Sunday, March 11, 2018

Regarding the magical properties of cosmic creation

It has to start somewhere,
this becoming story: from the thirst
of sand or the skirts of neap tide.
There are no orphans here.

Long ago, sun and water were married, they
made love in a turtle shell rattle. Babies arrived:
land, rainbows, birds, animals, people.
Grandmother spider ate them all.

We heard about it, a stiff breeze
in our face. We asked,
could this be the magic ecotone
between Venus and Mars?

The blue green privilege of carbon based life,
rare and precious and assumed.
The magic.    More a door than a privilege,
opens into a tower of stairs, it coils

up and up, clockwise and helical into
stunning crisis, a deep healing of Avalon.
The mercies to hold
our noses above the rising tide.

How will the cosmos be invoked and remembered
on the face of this place? Who will sound its glory?
Who will pass along its perfect vision,
perfect body, perfect knowledge?

Today, the world is red with Dionysus,
his brimming grail to provide an eye in the storm.
Supper’s on, my friend! Let’s toast
the fingers and knees bobbing about his wormy feast!

Let’s pray the digits, drumming the table,
can summon the crazy wisdom of Heyoka, can bait
the specter of monkey wrench. When I look up, I want
to thrust a middle finger at the Milky Way, for practice.

Once there was no time, no gods,
No woman, no man. Sea swallowed the land.
Along a foamy edge a mare was born.
Her name - Eiocha.

We are that hapless menagerie, constellating cosmic creation,
cornucopic marvels of calamity, who
resonate in an entropy of forgetfulness, and
bow to the industry of a Big Bang.

Let us love Aergia too. Love how
her sloth grinds down manifest destiny into
cobbles and sand, the roots of mountain
in service to stardust and gravity.

There are days, the cosmos cradles folly
like a box of cracker jacks with bruised
shins and elbows, the prize inside.
A bloodless coup on the flat screened life.

Here is our chance to yield the floor,
give free will a rest and spend
the next millennium in witness.
To take a glacial nap.

Out of the song of cicada,
a ballad of seven years in silence -
a dog’s age to gather, it swells,
a fifth dimension - breath and sound.

How to hold all this - story floating, flying,
swimming in, each a sacred space.
Each a new epoch, capsule of dreams,
blueprint spiraled in nebula of another ilk.

There was once a house where a woman and her man lived.
He wandered the north sky and she walked along the southern horizon.
She grew pregnant, and he drowned in their tears of joy.
The Sky Woman gave birth to trouble.

Make my skin a peat bog to preserve
a childhood of sunlight and wind. My poems,
the compost of fossil fuel economy and
the intransigence of stubby limbs and fins.

All is born of story: the conjuring of root children,
crinoids consoling cedars in their limestone beds.
The monsters in asteroids and typhoons,
the broad toes of stromatolites.

All in magic, so all abide.


We are all in prison - civilians just don’t know it yet.” - Tim DeChristopher

Overheard somewhere on the peninsula:
Maybe marmot to doug fir.
So tired of human occupation...
Would that my bones rode a chariot of spore.
That they were blown hollow again, bird whistle thin.
Would I could gather the requisite dust and drift,
Until fountainhead drummed the heavens
reborn, axel of creation - the marrow of mushroom 
ripe with mineral soil, and at last - one of the ascended 
Brown and bitter and sound.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

“Our species is committing suicide – that is a choice…”        -- Terry Tempest Williams

Death might be just a holy rend                      a stitch of good luck,
a weeping of snow melt.

How resurrection prefers dirty water and pain, I’ll never understand.
Her instructions comprise
                   a tiny storm of mercy– full of crows and bottle flies,
                                                               to debride the corpse,                                
                   and morning light              supple as fish bellies                                      
                                    to code a new practice,  
                                     day in and day out
                   and a renaissance of questions,               
      a splash of breath rinsed in tea leaves and sea air, 
                   the blood and semen find their legs
                                                             to dance past angry prophecy 
                                                             and drab dreams.

Death confessed everything before he conjured the crisis, 
before he created the cliffhanger, 
the linchpin, 
the keystone, 
the choice.
And choice might just want a bed of gist,
a resonance of gravity and a nascent green stubble of winter wheat. 

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Cream on Whiskey

-- Women's March first anniversary 2018

Crone privilege abides here
in the steady pour of the Mississippi.
Her laughter, belly deep, shadows grackles and gulls,
her inconvenience, forever indentured with her shoals,
and her easy is fickle, full of silt and minnows.

Crone privilege abides here.
Out of the modern drudge, we know these truths:
Wisdom is love, love is patience, patience takes its time.
On the shoulders of old women, it pushes boulders up a hill,
Defying the Sisyphean habit – they will roll it up and over, be done with that.

Crone privilege abides here.
Call us queen bees, a riot of pussies, hand maidens over done.
Maya Angelou made her heart into a mantra, now
when we straighten our backs, the chrysalis splits wide,
and like cream on whiskey              we rise.

Until the Corn and the Cheddar

Maybe you believe this land is a tamarind rind
                                         or geode hide,
                                 or conundrum stubborn.
Maybe it reminds you of a sleeping old dog, growling
and mean with dreams of glory days and the chase.

These hills and muddy folds of dormant agriculture
                                                                never heard of Persephone.
Even Eden is a piece of gossip since John Deere and Massey Ferguson.
The busy on I-80, chases the suppose to happen and meant to do,
                           away from effigy mounds and thunderbirds.

Maybe you feel inclined to follow January’s repose, even forgive its sloth.
                              And since eagles are the sentinels today, 
let them gather up the few confused bats,
awakened in the mercurial slivers of April before Ground Hog’s Day.

Don’t worry about the details now -
We will meet them again in the corn and the cheddar.

Sunday, December 10, 2017

Walking Dreams

Long shadows of winter woods crosshatch the afternoon road.
Sun strobing a windshield in strange Morse code,
delivers, not so much an invitation, but a summons,
the pull of growing light. Hip deep in such a year as this -
never what we intended, askew in storm and surge,
we walking dreams of grandmothers and fathers,
swim with the avalanche of history at our back.
Light as love, light as breath, light as legacy.
It comes from deep in time, a tiny germ,
a song we feared was lost, a turning point,
a pivot, a catalyst. The messenger,
a code of pulsing light among the trees, quickens us
like the voice of multitudes heard as from a distance:

Light as love, light as breath, light as legacy.

Winter Solstice 2017
Rosalynn and John Michael

Friday, December 8, 2017


don’t you love it          the way trees              trimmed
                                                         power lines

get right back up                  to reach for the sky

the severed limbs heal         how they send out               new wood           
                                             how relentless                     spreading       

                       light pushing its edge

invisible bridge                                we say phototropic            
this call and response         in supple bends and angles

some creep                      in the largo tempo of        oaks and redwood
others pick up the pace       andante of              mulberries and pea vines

as plants are             people are                    phototropic too      

seduced with light           
light of love                       
sun and stars

see how we wrap our limbs around one another          
                                         an arbor of hugs
leaning in        breaking open    to radiance        cardinal  and  irresistible 
                                               is it soul or breath     
how we rebound            from pruning        reach for the love again
invisible bridge                                          we say resilient