What the Muses Leave Behind

The blood moon craves attention. She bangs the glass, panel by panel parading past a naked canopy, oak and ash. She's desperate for praise, for veneration, for long moments of worship like the early days: a world lit only by fire. It's only as her golden lens floods tiny goblets in a south window, that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight, fire flush, ringing in sonorous treasure, a suspended chord, a perfect 4 th  of salty satin harmony with sky.  And I melt into moment – eyes, ears, skin, tongue, breast, belly, legs – adrift her Indian ragas -  puddle of moonbeam. Heavy with silver lipped boats, moans of stone, With pub revelers, ranting, whistling - something about football; With drone strike bloodbaths, cacophonies of grief, gravediggers, muddy boots, dark caskets, someone’s grandfather, mother, sister. With knitting circles, with sex slaves, with cock fights, with string quartets. Tides of grackles, tides of jelly fish, tides of ...

There is story curled up in the chest. Like a wooden cask, honey filled. Oh! labyrinth into the heart of things, Collapse us into love. Even belly deep in babushka nights, this long road unfurls us. Face in the raindrop, river to the sea. Collapse us into love. Still, humanity coalesces, borders open, a world walks in. Our realizations sit fresh and fragile, Collapse us into love. Sometimes sorrow brings a truer moon, and we dissolve like mist in wind. Surrender rides a waterfall. Collapse us into love. Today, hallelujah brushed a winter sky, a pilgrim peace of pewter day. Into maelstrom of wren song, Fibonacci curls, Collapse us into love.

“The darkness around us is deep.” - William Stafford maybe the Earth is flat, adrift an ocher sea raft of pine poles tethered to it pimply moon, days rise in vast swells and you bob among the hours and dream a billion stars ragged ride for one, but adventure for two one to scud the gales, hold the line, one to tell stories, watch for storms, two could seed a hundred victories, escape at least one close call and heartfelt, comfort comes home here and now, chocolate sweet in spoonfuls while the Earth grows round beneath you

She's given up on men - it's a green ash across the river she wants to wed. Each October as its mantle blushes  crimson with tassels draping epaulets on umpteen shoulders, her knees turn to putty, and a hummingbird heart must carry them home. Love is like that, abundantly handling every handicap; and while left brain raves at the madness, this trans-kingdom infatuation, Montague and Capulet, implores her to reconsider such indiscretion, her dreams  simply leapfrog logic for Shangri-La: tree and woman leaning into endless entwine, their breath a feast of sumptuous light.

(formerly Precious ) Mickey’s Bradford pear is blooming concrete deep in Central Harlem. In a place where graffiti is weedy. Where precious is knowing biota from asphalt, knowing the chestnuts ripe for roasting or redbud too phobic to flower. Trees are sentinels with seasonal wardrobe. Today Mickey’s sentry stands brave and blooming. A feast for the eyes of its beholder. There may be no dandelions, so savory in salads. See where brave got them. There, a dauntless ginkgo kinks sidewalks; crabgrass, its fringe partner. What every plant knows, stealth never sleeps, and up the Hudson, dogwood winter has wolfed a billion blossoms - we’ll feel that loss in June. Today, the subterranean chitters a pulse from Central Harlem. Just off Madison Ave, white confetti lavishes the April breeze. Bloom you Bradford Pear, bloom!

(previously Micheal's Dervish) Let’s whirl a yellow sky, gowned in gossamer, laced up in thunder. Let's hold the rumble,   just to  tumble  - Habiba’s milky heart. Let’s burn hot, be spent like blackened fields. Laced up in thunder, let's hold the heat, seed heads popping with epiphany. Let’s burn hot, be spent like Saturday night. We’ll raise a murder of crows, a heckle of dragons. Seed heads swelling with wizened codes. The Vesper bells, pearls of Cantos. We’ll feed a murder of crows, a fold of tigers. We’ll bleed clouds, weave them into magic carpet. The Vesper bells, opals of cantata. Let’s be the summons for gentle rain. We’ll bleed clouds, weave them into love charms. Spin ecstasy to spread over shadow. Let’s be the summons for gentle days, be light dancing, dappled beneath green canopies. Spin ecstasy to spread over sadness. A yellow sky swings us widdershins.

Be at home in the heart, ballast for brittle hides, make ledges of light your springboard to providence. Be at home with the hunger, let it shake you, be at home for the mercy, scuttle it's fine edge. When you fly, follow warmth, avoid chickens, sip a dappled breeze, and never lament. Be at home in the peace, marry shadow  with dream,  join its long name: Grasshopper  Mother's Milk  Rosemary  Alabaster Waterfall  Lemon Balm  Red Tide Boney Night  Chanterelle  Mourning Dove  Estuary  Kudzu  Moonrise  Fish Bones  Dandelion  Rain