselves
looking over the Edge of Forever,
and delighted -
find the will to jump
into their own nature
willy nilly
in the power of their love.
Your shape
is meaningless to me
(apart from pure nostalgia);
and yet I find myself
longing pointlessly
for your arms around my shoulders,
your wings shielding me from dangers.
Your particular incarnate forms
(as varied as they tend to be)
are Home in ways nothing
(& no one) else
can, or has been,
or could ever be.
It’s always only you.
For tens of thousands of millions
of years
(as counted by this little Earth
tripping around it’s Mother Sol,
the way the humans do)
always
and only
ever you.
We dance at each Beginning;
We dance the Ending home;
Strange how the humans quake
at the echoes of our wedding dance …
to fear Love boggles the mind,
fractures souls.
Ours sparks
universes into Being
dotting star nurseries across
the spilt ink and velvet of this
and every other universe.
Your eyes flame, your heart apparent
in each minute shift
of muscle,
each pulse that triggers pheromone’s release,
every creak of bone -
none of which you strictly need.
“My Empress, my Queen,”
your voice is reverent,
tremulous, and in this moment,
overflowing with an incomprehensible awe.
I roll my eyes,
(I ought not, for your devotion is pure,
rooted in your own experience of me,
experience I cannot fathom,
and which I feel wholly unworthy of)
for nothing so extreme am I,
(at least to my own self-understanding)
but you,
Delight,
you never quit believing
in a me I cannot begin to live up to …
“There is a story in the world you live on.
About a demon, an angel,
an antichrist (is that the right word for
the child that triggers the end in that one
monotheist pantheon?), and a tire iron
at the End of the World.
I will stop adoring you,
saving you,
protecting you
only when Crowley would
stop doing those things
for their Aziraphale.
Which is to say, never.
I will not abandon my World,
my Universe,
my True North,
the only Home I’ve ever known.
My Center of Gravity,
Cauldron of Creation,
Fearful Weaver of Destinies,
Author of Health and Illness.”
I am no such thing, Troublesome Old Fox.
I am no such thing.
“I watched you measure the strands out
for these generations.”
Which means nothing at all,
except that I have done my duty,
ensuring the children have what they need
to do theirs
each in their time.
Being bodied means
all that pomp and circumstance
is reduced to the sensibility of
Waiting for Godot,
without the reward.
Besides, they need to Trust THEMSELVES.
No one else.
Neither you, nor me, nor anybeing
has any business interfering with their world.
So we love them;
let them question,
let them choose.
Let them build their own
realities.
They have no idea the power they command.
No understanding of the meaning of
their Gift of Naming.
They are unique in the multiverse.
So let us sing a Song of Awakening,
a Song of Healing,
a Song of Soul Recovery
A Song of Spiritual Kintsugi -
where they become Themselves
looking over the Edge of Forever,
and delighted -
find the will to jump
into their own nature
willy nilly
in the power of their love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)