Thursday, May 21, 2009


Harmony is restored.
It requires work, as bees are working continually
To maintain the hive – comb must be built
And nectar gathered – so the sacred life
Incorporates a perpetual gathering and storing
Of beauty, and fierce protection
Even to the sting.

Last night the flood
Burst through a wall. Bodies were
Flung, swept, in a turmoil of sounds
suddenly into the unknown,
I found one sister among the survivors
In a boat, another at the edge of
What was once a town.
Of my mother, old and weak,
There’s little hope,
But I’m wading back, into the dark woods,
To save or know.

I can almost understand
The Inquisition now. But of course, it’s
Usually the Inquisitor’s wife who sours milk
And nurses a toad, while some poor soul
Endures the rack and tongs. So it doesn’t work,
Foul envy isn’t routed out, and fear –
Never think it isn’t there, my dear.
But nothing is hidden absolute
In dark arts - a trail was left
And it has led me to the truth. I’ve retraced
The arc of the flung dart back
And know the moment
Of my soul’s displacement,
Almost at the beginning of time,
When all was black.

You must make ebo to reverse
The thing spoiled by a witch’s curse.
With heart-felt prayers implore your head
To restore beauty here before we both are dead.
Now precious reservoirs you’ve hidden
In your secret bread, must be poured out
In God’s bed, and you must plant a seed
Of Love, and tend it well, or live on, tied to a wraith
In living hell. Know this and the dance begins; upon
good will all play depends.

God has gotten scary-looking lately.
Crouched down against a dirty wall,
In a ball of rags, he fixes you with the beggar’s
Stare a block away, and however much
You mutter counter-spell, the out-stretched palm
Is present as a snake – you must pass by,
And he must take. How do you suppose
Things got this way?

Here, at the beginning, restore the light
And shadow to their place. Upon the Eastern
Veil, streak the rosy fingers of the dawn - gently
cross my face. Compass, with your lovely arms,
The extremities of this sacred grove, pied with the fragrant
Rainbow of flowers, sweet laughter, and the wild ox moan.
Turn the black and brown
To rich fertility with the artful plow,
Forge in phoenix fire the shackle-cutting blade -
pierce the breast that hides a dragon’s bitter tear.
I stand before you naked.
Sink it here.

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