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.