Turtle

 

To bring something out of nothing

      I live in a world of magic 

               and drift above the shelved 

 kingdom of death

                     in an angry choppy sea.

 

O marvelous turn of events

                      haloed turtle nudging me up from the murky depths:  

       “take this rope and tie it around me

 your thousand devotions

your anguish 

                      --but see, to drown

is to stand on God’s jeweled dance floor

hold my hand and breathe this joy”.

 

Among the Lilies

In the hermitage of words

grief was my familiar.

 

Birch trees lined the way

slender and white as morning

a few golden leaves fluttering down the overlook.

A shadow climbed the midnight wall

I held the violet flame.

My head wet with dew 

I walked among persimmon trees

and saw so clear in black of night 

          bright light there

          and found such grace

                      to enter the wounds of love among the lilies.

 

 

 

 

 

Decay

I saw an angel cast out of heaven

terrible face of grief 

in slow decay 

sitting in a chair at the Post Office.

My eyes want to gaze 

       kiss her sad broken face.

 

The trees have lost all sense of dignity without the wind

and the summer breeze has left the tangled bedsheets.

 

Now that the angel has lost sight

shadows tell lies and there is no good in the world.

 

 

 

 

Village of San Cassiano

for Peter Darlington

 

    Cobblestone streets washed by gilding sun.

We climb the stairs, golden light spills

towards our home, below the face of the mountains.

Wakefulness holds form with dawn

to say, 

          today all the living want

          to be at peace.

And the day begins to listen,

          as the forest slowly reclaims the terraced earth.

The wild shepherd boy glides down the hill

          drowsed and dreamed beneath flowering acacia trees, the sheep content.

Wood cutters pile up their stores for winter. 

Gnarled cherry, walnut trees guard the cemetery gate. 

 

I walk these ancient paths like a ghost this beautiful morning.

          Think of the Christian settlers who replaced the Goddess Diana with the Cross, 

           with pain, lord of the church.  

Peter tells me Diana’s prowess still linger behind the altar. 

Pagan witches perform their rituals higher up 

on the mountain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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