Raven

April 4, 2016

 

Once upon a time, a long, long time,

Winter loosed its callid grip.

Amidst the rising waters, whispered and stirred,

from their berth, flew a dark cloud.

It grew eyes, dragon feet,

and mind sharp as midnight hour.

It blossomed blacken plume,

a velt, knighten flower,

blackest rose of winter.

Eyes like the sun, tongue like the moon,

tail splayed in stars, wings, voiceless as time,

cries sonorous, “aawk, aawk, awake!”

wakes the dawn.

Grey wolf, bronzed man,

Yes, man of smoke and flame, follows.

The dark, svelt angel,

who heralds the vast, spirit worlds,

above the earth yet red in tooth and claw,

he bays, death’s hound, at the open wide gate

of the savage moon.

Friend, foe and mocking one,

his bill severs the night, flesh from bone and blood.

Eyes like jack-o-lanterns burning,

speak riddles, sing of truth and lies.

Is he life or death?

A celestial ferryman of souls,

or hungry ghost, swallowing lands,

fallen-one, given wings to mount the night

a disgraced Lancelot, guarding the wilds,

Memory of Odin, ever alight?

Who is he, of matter and spirit,

our hopes, dreams, kindness, cruelties, questionings and fright?

ra

 

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Ein Klein Nachtmusik

February 15, 2016

 

nyx.jpg

 

At last, falls the curtain,

still, dread velvet weaves the quiet,

a flurry of feathers, ancient tracks,

Aqua regia and wheaten witches’ moons.

How can I connect

the sacred and profane, the lofty and lowly,

the many strands of soundless symphony?

Do the trees answer life and death,

motherhood and loss?

Do lunar phases mark love’s mood

both tragic and elated?

Can the eloquent calligraphy of frost

record seasons, longings and sighs?

Is she Diana who births the night,

or Nyx spreading her inky cloak?

Is it the she-wolf, wraith or sprite

who strikes the danse macabre entwined?

Is this the lesser time of God,

or the penance to repair what’s lost?

Of snow and ashes, would I be remiss,

of that noiseless time when destroying angels pass.

In the lightless underworld,

do owls hymn thee?

When fearsome things tramp afoot,

does the unknown, unseen, unremembered cry?

There is appointed the time to awake

and to die.

After every day surely comes night

on rodent feet

singing the unsung requiem

taps on a graveyard bugle,

Nunc dimittis in velvet black

because the white of dawn may wake them.

Morning Prayer

February 25, 2015

Into the forest glistening, damp,
I traversed.
Rustling grass, my nave,
Arched canopy above, my vault,
white moths twinkling, my candles.
Oh blue warbler, my cantor in his forked loft!
Twigs and stones, my resting place
among things green, ancient, and alive.
Round and round, squirrels leap
in liturgy of chase and play
The spotted owl calls out an antiphon.
My nostrils inhale musky woods,
reminding me of something forgotten.
Here, time lies still,
hushed, savage and sacred.
Birds and beasts sing,
sing the morning-prayer with me!

blue