Bodhi

the woman who wears weathered bark
drew a line down my face
to split me in two
and crack me open like
the egg in a forgotten nest by the waters
I spilled out of my shell
and onto her feet with ravenous tongues
she buried me in her flesh
to remind me I had had enough
yet I had still to learn
what enough meant
an what sufficed my appetite
for as I watched the world in its ways
it seemed to always want more
whether to consume or create
but the woman with the weathered bark dress
kept me in her solitude
to empty me of myself
and everything
until I was reminded
I always had had enough


- for Alfred

Mask basking

those days when the mask
was a tool for love
but that love
wore a mask too
it was so easy
to fall in love with a stranger
and the ignorance
served the best kiss
with its naive lips
those cheapest moments
of hormonal highs like
an addict in an alley
so little to spend and
even less could afford
when all that was wanted
was more and more
always seeking the thrill
denying the heart's will
sucking down another pill
in anticipation that someone
somewhere would still
want to rip off the mask
and kiss what was underneath

A warlock's musings

spells were always more
efficacious than prayers
to this tidal pool heart of mine
whatever the world rained
down on my doorstep
would fill my vessel full
until it emptied again by
the small sliver of a crack at the bottom
thus the river of time flowed
through my soul carrying
away any ideas of solidity
it echoed the barren land
the winds entertained in my childhood
which were the first forces
I discovered with incantations
but how could I ever cast
for my heart's desire when
it always had a new visitor
knocking at it's weathered door
I had to look beyond this
form, this self on this earth
taking this breath, sipping this drink
I had to pull at the roots
to shake the lofty crown
to release the burden of wants
and surrender to the will of it all
letting the river of time
the ocean of existence
drown me in its tides
so the saturation of enchantment
made magic as free as
opening my eyes and waking up

Know or not

the fight is not between
good and evil
for those are murky waters
that have bled into each other
eons ago
the fight is that between
the two races of the world
those who worship the mystery
and those who dissect it
there's no side to choose
no winning or losing
for not all ignorance is bliss
and not all discoveries
are for the best
but there is a reason for both
in their granted times
and always good sense
in learning more
and ever fodder for the soul
to bask in the glory of the unknown

Fog lost

wandering through the fog locked woods
where the boundaries move
with the density of the mist
each trunk with each branch
with each twig with each leaf
all start with each unseen root
these pasts that give rise
to direct a choice and
branch into the existence of its own decision
and perhaps imagination is
only the DNA of the alternate
all those other possibilities blooming
on their own just out of view
as the roots go unseen and forgotten
so the alternate leaves the path
before us and settles beyond the fog
beyond the boundaries
of the density of the missed

The three "Rs"

still the knocking
remains
the slight thud
on a wooden door
in inexhaustible
persistence
faint, the taps
at first
mere figments
dancing in the ears
easily tossed into
a box of explanations
yet it was the repetition
which served as the key
to a gate leading
to its own hell
and how it cast
its devious spell
a light, almost gentle
but most haunting
resounding tap
echoing in the
mental corridors
the way children's
laughter carried
through the halls
of the ancient family estate
a once lively sight
reduced to the foreboding
facade that now remains
drained of both children
and laughter and light
and life
the wet gray stones
don't even hold moss
or lichens, just bareness
as a woman would weep
at the news
so the tapping pours
like tears from that devastation
a constant reminder
that what was locked away
in one of the many attic chambers
remains and remembers
and is relentless

Weather women

the four weather women
always fight over
whose time it is
the hems of their dresses
impede on each other
as they gather
in an endless circle
they chatter and bicker
to coerce the sun dial
to shine on them
they shove each other
in their disheveled silks and threads
as their hair flows like the tides
tangles, knots and releases
one cries... one burns...
one leaves... one is still
all take and all give
yet in their own times
they all shine
as the stars that
hold their fate

Gray day

the gray is a spell
summoned by
winter herself
it is the blanket
being spread out
for the time of rest
and as children fight
their parents when
they're told it's bedtime
the trees rebel
with defiant colors
but they too will soon
spread their own blanket
upon nodding rose and fern
succumbing to
the frozen wonder
of frost's first kiss

The burden of socks

the dryer signals
the clothes are done
she opens the door
to unload and
hundreds of socks
pour out on the floor

she hasn't a basket
it was left upstairs
she hasn't a shirt
she wasn't born with one

she burdens her arms
with the task of socks
that have walked
all over her

she holds the mass
while attempting to
shut the dryer door
as she needn't anymore
and only finds herself
stooping over to
pick up the next
sock that won't stay
within her arms

Of dust

twisted tangled serpents
of the dark pierce
the broken facade
penetrating deeply
into the solid abyss
reaching for the earthly
hearth from where
mountains give birth
pouring fourth the
ageless glaze
a burning crust destined
to crack and wear
to dust
from where forests rise
and prairies graze on
the remains of that
ageless glaze
for death and worms
and countless turns of the globe
give birth to earth
the womb that nature pays
to seed with remnants
of that ageless glaze
for more twisted tangled
serpents of the dark
to pierce the broken facade