In Gratitude to Sophie for her GIft

A plush friend

is a pun

in my personal mythology

He always makes me laugh

and i know

my Sister knew it would

otherwise

why would she

send me

of all people

Doctor Fox?

Never Out of the Crucible

She was small,
small nose,
small toes,
full of wonder
full of fear
the darkness of her world
all she ever knew
and she chose gentleness

she was 4 years old.

She was a little bigger,
she played in the forest
with her grandfather
learning from the spirit folk
who helped him teach her
who showed her always
and only love
only light

she was 5 years old.

She was the crossing guard at school,
and the neighbor boys attacked
with knives,
this was nothing new,
but the venue was unusual
she stood her ground,
power rushing through her body
righteous rage expresses itself
in the crossing flag staff
meeting foolish teenage flesh
as she says with calm detachment:
I AM THE CROSSING GUARD!  DO NOT THREATEN MY SAFETY.

she was 9 years old.
she was fierce, and up til then,
had carefully harmed none.

She was a pacifist at core,
and she still is today
                        . . . or so they say.

She trained,
she trained,
she trained
      in the Flower Warrior's ways
long long ago
and for a long long time

adopting for her lifetime
their priniciples

that the only battle won is the one
which ends with a new friend
and no blood spilt
on either side
to badly paraphrase
                 for a modern audience

Never start a fight
always end one

Be just in every action
     (or as her papa always said)
                 always be in right relation
                         always be a helper
and oh
so very much more

she endured the hell of living
among men

she was 43 when she awoke
and remembered the forest friends
of her childhood

of her precious grandfather's lessons
of her deepest truth
and purpose

she is 46.

and according to some,
she is magnificent

according to herself,
she is still a child,
learning how to human
for the first time.

Phoenix Wings

hope has wings,
i’ve heard it said. . .
and yet all i see

are phoenix wings

aflame with Life
fragrant peach blossoms loosed with each downbeat
heavy with the sweetness of the Sun

warmth lingers
where Rebirth passes
Compassion wakes

and over time, the world begins to heal

Matcha Mochi

I sit alone,
the window open,
scent of rotting lilac flowers wafting in
tracing its way along the creases
in my skin

Earth stands,
looking like Godzilla himself

Fire stands,
looking like Inari Okamisama’s honored kitsune

Water stands,
looking like a Lewis Moonsnail shell in a bowl of saltwater

Air flows,
touching everything, but looking like a fan with
Grandmother Fuji-sama watching from above floating cherry blossoms

Sustenance stands,
looking like green tea mochi: a single, verdant sphere

The year stands,
a golden bell that resembles the small dog-woman cuddled
in my lap and snoring

I sit here, looking like a human being,
the window open,
I am not alone

The Fae-Dark Road

Sunset has only just passed by;
I walk a fae-dark road,
evergreens verd’rous o’erhead –
to either side the spear-wall
of berry brambles, nettles, and climbing tea roses
all gone wild long and long ago.

Fading light casts long and deep
the shadow of the Forest Lord
His antlers unmistakable
in what feels like sharp relief

Sunset left long behind;
guides now long gone, too –
my feet and heart now lead the way;
the spear wall sings with small things
make conversation with their fellows –

all still as I pass by.

Heavy human feet,
dank human stench

– unmistakable –

in sharp contrast to the perfumes
of life & joy & all delights
drift honored lilac, treasured rose;
delicate jasmine, & sacred apple grove
whose love songs twine & dance upon the winds.

No torch accompanies my wand’rings;
alone in the greenwood with only tree frogs and the Shadow King
to sing this human child a guiding tune
the shadows pool ’round weary feet,

though Grandfather Moon shows not his face tonight.
Mother Gaia keeps her steady spin,
thrilling in the dance accompanying the music of the spheres.
Great Bear waltzes overhead along the shores of
the Great River Above.

Dizzy and alone
the human child falters,
or is she a Changeling going home?

“Lay, Beloved,
lay beneath twined Hawthorn & Apple trees, so near.
Come, I’ve made a pillow of moss for your lovely head,
Come rest, my Heart,
tucked secure within the sacred grove
protected by the spear wall . . .
Come rest within my heart, Beloved.
Come home, My Love,
come to Me.”

Twirling, foxfire –
will o’the wisps, I do not know
but Knowing Beings, They,
oh yes, they light the way
& yes the mossy pillow is;
& yes, the trees are twined;
I know capricious Fate may play at dice for my life this night;
even so, my soul, at peace, lays down.

I may die;
Or fade into the Other World;
Or live forever;
Or for only one moment more —
Or ever altered in nature or aspect;
it doesn’t matter –
for I lay at peace in my Beloved’s arms.

He is not of this world,
nor,
really,
am I.

Presence

He smiles jauntily as he crafts each ideogram.

“It’s ogham today.”

I see.

Entertained by the clickety- clacking of my keyboard
from across the room, yet his focus . . as always

Strong and pure.

Shocking red hair that swirls to ravenwing blue in just this light,
Oh Beloved, my heart sighs, as he wrinkles his nose in annoyance

“What? I’m right here.”

REDEMPTION: THE LONG ROAD

You were once a horror, Love.

I remember all too well
the violence you are capable of;

and looking at you now, Delight. . .

looking at you now!
your rage comes out when the weak are threatened;
your conquering mood strikes when oppressors step out
                                     – all boldness.

oh looking at you now!

you are so much stronger than you ever were before,
no more the friend of the demon king,
no more cruel one out to satisfy only himself. . .

What a change you have wrought in yourself, my Love!

So many millennia ago,
the world trembled at your name.
and now?

And now you make me miso soup with black mushrooms;
you say I must get stronger!

And now you fuss over the little dog;
play tug with her, help her chase the deer that come to visit. . .

If only every being would choose to grow into their own best selves,
in spite of their histories.

The sky would mend of its own, just then.