“Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

11 February 2010



It was the like the last arrow in the quiver, and it was You.  
After I stop emptying out it’ll be easier to put it in the past. 
I sincerely agree with you that whatever Happens should Happen.
But I will admit to being biased, and I will admit to grieving,
Which I honestly didn’t think id do openly with you
But my ways have never been clearly marked.
I’ve Forever had to make my way, wrestle through lowgrowth,
My skirts are ragged from water, rocks and thorns.
The open road is not familiar, nor does it comfort.
I’m out there wide open, plain to see from the Hedge
Which I’ve always called Home.
The Hedge that offers Refuge
The smell of cool Earth, the stain of berries
The words of The First Children
Written on the giving ground.
A hill in the moonlight
A clearing come morning
But the wide and open road requires
Far too much swagger and denial
For me to walk it.
I was not given much time to attach myself
To the Idea of This
But it was an Idea I carried in my Secret Heart
Since you and I began
In a corridor
Where I pushed off ill-equipped
In my coracle
Crafted from my own skin
Weeping in the grim corridor
For the loss.
The loss of my Life,
Grafted Myth
Of Love and Time
The loss of my own Meaning
The Sacrifice of Love and Time
To bottomless implacable
Death without Resurrection.
And the spirit that fluttered
Within the cage of This Flesh
Was a sudden Brightness in the
Lowering sky of the weary Traveler
A shooting star.
Not mine to know or hold
Only stand below on a Hungry Earth
And shed the shell
To release the pearl
Celestial and nebulous
Bound for other Oceans.

2 comments:

  1. Carl11 February, 2010

    I grieve beside you and pray for Traveler's safe return.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Anonymous18 February, 2010

    im really sorry about this, i know how much it meant. cowboy

    ReplyDelete

Blessed Be.

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"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well." -V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)