Shells

Listening

a Harrier hunts for his meal

in the silence.

Losing Heather*

If I knew t'would soon be raining

I would have carried an umbrella.

Had I been told about the pain

I'd never have been convinced to tell a

tale

a whispered spell

a wishful veil

a fantasy fell

from filling eyes

beyond the well-

ing up of tears

amidst the sell-

ing of the years

her flowered first

and then the bell

the toll of truth

the tick of time

of virgin youth

of virgin mine

of sweet vermouth

of sour wine

of bitter truth

of sowing seeds

amidst the pines

of taking leave

of the divine

and naivete

about the weather

is no excuse

for losing heather*.

*Heather’s scientific name, “Calluna vulgaris,” comes from the Greek “Kallune,” meaning “to clean or brush,” and the Latin “vulgaris,” meaning “common,” as heather twigs were once used for making brooms. Native to Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, Russia and North America, heather branches are also said to have been used to make baskets, rope, bedding, as thatch for roofs and even to flavor beer or tea. Symbolizing admiration and good luck, heather is also believed to have protective powers. The ancient Celts recognized it served as a great cleansing agent, breaking up blockages found in the body. Interestingly, brooms were most popularly made by the Celts with heather, another symbol of clearing, cleansing and manifesting purity. Perhaps these associations with purity made it a symbol of promise and good luck in the Highlands. Indeed, no Highland bride would walk in her joining (wedding) ceremony with out a bit of white heather in her bouquet or hair adornment. The custom still lingers today. What's more, not only were the Celts clever herbalists, they were also genius at mead making. Heather was a prize for meads (during a time before hops was recognized for beer making). When properly rendered, it made a heady, aromatic blend suitable for splendid nights of merry making. Here enters the symbolism of the heather dealing with romance, intoxication and attraction. Heather mead was some powerful stuff.

LESSON OF THE HEATHER - from The Wisdom of Trees by Jane Gifford

Heather is a symbol of passionate love, of sacrifice, and self-control. In the first place, heather represents enthusiasm and sensual pleasure, and the benefits that can be enjoyed from spontaneous self-expression. But within this lust for life and exhilaration lies a deeper lesson of the consequences that may arise out of unbridled passion. The Celts believed that you are always totally responsible and accountable for the outcome of your actions, so you were wise to be sure of your own true nature before totally abandoning yourself to the potent delights of heather ale and the pleasures that it could bring. Unchecked, heather is short-lived and unproductive but if burned yearly to the ground, it re-grows with fresh vigor. The lesson of the heather is that a necessary balance must exist between self-expression and self-control for both to be enjoyable and effective.

always will it be

the universe entire

between you and me

Xmas

Approaching the darkest
night of the year
with blood under nails
and unkempt hair
and a thirst
for rare-
ified
air
and a dare
if I'd
taken
the shot
if I'd
taken her
spot
I'd be waking
and not
in this dream
where the prick
of the point
of a flickering
flake of snow
guillotine
or a bow
and a blade
and the broad-head
has done
all it could
call it good
call it game
walnut wood
where you hang
on your cross
from your vows
with your dross
and your dream
of a Wonderful Life
as a wife
as the Bride
of a Christ
that forgives
and lives twice
and then sieves
it suffices
to bleed
just a little
to rinse
in the riddle
of a rite
where the
night
might be bright
for the duramen
for a darker
knight.

A Breath of Wind- 風の息

A breath of wind
a timeless conversation
an answered prayer.

風の息
時代を超越した会話
と答えたの祈り

A Prayer

The fragility

of humanity

amazes me

when I fell into your skin

the world forever changed

and I am destroyer

a new Arch Angel

of Death

when I fell into your skin

a pulse of your mind

created eternal echoes

of an ocean

of last breaths.

Rules

A conversation avoided

a tale of two cities

of two citizens

of a brave new world.

Two lives

two flags

two sexes

two bags

filled with layers

and rings and burl.

Stuck in a moment

in the fog of a war

between modernity

and the urge to mate

is a space that is constant

in dimension or distance

but not in constancy

connubiality

or fate.

A frozen curtsey

a stilted salute

and intimacy

is vacuous

and vacant.

While we play by the rules

Eros arrows the fools

who are coy, constrained

or complacent.

color

Prize

I'm still writing somewhere

I'm still writing someone

still writing a history, a mystery a myth.

Still in the ring

still in the round

still just a foil, a fool, a fist.

Will there be roses?

Or still only ruses

or a medal that rusts away?

Are you still writing somewhere

still writing someone

or is art in waning decay?

restoring the yoke

neglected honeymoon vessel

night paddling

August reunion

wet with anticipation

and heavy dew

of banshees and bruins

A ravenous quiet

a mossy fallen birch

exploded by insatiable hunger.

Deep furrows

in maple and pine

and grassy beds

in berries and vines

in the bedroom

of banshees and bruins.

west

west

from whence this dry wind blows

west

from whence this creek once flowed

west

from whence I rucked up and rode

to find an unfettered future

at reverie

they looked at me

and said we smell retreat

I looked back at them

worn and grim

confused by the specter

of defeat

I drifted off

to nodding prairies

and cottonwood islands

and sanctuaries

and felt the breeze

while fingering bars

the cool of metal

on starchy collars

the innocent days

are damn near over

and the novelty

of four leaf clovers

lost in the haze of

the same old place

and the inevitable

same tomorrow

west

west

to ride there now

and find a Henslow's sparrow

west

west

they're coming now

to taste our metal and marrow.

"when it rains it pours"

monsoon melancholy

weeping foundations

Black Pond Dusk-- Warrior Song

New Orleans Night Life

night lights-smelting at Toughannock Creek

aiki I

the forest blushes twice

first in muted shades of birth

spring- green- entering-water-rising

and the violent hues of death

autumn- crimson- leaving-fire-falling

aiki

humility

inevitable and irresistible

power

misty meadow

motives shrouded in memories

still mourning