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Loughcrew Passage Tomb
Rock holds story more dense than any book. Stones choose to speak today and so are touched by fire. Crawl through dank drip of tunnel, and kneel to witness as autumn equinox rise of sun reveals Celtic symbols deep-hidden but for once a year. Stones choose to speak today even to ones such as we, absent ritual, pitiful in our lack of ceremony, lost in these end-times of broken humanity. Tomb-womb holds us long enough as light fingers down the glyphs, then our bodies are pressed out, this passage back a blind-fall into brilliance. We’ve read our futures from the past, still comprehending little of the mystery we cannot speak. Stones washed by light. In their presence, I too am washed. Stones choose to speak today through ancient silence of the ones who carved, tracing memory’s vein from bone to star, filling cosmic cracks with rowan berry juice. Now berry and story bleed down together through crack and crevice, from times when the folk walked free above-ground, cracking nuts and tracking planetary transits, etching spirit onto forest floor. © 2012 |
Scribe of Sands
Sand, stones, salt, shells. Where I belong, in the dunes rearranging the world, carrying elements here and there, listening for the music of relationship. Where else should I be, but asking questions with fingers thrust into diatoms of silica? An infinity of pulverized bodies speak to my nerves through the silence of eon’s glistening millennial light. I am a scribe of sands, these hands related by tribe, by species, to those that painted a pride of lions on cave walls at Chauvet, 35,000 years past. What we each do, according to call, husked of ambition, to bring life back into balance. How we each pull on the sheet of horizon, to remake the bed-rock, to right the rock bed, that it may offer carbon to the trees, that they may offer oxygen to the birds. Tonight, a cougar paints with paw-prints in these same deep hills of sand, in the deepest spaces of night, stalking these same dreams. © 2012 |
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Time’s Arms
Time’s arms swing by one another sedate or wild, a Calder mobile buffeted by the breeze, life no longer a trajectory, but a waking dream, past and future bowing to one another as they dance and intersect, strange partners with knowing smiles. We are leaving, we are nearing, we are going, we are here. We wait for ourselves and we arrive, a déjà vu of the soul, coming home to ourselves in recognition again and again. Minds dropped free of linearity, each moment is entered and known by the other, and thus we are initiated into the great inevitable unfolding Present, where stories bloom like stains of ochre on the scape of space, red soak on white muslin, birth-soak and death-soak on sheets that stretch the width and length of the sky, osmosis of love on the horizon of eternity. © 2013 |
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