Sipping Tea

 The mug is too hot to hold 

But I don’t want to put it down;

The ephemeral steam a comfort

pre dawn, as the days shorten.

Days like this I can feel them;

The millions who have woken

In the dark, to do their duty

And started with that cup of tea

Clutched in cold hands, in farmhouses

And fields, trenches and kitchens

Palaces and rooms where 

The only companion is quiet despair.

Preparing themselves, over this

Simple comfort, fleeting warmth

To go forth to meet the moment

After this moment, and all it carries.

Susurration

 The centre cannot hold its widening gyre

 the spiral thoughts that whirl and grit 

To sit with consciousness, 

It’s ebb and flow 

The warp and weft

 that stretches out a tearing net 

That catches nothing. 

Sifting only 

The sand that makes the pearl. 

Beauty, at what cost. 

Believe someone

When they tell you about themselves. 

I will never tell you about myself. 

I am always telling you about myself. 

Touch

 I can still feel the place 

In the hollow of my throat 

That you stroked, feather-light

In the darkness. 

 

Do you still feel 

The flutter of my heart

In your hand? 

Sleep

 Sometimes I will curl to slumber

Into the timeless fetal comma

Our cells remember

Swaddled in darkness. 

Should a finger of my slack hand

Touching my clavicle,

The knurl of my shoulder joint; 

I am suddenly a Neolithic grave-

All ochre bones, 

dried flowers, 

Stone tools. 

Nested in the womb of the earth;

dreaming. 

Season of Air

time to buy flowers in the sunny kiss of the spring air
(tulips)
and watch
as the earth inhales the last frosts
and breathes out green.
we, together; 
and my heart blooms. 






-The branches of trees in the spring always remind me of the twining branches of our lungs. We are of the earth. 

Solstice

Up in the long and holy night,
when the Earth and Moon and Sky
inhale and hold and wait-
to watch the world turn.
In the brittle silence;
we could hear the distant clash of staves
and the breaking heart of darkness
crunching in the snow underfoot.
The King is dead- long live the King.
Returning home,
we gathered oak branches
from the snowy field
to light the path to Summer.



- written December 21 2016, just remembered about it. 

Cernunnos

I love the grace, the spring 

and wild dance of deer. 

Once, in the woods 

A world away, I sought Him. 

Starved, lean, filled with poison

And the smell of earth. 

He told me, in the thunder 

In the blue sky 

In the pine trees 

In the loam 

In the ferns and river. 

Leaning down between 

Antlers that spread from

Sunrise to sunset- 

I am not the god of hunters. 

I am the lord of the herd. 

You do not need to hunt 

To be My child. 

My children are the deer. 

The sky opened as the day closed. 

No one will believe me, I whispered. 

But I didn’t care. 

Later, the stars stopped their dance 

And listened to our fire.