Skip to main content

Moon Dark to Moon Bright - 1

My feet led me to the woods loop out my back door. The wood thrush serenaded us all under the rich green canopy of oak and hickory and sourwood. Finally I plopped down right down right in the middle of the trail and wrote:

77 that's my number this month, crosses with craned necks - whooping crane month in the middle of the year in the middle of the summer. But moon is new today - a start to something - even in the middle.

I am the start of a family, a family begat by Alphonse and Althea - a new lineage of old world spooning with new world as woman spoons with man. So many opportunities to err in the name of bold beginnings - if we get so much wrong, there are so many ways to begin again and again, endless creation- buds bursting open to spray the world with beauty. Step here, not there - new dance; touch this not that - new embrace; think this not that - new dreams; living beyond the lines and within them. Such expansion - big bang!

They made this family with lots of daughters in a man's world - daughter walked in as if there were sons and more. Today women are the new men - bringing in a world with strong soft edges - the best way to accommodate these crowded conditions - 6.5 billion and growing, for the moment. Maybe we begin this moon's begetting with bringing out our best self. Stop waiting for this leader or that heroine. Be the hero and heroine we have been waiting for. Be the prophet and the healer and the brilliant mind. Be the gentle comforter, the nurse and the caregiver. Be the gardener, the huntress, the gatherer. Be the world and the moon and the stars.

And be 7 - pointing left of middle. Find home right here in us, right now.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend

  Death Might Be Just A Holy Rend And life a faithful pillow - a pillow to go flat, a spirit to drift off,  glaciers to melt and raise the sea. The blueprint is clear - Expect a tiny storm of mercy–  full of crows and bottle flies to debride the corpse,  to tithe the land.      And respect the putrid demise - things that fall apart make space for miracles.   Yet there persists the memory of breath rinsed in lavender and salt air. Then the dreams for blood and semen to revive, to metabolize  every tired, sad gospel into a hatch of octopus. Death confesses everything as she conjures her necrosis, as she feigns redemption, fools us with false devotion. She believes our defiance will set her free.   We must let grief to be the thread and needle to darn the rend, renew the cloth. then we can grasp the nascent green of winter wheat in spring.
Post a Comment
Read more

Likely Liable

Daylight cracks its brittle seam snapping apart a wish bone night. Venus has mounted Jupiter already headed for the barn; water simmers in a cracked kettle, just enough for two. And you, dark man, curled like a leather belt in the back of a dresser drawer, unfurl; I’m curled too, like paperback pages in August; we’ll meld mauve dreams and first light. I study you like a self portrait, you hover pretending to understand the chaos of shoes about the room, they lay like punctuations, a tactile Morse Code. I study these dots and dashes, you haunt my sleepy head; we crawl under apostrophes behind question marks. Your gesticulations play havoc with runway lights as I struggle to lower landing gear. Our best intentions for enhancing this entry, have arrived confused. Even so I’m grateful for awkward aubades, dark coffee and you inside my skin.
1 comment
Read more

Momentous

This moment is liquid, breached with spring peepers, It is sandalwood smoke lifting prayers to Lakshmi, Lifting standard bearers, it ups the ante. It is a cool breeze up a cervical column,   shivering  in Morse code, a genetic ladder to the roof, to Jupiter to a far black hole in one. Nebulas yawn a kaleidoscopic Neverland promenade, and gravity waves sing their arias of emptiness and full again, in nano-rhyme, in tiny grand statements. This moment is rich in grandchildren and great grandchildren, grows thin with constant attention, runs curious as coyote, moans in silken orgasm. This moment is ready as 4 o'clock. It swirls perdition within paradise, it bobs on Adriatic waves, swells with orphans adrift, threatens to wash us away. It uncurls sad lingering memory, clings to vital shadow kin. This moment is mitosis: gold to lead, sunflowers to chickadees, you to me. It has folded the day into 366 paper cranes, each head upturned. Thi...
Post a Comment
Read more