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.”
Now that the winter is here I find myself noticing my most recent limitations.
Currents bounce off the walls, intent brought in with echos of my imaginations.
I often, throughout the day, dream myself into the closets of my coffers.
And there I observe all the symbols that dance. Songs only I can experience.
I see where songs are curled up, piling up in a flicker, and resting for too long.
I hear where songs are communicating, titled in prose, it’s volume and measures.
I feel where distorting notes are held, where they are loud, repetitive. And where they are released into a symphony.
Matrix or not I witness the shedding of old hearing. I prepare often for resurrection and ring bells.
I touch, I hold, I reach with my hands to reveal the memories of my limitations. So that I may shed them. Relationships, loyalty, and my destiny.
I am an apothecary
Hanging copper sanctuary
Moon lit grove of spice and herb
Clay spun pots and glassy curves
White walls frame my coffer gown
I stoke the bread and dress the crown
I sing with vessel, I draw thee down
Into a tea from baskets filled
From Phoenix’s fire it’s steam is tilled
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)