To the Holy Mountain

The humble pilgrim, her soul yearning upwards,
Fingers flexing, begins her long crawl
To the distant peak, the holy mountain.

Inch by inch, nook by cranny,
Finges and toes, crawling, climbing,
Her past shrinking, her view expanding.

Her face, pressed to the rock’s face,
Fingers prying, feeling and prodding,
Nook and cranny, the hard smooth surface.

Climbing higher, the world falls away
With every inch, farther from the earth,
Stripping illusion, face against the rock.

Arms aching, legs straining,
Filters failing, pure sensation,
The way is endless, she is suspended.

The only way is up, the familiar has fallen,
She is trackless on the rock, gravity her compass,
Fighting its insistence, that she descend.

Cold wind, hot sun.
If she let go, would she soar?
The thermals lift her, to the top?

Fingers and toes, crawling, climbing,
Time is lost, her life is lost,
The world is lost, rock and sky is all.

Then the top, the utmost peak,
The journey’s end, the final rest,
The world’s wide circle, spread before her.

She has shed herself, somewhere down there,
Filters failed, illusions stripped,
Eyes and heart wide open, she has found her life.

Friendly Fire

I remember it was in January – January 11th of this year, as a matter of fact. I was sitting on a bench by the Vietnam War memorial, and it was just about the worst weather I’ve ever been out in. And that’s saying a lot.

I was just sitting there, thinking about all my old buddies that died in the war, all caught up in that glass-smooth wall rising up like some great big old altar, some kind of offering to God or something.

The Wind in the Door

I am the wind in the door
I am the glowing ember at the hearth’s heart

I am all that you seek
I am all that you fear
I am your secret heart’s desire

I am the dry leaves rattling to the ground
I am the unfurling green elder leaves
I am the lamb
I am the ewe

I am the hammer that rings on the anvil
I am the bellows that fan the flames
I am the flame
I am the anvil
I am the ringing of steel on steel

I am the fever that burns you inside
I am the fever’s cure

I am the candle that burns in the window
I am the music you hear in the distance

I am the look in your lover’s eyes
as you lie warm in bed, falling asleep

Invitation to the Dance

Why have you forsaken me?
Where now your fair summer form?
Where the soft kisses on my mouth,
And the swift invitation to the dance?

You hide your face in darkness,
Sheets of rain discourage me.
A single candle lights my way,
A fragile flame cupped in my hands.

A season of sleep
A season of night
A season of cold
A season of death
A season alone

Summer mead in winter
My only memory of you.
Bone-crunching cold without,
I light a bright fire within.

Laughter, mead, a merry tune,
While outside you prowl.
Rattling the window panes with sleet,
Crying to be heard.

I hear your voice
I feel your touch
I taste your tears
I smell your breath
I see your face

Your face is gentle and so sad,
The lines of age are etched thereon.
Memory of light is in your eyes,
A deep spark down within your soul.

Come and dance with me again,
I hear your whisper in my heart.
I leave the mead and merry tunes,
And spin into the swirling snow.

I dance with cold
I dance with dark
I dance with ice
I dance with night
I dance until I sleep

Generations Marched Away

They say Samhain is that time of year
When you can feel ancestors near
The veil between the worlds grows clear
And thin as lace
You feel that you could reach out – here -
And touch a face.

But “ancestors” is a lofty word
A whisper down the ages heard
When ancient deeds and works occurred
Now indistinct
Lives and feelings long interred
Almost extinct

Now my own Dad died not long ago
A blink of time, as these things go
My Grandad, Nana, Gran – ditto
And yet it seems
They live yet in my heart and soul
And in my dreams

Their fathers, mothers – their family home
Now seen in pictures, faded grown,
Were by them dearly loved and known
With feelings fresh
And made their souls and skins and bone
Flesh of our flesh

So generations marched away
Passing their love down to this day
As we will pass it, if we may
And gods allow
By how we act and what we say
Here and now

Raise now a cup to family dear
Gone from this world, but always near
Leave in your glass a drop of cheer
And to them prove
That we still feel their presence clear
In present love

Chasing the Goddess

Light through the trees – this is the norm -
green-dappled, russet, gold;
it plays across your naked form
like divinity poured into a mould.

It can’t be just me who sees in your face
beauty, not just my moon struck dream,
though you’d deny this evidence of grace,
your faceted reflection in a stream.

You are no dream – a woman flesh and blood -
your life so full it spills into my soul -
and lying with you in this wild wood -
I feel, for the first time, whole.

I am no dream either, manhood is all I claim,
and you make that enough – no irony – no shame.

Testimonial

This old body, old friend, we’ve been through a lot.
I haven’t always been good to you — too cold, too hot,
too thin, now too fat, out of tone, drunken, drugged,
but I’ve kept you from real trouble, never beaten or mugged …
You’ve been nimble when needed, strong when it counted,
you’ve climbed me up mountains, on bright mornings mounted
cloud-reaching granite domes to hear the high hawk’s cry,
at night lain me amid the forest litter to watch the sky
wheel with stars. You’ve taken me into the warm flesh
of Woman, and you have begotten children, fresh
souls with tiny bodies to carry them through life
as you’ve carried me. And through all the joy and strife
you’ve kept the spark burning … so I raise you a toast
of clear spring water, from humble guest to gracious host.

Imbolc

Green leaf uncurling
On a gnarled elder tree
Green spring unfurling
Its flag and heraldry

The rain is cold, the wind is strong
And yet the world is turning
With sunlight and birdsong
And green leaves uncurling

The Land of Breakup

I once upon a time lived in this place
where there was never a spring –
only breakup. Breakup is when the last trace
of binding ice melts and the only thing
That’s left is mud. Mud you sink right down in,
past the tops of your high top boots,
mud deep deep down enough to drown in,
down to where worms crawl through the roots
of stunted trees, until you hit another sheet of ice,
the kind of ice that never melts. It’s permafrost:
A cold dark place under the mud — no sun — not nice.
The kind of place where a soul gets lost.

I like it better now there’s a spring — warmth below and above,
And flowers, and the promise of hope — and no mud — and love.