Yin and

Where do we begin
to demarcate, believe
dichotomy?
This hollow consciousness,
this I of grammatic subject,
this barrier of skin
and puzzlement —
what essential singularity may I claim?
What kinship can I count upon;
what rule determines fair allocation?
To do my duty honor,
must I obey or strive to break away?
How am I to know or name my liege,
brothers at arms, those safe to harm or squeeze
(children of lesser fates, damned ingrates)?
When do we begin to call it sin, and separate?
This yearn for wholeness we call lonely,
what if it is only a mistake?
Who underwrote duality, and didn’t warn:
Disclaimer: just a momentary view.
When your eyes are ready, focus steady,
scan panorama unconstrued.
Unlocked perception eternally accrues,
discerns words and worlds beyond
“I” and “You”.

Cross Purpose

At hours’ crossroads, Reason drowns
in rage, scathe,
irradiated rain, treasonous air.
Weary of care, of punishing,
bottomless anger, of sobbing men
robbed of their right to give birth.
Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from
the cave, to play brave.
And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm
in fool’s corner.
Such a chore — kissing at this
and that for a chance to score
the shame, the blame from stuck-out
tongues, the bloody laughter.
“I could bite off that little thing — make
you squat to pee.”
Wired to fight, at any cost,
because, of course, the Cross proclaims
“We’re right. They are inherently wrong.”
“Those below must be taught to obey
our superior tools, to be broken,
that we may ride.”
Against our better fate, sad race divides
along strict lines, by difference
nature devised to spawn us strong.

Pink and Blue
(and red all over)

Fist shakes from rage
channeled, coursing,
flailing bloodlines.
Caught, snarled,
stagnant dying ocean
willing to be taken down
from fear to violence.
Call wild arms,
breast, sinew, shame.
Chemistry surges, overplays.
One mortal coup de grace
burst sword to heart
that never lived
beyond desire.

If man is fire, dissolved
into greater waves,
why does Woman weep?
Why does not the flood
of pain absolve and
succor? Why should fate
deny blessings of mortal
release in wash of blood
to lady fair,
snakes and thistles to braid her hair,
expose her tortured face?
Eyes that kill in silence,
stone lips, wrinkled nose,
washed out in times of
stoic denial. Why must
she kneel, vile, victim
of violence, not its cause?
Who makes these laws of
natural selection?
Who takes the stone?
Who takes the stone’s projection?

Mothers’ Night

cascading shards
ripping
echoes falling
“It’s our calling.”

Rape of Earth,
hot spurts, invective words,
savage knives.
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars

wailing, hurtling waves.
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
“It’s not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile”

the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger —
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
“They are not our breed,
but lower curs.”
We may kill with unfettered glee.

Cursed, clubbed, cut to our requirement.
Borders clear.
“Heretic fear fences in
our livelihood and wives.
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.”

Stunning, treasure that might regale,
heal, exemplify true worth,
sustain humanity and Earth,
sold for pittance of potash
to wage a weary jig.

Your Philosophy

movie plot as object lesson
boys find valuable object
boys lose valuable object
boys fight to get valuable object back

I am woman born
no source of father’s pride
too early in my days, they
track my aroma
I know not to hide
use me in some back room
until my womb rises with a new slave
for their diversions

I am sacred mother
tit tied to feeding, always feeding
(agonized bleeding in secret shame)
No more than a tether, a trough, and
tantalizer of the profane. I am a wrecked
train, a vehicle left to rust, blamed for
slatternly stagnation,
never quite thrown away.

Reject me; reject hard truths,
long trod diamonds, scuff-polished,
hidden like icebergs in paleolithic mud.
Dismiss prophetic exaltation, work songs,
labyrinthine gardens,
we who are only dreams in your philosophy.

You may well be better
stuck in your own
wheel of clay.
My lesson, when I am ready,
is to leave you to your way;
cleave to the ecstasy
loose, lost, subjective
heroic

Scrying on the Moon (for Brigid)

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~

By sibylline light
images I recognize,
creviced captures of my life.
I know her judgment to be my own.

“Nourished by Moon rivers
mythical cavern blooms
unseen by sunlight
glow green.”
Thus she sets the scene;
becomes the prophecy.

“Purest white simplicity
curved to suggest fragility
faith fed maiden ready for
plucking,
given in bondage to womanly woes,
hard rows to hoe
for that human hug through
crying of night.

Fate of mortal soldiers, sacrificed to lust.
Seeking relief, beg for the boon of drama
high adventure
sneaking into sad hotels
for a fix or a tumble.
Laughs,
deadly play,
danger, a real chance.

Barefoot in the snow
icy roads
winds so strong
I could not make you hear.
I thought you were my destiny.
Crazy thoughts, far from clear;
but I believed
song lyrics from Saturnine deities
would not lie, leave me
dying, fading into winter’s grey
drifting clouds,
endless sorrow endured for naught.
Lost on this careless corner,
dreaming of oblivion, intent on visions
like rain
tapping against eternity’s
vast windowpane.
Scenic serenity.
Nature’s gradations of green
soothe tired eyes,
trembling nerves, throbbing veins.
Slivers of moonlight reflect
in withered refrains, unearth secrets
embedded in song
effervescing through cool pure air

cleansing the uprising nestling
set aflame
resurrected
tempered mettle,
pure, wise, tested
engorged with the will
to rise”

Fish Tale

I didn’t know the fish would die
flapping on sun-warmed metal.
Peacefully domestic afternoon.
Children discover death
and other worlds.

Sitting by the well
to draw inspiration.
Spinning yarn, weaving words.
Dusty work. Flakes of skin
embed the fabric.
Struggling through childhood,
the tales get twisted.
Little boys & little girls
separate language.
We think we know our place,
our destinies,
from the games we’re given,
the words we’ve learned to imitate,
rhymes, reasons, rituals.
Imbibing passion body to body,
we awaken rules of blame.
The woman tempts.
The hero conquers.
The sad boy desires a
self-fulfilling fantasy,
stomping upon his heart to
start the flow of real blood,
real rage.
Out of water, out of earth,
out of air,
flopping upon some inert surface
the tale mechanistically repeats.
What world can we discover
nurturing life?