You are flowing into You the way
a trickle of ice becomes a mountain
pool edged with tiny flowers sun
gazing eye that sees blinded only
peripheral golden dots a breast
streaming snakes of milk through
green shadows of devil's club now
the foaming of tea among those angel
roots of You transmuting your sting
to spice the estuary of the Self alluvial
fan of hips and thighs that open their
oceans of darkness we have taught
these infants to grow up get raises
climb ladders of success a higher
bracket upper class ascended master
all the stress of heaven this infernal
rising only distancing our children
from their beaten hearts they need
to watch You drop a bursting seed
please let them sow You rivering
down the path of no resistance fall
of grace into your deepening breath
your subterranean succulent marrow
litanied with star voices pungent
salty mycellium O daughter of loam
and light O foal of blood that seeps
from rocks the cloven hooves of
stumbling glaciers melting amniotic
broken water bearing You ever
downward show them how nothing
rises, everything descends.
(Photo: my dear friend Katryna)
I have been authorized
to grant you permission
to give yourself authority
to be completely happy
for no reason this morning.
It is Sunday, that is enough;
all the reason you need to
take pleasure in small things,
the song of a robin,
the taste of a worm.
You may be wondering where
this all started, and who
gave me authority to tell you,
"Your unhappiness is no longer
of any value to the earth."
Well it was you, friend.
Last night you came to me
in a dream. You said,
"Remind me tomorrow
that I embraced my tears
before they welled up.
"I hugged my laughter
while it was still a dark seed
buried in silence.
I enfolded my own
I honored my breath before
it was given."
I am only doing what you asked.
Please remember now
how we met at midnight
witnessing radiant sleep
and I saw that you were joyful
beyond reason, beyond hope.
I saw you ecstatically, eternally
and perfectly happy!
(Engraving by William Blake)
you haven't really started to burn.
Anger is just the fuel.
Transmute it into something brighter
more sweet and terrible,
not by struggle and resistance
nor blood-red poppies with their
mother load of dreams for the dying,
but by a plunge beyond hope
into bottomless loss.
When your fallen body strikes
a spark against that very darkness,
then you can sing.
Painting: Orpheus and Eurydice
by George Frederick Watts