Vulture

I feel the itch

and scratch of

coarse polyester

grating, sanding

at my skin;

dreams of trying

to take off

into the air

before landing

hard with weight

pressing and flaking;

torrents of

dirty dishwater

swirling, kicking

up the rotten mulch

unbearable;

I hop and

recoil through

my day

as though life

is a hot poker

smarting and cynical.

Then

moonlight beckons.

And I remember

that the veils

have lifted

and I am in

the time

before I bleed.

Wood’s gradient sings.

I cycle along

the ridge of a great dam,

clutching at the wall

and I am the water

the drop

bicycle

all.

Soft grey

Rain

opens her arms

as slumbers of

Forgiveness and Quietude

stroke my hair,

kiss my brow.

I burrow

I listen

I receive

even as ground falters

and I tremble

at the mystery,

gape at the awe,

I feel my

inky wings

stretch,

finally,

and into

moon’s night,

I soar

ready to pore

over the glistening entrails.

Silt

Silt:

potential banks,

meanders and

beds

that flurried

and formed.

Then

drifted

did not bind

and bend

and the river sighed:

another course to wind.

The fertile earth

that was lost

became found

home

elsewhere

but gone are

the shells, and

sweet grasses

and clover

of a

ground conceived.

Footsteps not taken.

Sun and stars

that did not

bathe a time

with blessing and

light.

The silk of

silt,

sleeping,

dreaming

of smiles

hands

hearts

homes

lips

amongst the

wistful whistling

reeds.

November

November.

Season of

roots and bones;

heart opening

heart breaking

Black Moon

breath taking.

The fleshy

bowls of hips

the Jurassic

curve of spine.

We wind,

ushered

in with

whispers

and descend

into night,

a rich resolute

night.

Faces

divine and

profane,

all and none,

materialise, meet.

And we

are here on the floor,

cradled,

lifted,

lessons and loves

sinking in,

drawing the blanket near;

whilst down

below

aromas

of Earth, onion and pine

beckon us to the river.

Damp decay

mingling

with the

sweet potent

crunch

of possibility.

My words are

My words are

not perfect

but they are

full of heart.

I long and aim

to speak rubies

and sunbeams;

More often,

they feel plain,

though strong;

lacking the elegance and poise

of a

craftsman,

but holding

the simple

complexity of

soil and salt.

Humble,

because the true

symphonic lakes and

reservoirs of me

cannot be truly

spoken.

I would like to impart

my mysteries

with the eloquence and precision

of noon,

but they remain

veiled

by gauzy pearl sheets.

Especially now,

as night draws in

and the great

crossing lies ahead.

Inky alchemy.

Shafts of light.

A great path,

damp and dark,

opens.

I tread softly,

a night-pool lapping

under the dim

magnificence

of a black moon

rising.

Glory.

I turn in fear

but cannot bear not looking.

La Loba.

Under her shadowy

wing and root

I rest and reside,

Hers,

in this moment of passage

formidable, terrifying.

Greatest most loving

wild mother and

guide.

Even though

I ran to the lanterns,

a hotel lobby

without a key,

harkening to the

pangs of panic;

she is with me,

ferocious and kind,

burning, growling,

the river running beneath

an earthly life.

Birthday Eve

Somehow

a bull snorted

silver

and the sky

hummed pink,

the cotton

richness of

clouds golden

with sunset.

A trail, a road

waving and

weaving across

Her firmament,

pied beauty

no possibility

of losing my way.

No detours

through other

chasms and cosmos

bright;

no other

celestial seas

or turtle shells.

Just this place.

A teeming,

beating heart

in time.

And this time,

with its waxing abundance,

bee-dance

and goldfinch sweetness,

that lines,

as ever,

the crags and mountains

and canyons and oceans

of my own

being.

Fragrant, fertile

and, yes,

fleeting.

I arrived

sighing with

life, death, life.

Bursting with joy,

yet, for months

I was grieving.

Three crows

Three crows

flew by:

black on the

pale blue

sky of dusk.

Pointed.

Determined

Flocking.

And I felt

the sweet

aches,

the strawberry-breath

of summer.

Spring continues

to bludgeon and

quake

with ferocious

storms and

riots of green

But I felt the

flicker

of something

more serene.

The calm of

days stretching

long and lean.

Languid hours.

Spring is sticky,

excruciating.

I long to love it,

but it feels like

a frothy mist

in which

I cannot catch

A foothold;

or perhaps

I still lack the grace

to flow and

know its torrents

when I step

blinking, in disbelief

out of Winter’s

nest.

But now,

I feel the spark.

The coursing.

The legs relishing,

lingering light,

speaking hope

blooming and bright.

An ancient

aliveness

after the pangs

of birth.

Pale sheets.

A ringing glow,

the great

sigh of the Earth.

Love song for house parties

I glide between

the revellers

who laugh and

sing:

ringing and aglow

in the warm-washed

gold

of pure, clear

fun.

I feel the

chords between

them all,

the symphony

of descants,

basses and

dissonance

that mould

and melt us

all together.

There’s the

delicate push-

pull of

exchange

as they float,

they don’t see,

that they crest a shining

sea,

ceaselessly;

and their vessels,

beaming,

hauling and rolling

are the sturdiest

and safest fleet.

The stars blink,

sighing, at

rest and at

ease.

Essential

but, in this moment,

at least,

not desperately prayed for

when a cosmic

radiance

dances and surfs

from lips, eyes and

guts,

unseen,

but palpable,

pulsing.

Darkness visible

The sadness
is sweet and sharp:
a cacophany,
a Universe
of ocean
that rages and
rocks
of which I
can only
provide glimpses
through
the glints of
salt stars.
The cavernous
pit, and expanse
of echoing promised-pain
makes all the darkness
terrifying
even the luxurious
shadows of safety
that beckon
softly.
A refuge, a
sanctuary of
stillness and repose.
This doubleness
conflicting
commingling
is mad
madness
maddening.
But it is
ancient,
as old as Moon
herself.
Bedded in me,
my soft peachy flesh
of limbs and heart,
there is space
and containment. And
I hold and keep the
embers
that makes this
darkness visible.

I squirm and thrill

I squirm

and thrill

with sherbet

in my mouth

as I dip into

the inky pools of

irony.

Black,

hilarious,

that

I long to sit

cross-legged

at the feet;

feel

inequipped

besieged

at the front.

What a

mockery

a show

that I

should sow

seeds

when the

soil

feels more

like my soul,

in limbo.

Not

ever-so-

-young,

but feeling

more and more

like a novice

each day.

This life,

experience,

so vast

at once

mountainous

fluid and

fragile:

made from nothing

signifying it all.

Dusk is for fireflies

Dusk is for

fireflies and

lime liminality:

night cushions

and enraptures,

no mock stars.

I gasp

then fold in

and in.

The plunge

is breathful and

receptive.

I lay there,

my back finally

unwrinkled,

and I didn’t

wince or yearn

from myself.

Bathed in breath

I listened:

I heard

a whale song,

a lament.

Mournful, sighing

for children

who have lost their way;

who supped on milk,

and forgot how

to dance in starlight

and kiss the Earth

with grubby, curious hands.

Dreamers, with indigo souls

as deep as the

murmurs of night,

distracted by

false light

absorbed and obsessed

with their own

shadows.

The owls are coming,

their eyes bright,

with wings

ready to

shift and glide

over the currents

of torment.

Clear-seeing,

rich is silence

cutting through

the chaos, illusion

and deceit,

to gentler

enigmatic shores.