Seasonal Impressions

In and through, over and over,
Grey lion chases fluffy lamb,
Or lamb runs after lion; the order does not matter
But for an elementary phrase.
The air is streaming.  Moisture gathers
In all my cracks and crevices, while wind
Does its best to keep it back.
I am turning inside-out.
Innards gleaming on the outside;
Change is coming.

Marrow aches; my mind is racing.
Pressures rise and fall to
Fill the evening sky with light.
What is tomorrow but another changeling day?
When all the dust is turned to ribbons,
When I am saturated with the sounds of greening,
Then comes this along the skyline:
A fading line of blue and green.
In twilight creeps the heart of all the being,
Sight unseen, but not unheard.

Time will prick behind my eyes,
And my own sap will start to rise.

Fallow February

The shortest month is oft the longest;
I know this much is true.
When grey and black and white are all the colors not intentional,
When grey and wet combine with cold to make things slower,
This is when fallow falls.

Silence seems the letter of the day,
And spent is just the normal place and time;
Song and dance have faded far from mind,
And barely is, in turn, what is enough.
February.

I will pick up the gauntlet thrown, one day.
I will unwrap my wrappings, stiff with ice,
And raise my voice, aloud, once more.
I’ll set the mantle on my brow, take up the yoke,
And find my footing.

Fallow comes to everyone,
Despite pains taken otherwise.
Best it be remembered thus –
Soonest ended, soonest mended,
Lest we forget, again, to rise.

Yarling

When need outstrips all other things,
And place and time become irrelevant,
It is the yarling that can bring us past those things that
anchor us in place, and set us
Free.

It isn’t an unknown thing; the weeping, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth.
It can come from a primal depth, from the bottom of the belly of the beast within us,
Or, it can spring upon us, all unknowing, until our jaws ache with the effort of keeping it locked in.
It is transcendent, the outpouring of sound and fury signifying
Everything.

Let it out.

Let it out.

Let it out, among the trees, amidst the clouds and stars and running water.
Let it out, among the concrete and the glass and steel.
Let it out, for within you dwells a spark to set the world ablaze, and nothing will ever be the same again.
Let it out, in the Name of Yourself.

It is the yarling;
Hearken to it.

Xenomorph

Shift.
my body’s bending in the latest fashion
to this task i cannot name.
when done, i will no longer be myself,
or at least not one i recognize.
time gets funny in a cell, and with the Shift
i’m breaking out.

Wend.
among the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
he may have said it best, but least is motion yielding.
sometimes nonsense is the better kind of sense,
especially when traveling the spaces in-between.
i am surprised at what i’ve done, and when i Wend
new doorways open.

Blur.
don’t blink or you’ll have missed me;
amid the strands i’m flying low and far, tools in mind.
the sense is capturing the rhythm without undoing, but
knowing’s a forever changing thing.
when breaking builds unending walls, to turn to Blur
takes mortar from the stones.

Inknowing in these spaces is the key,
And wilding deep-set changes set you free.

Susurrus

You were in the dream I had, all heat and shifting sands;
I could hear each grain move against the others with your steps.
Your breath was the burning wind, even as your face was hidden from me
In the gathering clouds.

If I could paint you, in all your glory, my strokes would stripe the canvas,
My colors would convey radiance and movement, awe and change;
Eyes seeing it would fall into an awful depth of vision.

If I could write you, in endless phrase and stanza, my notes would fall like pounding rain,
My phrases would be building crescendo on crescendo, agonizing fermata after fermata;
Ears hearing it would fall into an awful depth of resonance.

Awful is an agonizing state, though it has its benefits.

Loxotic

Catch the view with a side-light;
A ghost of a thought in a never-ending story
Can make me think that I’m not here, though
My feet are on the ground.

Hear a voice from behind me;
Turn to comment but it’s gone, gone, down in the gloaming.
I set my wandering mind to a
Riddle without answer.

I think that I can be;
I know that I can be;
I know that I will be
More than the sum of my parts.

Can I taste in the mirror
All of the possibilities of my dreaming self?
Bury my toes in the loam, and feel
My essence flow down, deep.

Can I know what my job is?
What kind of tool I am meant to be for your pleasure?
Don’t lose myself in the tiresome
Tribulation. I know.

I think that I can be;
I know that I can be;
I know that I will be
More than the sum of my parts.

When the dewdrops catch
On your glistening strands,
I lock my trust in a box and hand it over.

Careless toss of a whisper,
In a phrase that’s not meant for complex understanding;
Carry myself to each endless hole,
To somehow mend the tears.

From a glimpse, I see shadow,
And I hear as you caution me in your silent way.
But there’s pride in the endless gazing;
I cannot run and hide.

I think that I can be;
I know that I can be;
I know that I will be
More than the sum of my parts.

Jubilant

Half shroud hangs in place.

Fair by face but not by nature;

Slow steps quickening in pace

To test the snares of jubilation.

What pitfalls lie beneath the seams

Of arid land and steaming marsh,

And will I see them through the dreams

Of teeth and breath and need, all twisting?

When flirting with the small ones Green,

I do not trust the things I’ve seen.

 

When aching draws me closer still

To strands that weave across the Void,

Decisions made outside free will,

All fall away – Forgotten. Lost.

I will remember declarations

Made with an unfaltering voice.

I will plunge in without regret

To depths made open through my choice.

The Sow stands proud, face to the Sun,

And eats Her Children, One by One.