“Am I dreaming?“
I do still often and stood have I.
On a journey I am this. Eternally excited, indeed, will be I!
A saddle makes two sides and possible for many to travel.
Tiny thee, into Up gathered clouds.
A new fauna I call, fashioning that which now I can see.
My heart of details glowing.
The gift of the vulture,
dance dear light over and through the tree tops.
The self as a song meant to part the veils of time.
Glow dear embers, flashing and loving to the beat of illusions loosely changing.
Dissolve dear demons to the vulture spraying her breath over the river of life.
Aflame dear shore of our Mother’s birthing so we may start again.
Release now the spirit’s that may linger in the smoke, hypnotized.
The serpent and the rose,
through divination I come as the flower of the pumpkin bloodline.
I see the thorns of my rose, where she has taken hold of me.
I see the cords of the pumpkin gourd make heavy my blood;
love! it’s natural and profound simplicity aggravated by complexity.
I feel myself, resting on the ideals of tranquility and peace,
allowing for the slow and steady growth of my ability to hear god. Once again.
This is how I feel today
My heart is sweet, my fear at bay
Floating next to the abyss
The point beyond where I resist
A pearl of destiny glows in my hearth
A vessel I carry, the Gods to take part
And the Lords and the Angels together shall be
And Holy the Blessed is our family
Do you see where my fire went
caught cascading down to the ocean floor
where tiny lights lay flickering along cool waves.
A note breezes suredly past my open ears
to receive the answer to my question.
Pause now, take still.
“The gloomy sink that drains my discarded hair.
My skin laying limp under a growling owl made of many colors
rubs my sore shoulders that no longer share
the burdens of all that has past.”
She of the Blessingness Tree
She of the chiming sea
She is the vine in me
And the tears of her secrets are held
in the rain of her waves
And the arrogance of her wings are held
in the hearts that she saves
Everywhere in fragrant France the ivy grows.
Everywhere on stone white walls there is a rose.
And all her gardens can be walked between her low growth rows.
And all the while her dream springs from a serpent round her toes.
Is it her boat? Too grand to tow?
Her wandering travelers weariness begins to show.
As she sings for love in a cage she does not know,
“Take me love! Please begin to row!
Please take this love and let these shallow walls begin to glow.”
(ode to France)