rededication

Grandmother,

How I've missed

the simple talks we'd have

About the meaning of words

And the glistening of fire

you told me once, but

I forgot, forgive me.

Grandfather,

How I've missed

watching your strong arms,

Hands grasping about tools,

and the making of the fire

you taught me once,

but I forgot, forgive me.

I shared a kiss,

of fire, not of passion.

Fire meant for the head,

and spread it did, around and throughout,

across a summer, bright and fertile,

But I forgot, forgive me.

I hold myself responsible

for words my grandmother entrusted me,

for deeds my grandfather tutored me,

for promises devised from a kiss

on lips which since have flown.

They were forsaken.

They were forsaken.

And my suffering has multiplied,

But in it I have REMEMBERED

The Protector of the Truth. I remember,

I remember and rededicate myself

to that lofty cause.

My heart, my light, my mind.

I have returned grandmother, grandfather,
as your champion.

wayside pulpit

Mind astray reading the

words on a wayside pulpit-

so awkward a prophet-

bumbling knowledge-

the acidity of a stunted worldview.

Are you simple as this?

So explainable by twists of phrase 

and pithy wagging tongues

of a bored and boring populace?

Or do you exist in more than an

ever-changing, plastic-lettered,

scared domicile of homicidal 

banalities; meant to be smart?

Might you reside in the

memory of a deceased relative

who died in pain but lived in promise?

Do you dwell a lady’s kiss

at Summer’s first light, balefires lit,

anticipating your rise?

Have you been heard in silent want

upon cold gray steps, with brothers' 

saffron robes dragging the freezing floor?

Or can you be found in

a painted representation of a savior 

dangling, bleeding, rescinding all sin?

Do you feel anger when forced

in containers or bound in

dead leather as the pages of a book?

Can you smell the petals of

an opening rose; waft along the breeze;

yourself the perfume of floral fascination?

How does it feel to be an enigma-

an unknown quantity

straddling an absolute world?

Have I seen you in my daughter’s smile;

my son’s face in the morning

when I am home and it’s Saturday

and what's past is left in proper place?

I care not how you were conceived;

how to ratify your existence; define your mystery.

I seek only your presence, not to fall by the wayside-

no pulpits, nor altars, nor prayers, nor kneeling.

* * *

Since I took such a long break between posts, I thought I'd try to write something new. That didn't work out, so I went back to a past piece & edited the hell out of it (or maybe into it, depends on your worldview.) One of my pet peeves are those little blurbs that appear alongside the road on church marquees- wayside pulpits- that are supposed to be witty. To me they epitomize the general dumbing-down of religion in this country.

beltane

The Source of all being, continuum timeless.

The ground of existence, rhyming and rhymeless.

Today we honor your limitless love,

Your limitless freedom and limitless trust,

O unity of sky’s spirit and earth’s dust.

* * *

O aspect of feminine,

Goddess, wisdom, delight.

Womb of our birth,

Nourishment of eternal life.

Maiden, Mother, Crone

Earth, Water, Moon.

From you came our birth, and all birthed who have lived.

We honor your part in creation,

Your partnership internal in our beings

O Mother in the Earth...

The Goddess on the hillside on a sunlit morn,

bathing Her body in the mists;

She trills out a tune to the infinite;

She sings of yearning and bliss.

Her voice calls the fervor of Her love

His presence She insists

She beckons him sweetly to rendezvous

to fulfill all that exists...

* * *

Bachelor, Father, Sage

Sky, Fire, Sun.

From you came the seed so needed for life which grew in the mother.

We honor your part in creation,

Your partnership internal in our beings

O Father in the Sky...

Dance to the song of the hillside Goddess

and she will lie with thee;

the dew and the flowers and the daylight’s gleam

welcome summer’s jubilee;

spring is complete and summer nearby,

dance with your passion, dance down from the sky

join with your lover by the hillside stream

warrior born

I enter as solicitor into the breech, I
shimmy through a spinney of oak and beech, I
smolder I stutter-step hillside-bound, I
worship at a cromlech with reverent sound, aye.

I revel in primeval heresies hailed, I
peel away pretense brandish what’s veiled, I
quest for veracity, from all whom would speak, I
seek rectitude for the shunned and the weak, aye.

I trip down footpaths long over-grown, I
convulse on the altar of rain-etched stone, I
gasp at the lightning in the night-bird sky, I
ken to the eidola of eons wild, aye.

I rove companionless as streams flow past, I
quaff their waters my drought to cast, I
taste aged mosses and sod underfoot, I
mingle with the mysteries of the twilight wood, aye.

I relinquish these boots, this crown, this shame, I
breathe malcontent extrication exclaimed, I
move to recompense my lady, my land, I
make an invocation to all women and men, aye.

I present to the heavens my chest, my face, I
plea for forgiveness of my race, I
burn from the fire and bruise from the stone, I
writhe hands and knees past a gauntlet thrown, aye.

I return to the hearth to the village I adore, I
rush along the promenade a warrior born, I
recite the story to the curious child, I
thrill and fulfill her or render him riled, aye.