the acts of our spirit boxes: a repository poem
despite modernity's insistence
there are archetypal
eternal and infernal
collection agencies
of light and dust
we are prone
to worshiping for meaning at...
so with any number
of material aggregate temples
divvied up along geo-politcal-religious lines
we understand there are these places
that wholly fine one's divine
to know, mostly, we are fortunate rain...
you can stumble upon
awareness, it is possible
with accidental articulation
and a tenacious groove...
it is usually the music you bleed out with
your conscious life here, it is in
waves and pieces
and born of the seas
in seeds and grasses
and with honed luck
and help from roots
it ambulates, almost in ritual
and whether we admit it or not
it tithes with our bones
and fleshed free will, the here and now
rule the eyes, the nose lingers behind
to mine traces of once was
what did or do you remember
of when and what
you were before this...
try getting high or low
or hum sa breathing for a bit
you may have to sit for awhile
but you may just spy a nautilus spine
your soul has been following too...
at this point
those of you
in the northern climes, please
turn to the cardinal directions
for the mockingbirds
want to find you needing
a song or two
between your rests,
stops and rides...
I lied, I am not impervious to being worn with you...
but if I had said something like that to shield you from empathy or feeling as if you had hurt me in some way by not giving in at that moment, it was probably only because I had a momentary lapse of greedy immorality...drink tea you'll age this body well...marrow will continue to flower as long as you remember to smile and stay eating by way of thirst and opportunity...
sage brush for instance,
asks how intimate
do you want me to be
townsfolk usually say,
stay long enough to know
we need the rain
ghosts of twilight
gleam in the gloaming
they're pie lean spirits
out of boxes, shapes
spackled caked earth take
in carve and rise
any day you stop
to wonder why
turning away, caught
in another goodbye
in long stabs of light
where there are no surprises
when trees are mirrors
of the seasons
and playwrights
of every reason
to weave
our exhales, showing life's
truths as theater
with nightly reprises...
souls are windows
old tides rattling
when wind blows
though, we do know
to always seek scent
to see here
at the divide(s)
without our eyes
to listen
to the ways
calendars play
before principles
and every extra
wanting to stay
take the stage...
EJR ©
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWhat a nice humming...'you may just spy a nautilus spine
ReplyDeleteyour soul has been following too...'