Skip to main content

Elation

I might appear decisive.
Ideas resting akimbo, black on white
framing passage to the emerald kingdom.
Can I give you a sure thing, some solid ground?
Don’t count on it, no need -
If uncertainty frames each portal;
then as flower finds fog, melding edges incessantly hued,
we court vibrations that triangulate me
with you and you and you -harmonizing wavelength.
We lift each other up.

I could rise from sodden sediments
bare breasted as a sycamore,
the one down the gravel drive.
She pulls water droplets from the deep rock pores,
gives them a penthouse view,
opens her lips and pushes them out.
They connect with brothers and sisters.
We see cumulus clouds -water laid landlocked for centuries,
one rootlet closed the hoop.
We lift each other up.

I could sit like frog with eyes bulging
above a rippled surface, meditating on digestion.
Until in one violet flash, a horny dagger,
we never saw coming, drags us up and out -
tosses us down a rose gullet to a dank acrid pit.
Hell… we cook beyond done in foul yellow juices.
cook to molecules, deconstructing our sleek frogness,
reconstructing with shaggy feathers, stilt legs.
Now to break open the air in one motion,
a woman,a frog with wings.
We lift each other up.


Love says,
“Let me deliver you this instant!”
But I don’t long for deliverance just now.
Fold up those cozy red blankets, let me sit sullen for a little longer.
Let me grind my teeth,my aching jaw will remind me
when it’s my stomach turn. Let my gut clench
one muscled band over another
again and again.
NO exhale…holding my breath I can stop the world!
Stop the world -
only to find black and white are kin.
Add a pinch of light and rainbows lead the push up a Sisyphus hill.
And when I neglect the rock,
I inhale and love enters.
We lift each other up.

-rm mist
revised 2012

Comments

Judyth Hill said…
Lynn, this is an exquisite poem!Your reverent wildness is a crash course in Beautymaking.....holding the world in luscious, lucid, Goddessmind....yowza....powerful.....all the way on. Poesiaxxxxxxxj
March 6, 2012 at 9:37 PM
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

Covid Journal Entry 14

April 4, 2020 Today’s image – Exploring social cohorts. So, on campus now there is a small village of us living together, the remnants of those in residence this year.   We are an international population: seven from the US, six from Vietnam, five from China,   four from Morocco, one from the DR and two dogs/three cats.   We share four large buildings where we live, take our meals, study and exercise, on a five-acre campus. The rest of the two hundred and sixty or seventy odd community members are sheltering in their homes; some of the teachers and administrators dropping by during the week to work in their offices.   We have had little or no contact with them so far.   Our chef and his crew of two come in by rotation to prepare and serve the daily meals, a maintenance duo tend to the essential tasks and repairs, the city services haul away trash and recycling, the postal service, UPS and FedEx still deliver mail and packages.   It’s Iowa and the gove...
Post a Comment
Read more

Tongue

When I was ten, my dad pot-roasted a cow’s tongue. He brought it to the table on a platter, unsliced, open: a chaise lounge, red and velvet, slip of the lip to swallow us whole. The tongue is a door, a bed of confession, zipper to seal the deal. There is a jade plant on my window sill. Its many tongues sip silent molecules: water vapor, nitrogen, cool pool in the Kalahari. Tongue as cave, as conveyor, as flight of brown bats. Tongue holding space between us, gilded and strong with hope and death - a pocket for everything. Last night a snag of locust blew down over chicken wire. Five hens escaped. The snag, a tongue to freedom, to better pickings, a generous ledge. Sometimes a tongue wags, ungenerous, it keens to ten fingers times twenty dangling over a hand-hewn gunnel. There were children in that boat, fleeing with family over turquoise water. Maybe it was the Mediterranean or cold Aegean Sea - a wide tongue to crac...
Post a Comment
Read more