Month: September 2012

The writhing oracle

pants in her lair,

swirls with the colours

of burning infinities

wheeling through the skies,

unseen and hiding.

Pandora’s box,

the lid has slid,

an internal spilling,

the crazy chaos

point and counterpoint,

speed and dead calm,

shrieks of disaster

in a field of spring crocus,

tortured innocent children

kaleidoscoped against clean linen on the line.

Too much to speak,

no groan allows

for subtle deep utterance,

a precious symphony,

a billion tones in one gong.

The dancers spin,

bright silks and homespun,

whirls and clicks and jumping.

Musicians pluck and thump and strum,

they blow and tap,

they open up their throats

in deep emergence.

The painters watch like hawks,

absorbing what they see

into their hands,

channeling a vivid use of sticks,

colour mottled on the page

or etched on the rock wall

or moulded by the sculptors,

peeled by the carvers.

The surfers lie adrift

until the madness surges through,

aligned to ride the wave,

to summon graceful bravery,

falling and fizzling,

mastering the art of surrender.

We can all ride the wave,

the vibrant serpent

wriggling up through the belly

gathering an armload of tears and cackles,

breaking through the clamped lid, the vise of good intention,

to reach the heart

with seeds so they can flower.

We can feel the serpent tendrils

move upward to the choked tension of our need,

to free our ears for listening,

loosen our neck from holding.

We can feel a tongue of flame

flicker into the pool of vision,

causing it to bubble or be still.

And when the rich snake of sensation,

of alert unknowing,

touches through the cap

to the broad expanse,

the infinite tender,

all questions disappear.

An oracle can step outside her cave

to share a glance of kinship

with the surfer strolling past,

on his way to listen

to the friend with the sweet guitar.

Like a doula,

she sits with the birthing;

watching the pain

and providing some comfort,

she notices the push,

monitors the heart,

invites more breath.

No prescribing here,

she helps the not-yet-mother

through transition

to arrival of a tender joy.

There is tearing skin, and blood,

there is slowness, speedy intensity,

danger

– her sitting is alert, and poised for intervention.

No delivering here,

she has nothing to impart,

receiver of creation;

one who honours the journey,

helps to ease the labouring,

lets tears and laughter craft a celebration.

It could be play-dough

or paper snowflakes,

a composition of notes

musical or erudite,

or pickling cabbage for winter…

or this intense gaze over the field,

bright gold against sweet blue,

a swirling dance

provoked by scouring wind.

This view from the couch,

where green is unmasked,

its true colour deepening the orange flame

… no jars for this containment,

piercing and humble,

no careful labelled row upon the shelf,

no audience,

no room to tape this on the fridge.

Harvest now,

not as a collector of leaves;

be moved by their connective shimmering,

let movement whirl you

to the stillpoint

where there is no holding.

They wandered to the river,

two grateful hearts

savouring autumn gold

as if it were a plum that travelled far

for consummation.

 

One allowed the cooling season in

to calm the fire,

begin the forward bend,

the slow protective shelter,

descent into quiet,

warm nest against the cold.

 

One allowed vivid tongues of leaf

to lick her heart,

stoke heat in bright rally

against impending night.

 

Two lush fruit at harvest,

sunkissed and windscoured,

rooted in the searing void,

cherishing earth.

 

The river taught,

its ageless empty flow

carrying yet another conversation,

soundwaves lapping at some farther northern shore.

 

The weavers wove their words

on the loom of meandering footsteps,

finding new paths back home.

 

And then –

bright decadent parade,

pure grace descending in the shape of leaves,

a swirling yellow joy

enveloped both,

adorned the day with sweet recognition,

slowing the heartbeat of time

so two could share the blessing.

The way a bee dives,

quivering with effort

but fully engaged,

pulled by the energy of sweetness,

drenched in inescapable perfume

… hovering, attentive,

it drinks its fill,

allows the sticky pollen

to use its homeward flight

for spreading life.

No need to resist,

to filter out the gorgeous whiffs arising,

block beauty emanating all around.

Propelled,

busy and intense,

it plunges repeatedly in soft depths,

absorbing delicious nectar.

Let yourself be lured.

These twenty years or more

dried out the soil,

the salt of unshed tears

a poison on the landscape.

A few plants bearing fruit,

these children with their roots

outside the borders

… but desolation reigns

where bright sun

shows no mercy.

Blame is easiest,

and entangled in the thorns

there is guilt, and wide holes of lack,

deep craters of need.

The thought of joy

a scythe,

cutting the last dry stalks,

a mirage of hope

that fades in withering light.

So many flee,

afraid of dessication,

sure that greener pastures offer flowers.

When hope is gone,

when scrambling stops,

there is a way of sinking

so the taproot

descends,

gives up all climb.

Deep beneath the earth,

invisible and forgotten,

cool water flows.

Not a sprinkler,

not a well,

nothing crafted or designed,

no forced spraying.

There is no way to make a garden grow.

One plant,

one single being,

can only drink in its own absorption.

The nurturing flow is drawn upwards

through the single thread,

the buried toes.

One greening leaf.

One catalyst for change,

the meeting place of water and sun

making sweetness to feed the tendril.

The longed-for rain

does not fall,

but rises.

And in the greening

there is space for deeper joy,

the solitary depth

where connection is complete,

and joy tastes like a whisper

on a private tongue.

The tangled weeds

that choke

are sometimes scoured away,

abrasive wind of grace.

Or soft soil at the base

of one green plant

allows for gentle tugging,

patient pruning.

By laying bare the rocks,

creating soft hollows,

flourishing from within,

one tiny speck in the desert

can thrive while it waits for rain.

And I have seen it come,

have trembled at the unexpected green,

have stared in admiration

while flowers bloomed

and joy became a sound

that echoed on the petals,

wild and fertile.

I surrender,

no fight left,

the holding gone…

green shaking as the aspens dance,

trembling joy diminished into words,

semaphore of aeons fore and aft,

drowning in a tender gasp of gratitude.

Be loved

beloved;

grace carries all this breathing;

aspire, inspire, expire

as a way of making room

for universal air.

I’m happy to see

the rooms you’ve made beautiful,

pleased to watch you show your treasures,

glad to smile at your newfound wealth…

but will you let me peek over your shoulder

through doors just slightly ajar?

Can you hint at uncertain chaos, lurking?

or the promise of spring,

an open window unvisited?

May I walk beside you

to the edges of what you know?

Will you hold my hand to soften darkness,

and dance when there is music?

Start with what you have,

soft muscles that relax

to make space for air,

some movement in the body.

The memory of love.

A yearning pang of need

like a bell on a train,

music on a journey.

Watch how you listen to it ring;

do you leap, alarmed and urgent?

Or is there time to listen to it echo,

to hear it rattle and shake,

to breathe in unexpected resonance?

Is there any room to smile?

The scenes flit past,

and can you tell that you are travelling?

Are you free from the burden of destination?