Sacred Fire

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burning bright
cleanses my soul
through the night.

Aspiring high the flames
tear, licking the sky
in formless wear.

Millions of tongues,
in unspoken languages,
consecrate
the essence of the divine.

We stand together
as one
witness to our
indelible, unsolvable self
and to all that is other.

To whispered murmurs and hushes,
to the bird in the rushes.

In secret pockets of the night
embers glow of eyes that see.

Forward and back
beneath the vast sky,
in luminescence.

Mine and yours,
a heavenly embrace.

With all that is movement,
growth
process.

Unfurling spiral of life
seed, shoot, leaf, flower.

And back, withering
becoming with the earth
underneath and over.

The tide runs in and out
as it follows the secret
stories of the moon.

Eyes glow and tears shine.
A quintessential saltiness
pressed from deep within.

I release to witness.
My heart quickens.

The in and out breath
that shapes us.
The bridge between
words
arcane, sudden.

‘To see the world in a grain of sand
and the heavens in a wild flower’
said William Blake
mystic, poet, unknown.

My breath soft and shallow,
I soar into the sky
holding form, dear
to essence,
one instant, so precious.

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I clad myself in rain

red-rose-sideI clad myself in rain
donning the color
of the morning sky.

My cheeks unfolding
in the spiral movement
of the rose.
My breath whispering
like the rocking of the tide.

Sometimes I sing in the stillness,
sometimes my voice is clear
like spring water,
or the gurgling of an infant.

Sometimes I stand inside a cave:
In front of the door
there is a stone.
No one can enter or exit.

But this morning
dewdrops form
on the silhouette
of my body
in the newfound light.

I wear a wide hat
shaped like a cloud,
and in silent requiem,
I compose an ode
to the seagulls
floating effortlessly on gusts
of wind–swooping,
screeching,
a call as wild as life.

A pattern so arcane
and mysterious
it trembles in my throat.

Magic in my pores

IMG_4494The fresh air works its soothing
magic in my pores. I breathe in
rain drizzle and salt spray.

Seagulls veer overhead.
The sun shines a glimmering
stripe over the Cascade Mountains
in the bay beyond.

The day has passed
indulging in passions and care.
Soaking, cooking, playing music,
reading, yoga. Now it’s time
for the most attended arrival.

I have sat down, picked up
my black journal, uncapped
my fountain pen, and started
writing.

I let words flow without searching
or effort. Images flit across the mind
like black and white birds flying low
and fast over the water.

They thrust their wings and bodies
forward and back in a tension
willed toward freedom, love,
nurture.

Each year the seasons turn
the wheel of time, arching
their smile in chromatic hues
over the months.

In her own bird and beast,
flower and tree, resonate
from nature’s call.

Responding to an inner will,
a promise to the gods,
or a drink from the tree of life.

Like them, my words are willed
to grow, transform,
move toward what is felt,
yet unknown.

Red from the root

a pulling from the eyes
nausea in my chest
contracting
expelling
the life that was—that died within

life comes like a grain of salt
it mixes and dissolves
it adds and subtracts
and in its precarious state
stands alone in utter quest to attain its goal

far and near
present and distant
in touch and diffident