My Lady and I
We’re like an old couple, my lady and I.
Fifty three years since she first caught my eye.
She romanced me slow,
Patiently watched me grow,
Then she showed me a body with which I could fly
Free from the mind that binds my own kind.
Then she said not to peek,
Now we play hide and seek;
And each knows now all she can possibly know
Of the mysteries that make her beloved just so.
Her purpose distinct;
In the mirror, a sphinx.
So we do our own thing, side by side.
It’s less often now that we get to snuggle.
At time she must think I’ve left her for the muggles.
I know, when I die, she herself will not cry.
In fact we will laugh; we’ll be one at last.
And it’s just a plain fact,
Not a suicide pact,
That if she went first, my own body would burst;
If she disappeared, I’d no longer be here.
She’s my Nature; it’s simple as that.
M. L., 4 May 2018, Bear Canyon, Santa Fe, New Mexico
Dharma Bummer (working title)
He sits by a fire in a cave:
a special cave: a crucible; a chrysalis.
A cave of passion and dust.
He climbed here himself;
He scarce remembers how or why.
Was he lured or was he chased?
He keeps the fire not to warm himself
but to sharpen his sword.
In truth, he is the fire.
And yet beset by solitude’s cold,
it is another warmth he would have:
of the village he remembers and imagines,
of playmates around other fires he sees through the trees.
Without these friends and frictions to clothe and warm him,
He thinks himself naked, cold, alone….
And yet he is far from alone.
Less so than all the people in the village.
Because Spirit keeps him close,
here in this cave,
where he sits sharpening
with which he can slay dragons in the forest,
forge diamonds in stone walls with the eyes in the back of his head,
Yet a sword with which he cannot dispatch the mice in his cave
or cut his own shackles.
A sword unwilling, unable to cut itself.
He may be lonely,
But he is not alone.
Perhaps he is not alone enough, in fact,
as the hungering ghosts all clamor inside him.
They wail of pain as a cruel mistake.
They tell him he is without, bereft.
Someone out there will come and save him.
And when they do, he thinks, he will be finished with this cave, this fire.
But he is the fire; the cave is inside him.
O Spirit, let him go,
Let him run to the center of the village,
Let him sing and spin and dance there until breathless, and beyond.
Let him sleep awhile…
And then dance some more, until,
amid the clamor of a dream come true,
Something rings false, louder and louder,
Until he runs again
Right smack into true Aloneness,
The aloneness of unforgiveness…
And he runs again,
Back to your cave.
And then the village will come for him again,
Not to save him,
But to be saved;
Not by him, but with him.
M.L. March 4, 2017
Out the window, a late April Snow
mutes the green fire of Spring.
Yet through the window of my trusty wood stove
a green spirit appears in the flames.
On one hand I know it’s just chemical glow,
but I rise to the magic it brings.
So hungry am I, like the flames for this dry wood,
that a place in my heart silent sings
to welcome this Sprite
with all mischief and might
and renew life’s mysterious Bling.
m.l. 4/18 N.M
and the sweetest grief…
She called me by name
and I was there to answer and didn’t even know it.
As if I materialized upon request,
the Habit of Sentience activated by my name.
Curled like a baby—
The best position for weeping from the purest well—
And nestled in a burrow of peach fuzz
against the belly of the Mother of all Knowing,
just this side of The Veil.
ENDOSCOPY, ENTROPY, CALLIOPE AND OTHER MUSES
Michou… Easter, 2016…New Mexico
Pardon Our Dust
What is blooming
is smiling at me
through this pollen haze
that dims my vision
and the friendliness of my world.
And I know…
There is beauty in this torsion smiling at me
from a future when these forces,
the frictive evolutionary techtonics of my Being,
have thrust through their collisions
and caught the light of dawn
on those glimmering, tooth-like peaks
currently sunk into the soft, swollen flesh of my becoming.
Ostara/Equinox/Palm Sunday, 2016
Meta, with Metta
The warmth of your body—
Melts through this flesh toward my heart,
Reaching in, like the ineluctable sea,
Like a spermatozoal missile;
A herald of homecoming;
Love reaching toward itself.
And I know these waters of welcome and desire
Will not stop until they erode this tower.
But for now I am still here,
Looming somewhere in the citadel,
Aware of the cool caverns of my history
And of the void of which I am composed.
I am not this void, these caverns,
I’m not even the voice of Longing that echoes through them.
And I do not dissolve into you, nor need to.
I am the one who watches
–the hen of wholeness watching her chicks–
Unmoved, but richer,
Like a glowing Yule-tide Fir,
October 10, 2015,
This oxidizing filament that that conducts thoughts through my brain,
These sinewy channels that divert more than the allotted juice
to the North-most grid and illuminate the projector in my head,
Could at any time, I sense, rupture and go dark.
This is not a problem.
It would liberate my mind.
My heart would be bathed in light.
But I would drool more.
Michou, Juneteenth 2015
I love a blank page.
…as much as I love
a Black Raven—
a winged, waxed ember of the Void,
a rapturously tempting confection of the Mystery,
perched on the cedar, just out of reach.
My soul salivates.
My heart strains against its sternum
toward his velvet black breast.
I reach out my hand,
a hope against hope he will land on my arm,
a prayer his dark majesty will toss me a crumb.
His whole party gathers and reels around this earthbound sister,
riding updrafts, reminding me how it is done.
I hear before I see them.
I know the sound of the wind in those wings, like no other.
It kisses the back of my neck.
Yet when they are still—
As this one sits now—
I wish to fall into that shiny black hole in the sky.
There is light in that dark.
And I am the sound in that Silence.
December 12, 2014
(Song to a Brother in Exile)
Never did I, But,
If ever did I, then
Never did I willfully abandon you.
I’m right here;
Always you were with me.
Now you call, and
I will answer swiftly.
Hearts are joined.
Soon our voices will be too.
O, Soldier rest.
Lay down your burden.
Heavy Chest and Mind Uncertain.
Home and Blessed,
Safe through Eden’s Curtain, New.
(Michou as) Tara Tink, Deep Winter 2014
I’m a Walking Prayer.
Been one all my life—well before I was walkin’!
Didn’t figure it out, though, ‘til after I stopped runnin’.
But once you know it, they’s no excuse.
You gotta be impeccable.
Aint’ no turnin’ back; ain’t no one to blame; ain’t no cowing to rejection.
Did I mention I’m blindfolded?
The hand that guides mine
as I pin the tail on your donkey
knows where it goes; not I.
I just show up.
And, like the answer to most prayers, I’m incognito—
unrecognized, overlooked, and rebuffed.
I show up. I always do show up–
Just long enough after the words lef’ your lips for them to have lef’ your mem’ry, too.
I show up: unannounced and not packaged how you expect.
So you turn away—
toward somethin’ shiny on the horizon—
or you turn on me, ‘cause
I drum on your soul out of rhythm with the anthem you prefers,
and I’m not a Genie,
and I’m not wearin’ wings,
and I am not blond.
I show up
in a worn cardigan,
crooked glasses and freckles,
And I tell the truth.
I’m jus’ human
(for as long as I is so assigned),
and that gives us something in common:
It pisses us both off!
Alternate title: Sour Grace
November 23, 2014
O Sole mia culpa
Child of the sun sees his father dancing in the ocean.
He dives in
to find that the surf is floor to the sky and ceiling to ocean.
And the ocean has no floor at all.
The water around him roils from his heat and light;
sightless creatures scatter to neither see or be seen;
and the wreckage
— spoils and secrets of the forgotten unforgiven–
ride bubbles to the surface.
They loom above him in the bright and effervescing blue,
ever denser in number, trailing bridal gowns of algea,
until they completely obscure the light.
Without seeing the light, how can he be certain
of the Sun, of himself as Son?
How can he know the way home?
he fears the dark
and the objects emerging from it, passing him, drifting upward, glowing palely in the dim.
He fails to notice they drift ineluctably in one direction,
fails to see that they glow only because of his light.
And his father,
ducking and weaving behind the surfacing wreckage,
will let him cower in the shadows a while,
until Son of Sun finds his Solace in the Solitude of his Sunship.
Michou Landon, December 2013
Cold Snap, Warm Bodies
As I walked along in snow pack and slush,
bundled in down coat, muffler and hat,
a jogger passed on a parallel path,
chasing his own breath,
sporting only shorts and shoes.
No shirt, just the rose-gold glow of the slanted sun
to warm his back,
as he shrank in the growing, white distance.
My once-sure-footed mind scrambled a little and sprawled
as its hooves followed scattering thoughts,
seeking traction in at least one direction;
but no judgement could stick.
Only amused wonder lingered
for a few moments
on the fluttering veil of “difference,”
as I fumbled half-heartedly for a camera:
to snap a last souvenir
from this strange country.
dec 7 2103 (continuing below)
Cold snap, Warm bus
with a marijuana leaf tattoo–
as big as a wizard’s hand–
cradling the back of his cranium–
buffed, tough and delicate;
a broadcast, a shield, a target
mesmerizing the gaze to fall
into his pineal
like a bullet,
into the beauty of human life and endeavor,
all its conceit and futility.
politely stamped in script
upon his left cheekbone.
No, it’s Touch Lips—
you nearly have to do
to read it.
As if he feels the laser
focus of my curiosity
(two seats back)
he has pulled up his grey hoody.
Perhaps it is not against me but the cold,
for it slips back down and he leaves it,
though it now conceals
the cursive word–
along his shoulder line.
He finds warmth instead then
in his own aliveness,
in the company of his seatmate
and the life between them.
Under that one’s hood
are the bright, brown eyes
of a young woman:
an intelligent, amused face,
her conversation animated.
Though they gaze mostly ahead
with their forward facing bodies,
it is clear they see eye to eye,
their hearts and temperatures buoyed
in the shelter of a common worldview
and the hearth of enthusiasm.
November 22, 2013
Whispering the Gift Horse
Is this simply paradise
or the last temptation of a Christ?
Dorothy in her poppy field,
the fog of Jung’s vault come unsealed?
The Lion blindly gropes for heart
and finds Napoleon blown apart.
Good riddance–yet, what’s here instead?
A babe, in corset, left for dead?
An empty space, with memories;
Heaven grinning uselessly.
Crutches propped across the room,
Is it enough to sit and bloom
without a witness in this tomb?
Where is my bee and butterfly
to deliver, ‘ere I die,
the Treasure of this Life?
Inhale — she takes his breath away.
Exhale — they make each other laugh like no one else ever has.
Inhale — legs open.
Exhale — hearts open.
Inhale — she takes his seed in deep.
Breath is held. Time Stops. Gametes meet.
Creation exhales. Walls dissolve.
Inhale — gametes merge.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale… cells exponentiate.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale…a tiny heart finds rhythm.
Inhale–she tries to find room for breath around the belly.
Inhale — she gasps; it’s time.
Exhale— she pushes.
Inhale — his lungs receive first air.
Exhale — a strong new voice protests.
Inhale — a child grows, learns, expands.
Exhale — a person blows into his own sails, away from parents and origins.
Inhaling influences, exhaling failures.
Earning, Spending; Aspiring, Inspiring… Reaching, Rising.
Inhale — finds finity and Middle Age
Exhale — nostalgia: rising gives way to sinking, back toward anything to which there are ties–homeland, family, music of youth.
Inhale– aches of tender recognition.
Exhale— of ambition (relinquished), ego (loosens), friends (disappearing behind the veil), failing body (forgiven).
Inhale — breath is shorter, but received with gratitude.
Exhale — but not as as fully.
Inhale — a portal opens, beckons.
Exhale — you slip through.
A six-foot-three lumbering dog of a boy
Wisdom, abandon, depth and joy.
Strange, bone-bending darshan in a second’s embrace.
An alternate self, licking my face,
with the jester’s wink in the Absolute’s halls,
meeting deep with the nonchalance of licking his balls.
Man before me culminating in stunning vibrancy
all that I ever dreamed I might be.
And if he is that, then, I’m released, I don’t have to be.
And if I am not that, then who might I be?
Albuquerque, March 18, 2013