Category: Morning Meander

I walk the dogs and write raw poetry. Won’t you join me?

Rising, waning crescent

She’s white and quiet this morning,
a glance through branches of bare trees
simply a neighbor in the forest, gathering her night herbs and nodding to me as our paths cross and our days begin.

Another woman sits up quietly,
pulls her cloak about her and rises.
“I have the watch,” she says, and listens while her brother makes his ablutions.

That will be this morning’s story.

The Moon and the Morning Star

Were singing to each other!

Singing!

Do you understand?
They were singing and I heard them and the Three Queens heard them
(even though it is not summer)
and the tail of the Bear pointed to Arcturus, of course, but the arc carried through directly to the moon like a spotlight, like a silver carpet.

It was cold enough to be very clear, yet not so very cold.
I could stop and stay as long as I liked and gaze and gaze on the dancers and breathe deeply the sweetness of early spring air
and I could taste the moonlight a little.

Dark moon

Dark house with soft lights
Dark water invitation
Submerge, surrender,
Float… far…
Until I can hear the call
and answer in a
Dark field beneath a
Dark sky
and kneel in
Dark snow
in
Reverence
in
Deep trust.

Back to the waters,
voices around me,
I listen.
I shift.
I sleep.

This morning

Moon, sweet slim old crescent, perfect for a cold winter morning

And Morning star, tear of Isis, jewel

They hang together this morning, lit by the same sun, turning simple radiation to magic and passing it on to my eyes.

May I see beauty today.

Where is the line

between working too hard out of duty,
obligation,
unhealthy deadlines and self-expectation

and

running in to work because I am lonely
and in the shelter of this clearly defined space
I know that I have value
I know that I have colleagues who are kind and brilliant and passionate about their own niches within our niche.

I joked with my friend about “you know
my immature black-and-white thinking streak a mile wide” and he
laughed and nodded because he did know it well.

Well, I have such a streak
so I like bright lines.
I really am not fit to be let out into the real world.
Perhaps that’s the next lesson.

Dark of the Moon at Imbolc

I shall
complete something
and put all the materials away
and sweep the floor clean of threads.
I will fast to cleanse my mind and body
through this dark and this deep stillness;
I will douse the fires and melt down wax
and make new candles to call new light.
But while it sets, while all is still dark
I will lift this inward veil
and face myself
quietly.

What do I want?
What do I need right now?
Is there a hope to drive this next chapter,
and if so what should I have in my backpack?
The seed catalogues have come through snow.
And faith allows me to daydream and choose
something healthy and something pretty
like strength to fulfill duty
and columbine and cinquefoil and sheep campion which will grow where they please, thank you very much
and I will light the new candles and eat cheese and tell stories to the stars.

The Dancing

I am in the presence of a thousand small gods in wild ecstasy
For one of their own gods has come to play
to fiddle for them a passion beyond music
and the trees keep the beat from the edge of the great circle
and each small god is the power of a hundred thousand flakes of snow
and none of them fall,
and none of them stop,
and none of them slow.

He writes

In a gentle, wandering epistle,
In a style that makes me think of a grey kitten climbing,
In the most welcoming and thoughtful way,

That my company is a blessing and our collaboration a privilege.

He writes,
As though thinking to himself,
As though he is trying ideas on for size,

That I could reflect and reconsider my relationship to Duty.

He writes that my poetic thought is not a reclining invalid, but could stand up within the tension of classic forms;
that the works of my brain with engrams and spreadsheets
and the works of my hands with patterns and lines and measurements
and yarns and calculus
could be integrated
with the yearnings of my spirit to fly
on an infinite wind
of heart-passions and words.

He writes meandering phrases and clauses and sentences

On a path which folds and turns and re-folds and returns to
the center of the labyrinth.