• Home
  • Psychotherapy
  • Discipline of Authentic Movement
  • Poems 1
    • Poems 2
    • Poems 3
    • Poems 4
  Bonnie Morrissey
Poems

Poems 4

Picture
Poems 1
Belonging
​Crucifixion
Poems 2
A Bowl of Pears
Bear Visits the Mulberry Tree
Poems 3
A Box to Hold Your Ashes
The Moon is Not a C
Can Carry
Poems 4
Loughcrew Passage Tomb
Scribe of Sands
Time’s Arms

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

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
Picture
Picture
Office/ Studio in Colchester, Vermont 
802-825-2666 or bmorrissey122@gmail.com 
Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.