She is well loved
among the well loved,
among those who know how to love.
Timeless, ageless, she floats on the breeze,
exchanging smiles and cups of tea,
from new spirited morning
'til tranquil, easy, cozy sleep.
Her closet is full of lovelies and elegance
all soft next to the skin
and shoes to fit feet and essence;
shoes that dance;
when she chooses to wear them.
Her shelves are stacked handily with all manner of books
with secrets now free,
weavings in every language ever muttered.
Her quill sets poised on her secretaire, eager to edit
and rarely needing to.
Punctuation is ever optional, endings are no more
and so periods are moot
Her vision is clear as fine crystal,
her body is sound as God's first breath upon it,
as it ever was and ever will and ever always,
as are the ones who hold her beating heart
Her pantry is stocked with strength and pabulum,
bread and wine to share and pray
Spice for remembrance,
salt for constitution,
mead for covenant
Her name travels as starlight
with purest invocation from breath to breath
held in open palms gently and with aegis
Her children glide joyfully through field and forest,
desert and sea
with grace, with quarter
Her work is pulchritude and wonder, adventure, felicity,
that fills her coffers to overflow with gold unneeded,
to pass to the young,
to hire, to make merry,
to share, to free
Her love was, hither, will to be,
resonance and harmony
serene sanguine serosity,
euphonious efficacy
and susurrant affinity
emulsified with sanctity
efferent synchronicity,
ebullient fidelity
To wit, to laughter, breath and birth,
the key to open up the earth
she carries loosely in her mirth
while wending star to stone to sea,
a wink to turn and dance with thee
~M.Black
Showing posts with label M. Black. Show all posts
Showing posts with label M. Black. Show all posts
Gnosis
So came the opening of the eyes,
so comes the waking of the cornflower;
to here draws the point of singular destination
cinching space and time with one stitch.
There is no more to say,
for here is the Alpha and the Omega
no words fit between the darkening and the light,
and all words ever written or whispered;
There is no more to say.
M.Black 7/22/2010 11:00
so comes the waking of the cornflower;
to here draws the point of singular destination
cinching space and time with one stitch.
There is no more to say,
for here is the Alpha and the Omega
no words fit between the darkening and the light,
and all words ever written or whispered;
There is no more to say.
M.Black 7/22/2010 11:00
Esse
On two feet and ten toes she propels herself forward
balancing on the ground, counterbalanced on the Earth;
two eyes, two ears in Divine Proportion
to one heart brewing elixir of mourning and mirth.
The downtown matrons and the uptown maids
in ever their most appurtenant tackle
avert their chagrin to be caught with their countenance
showing; exposed with alleycat hackles.
With two hands and ten fingers she swings her arms
with elegant composure, to gain impulsion.
One nose and one mouth for a Golden Mean,
in the middle of her head, God's compulsion.
The uptown patriarchs and the downtown boys
in their ever most assimilated gear
dart their gaze back and toward, caught between
haughty assessment and private, disquieting fear.
With two lungs she breathes in the vaporous essence
from each of them as they stare like boorish children in the hedge;
Her flame burns hotter and brighter with every utterance,
her back grows stronger with each shove toward the ending's edge.
The sidewalk ends at the cobblestone road,
but her two legs continue forward without pause or slip;
she has been here before, she has been farther toward sundown
than what has been passed between fleering and lip.
She will keep on walking with or without them,
and with or without this loosened rhyme.
Her gait keeps its own clock,
her clock keeps its own meter,
her arrival will be right on time.
~M. Black
balancing on the ground, counterbalanced on the Earth;
two eyes, two ears in Divine Proportion
to one heart brewing elixir of mourning and mirth.
The downtown matrons and the uptown maids
in ever their most appurtenant tackle
avert their chagrin to be caught with their countenance
showing; exposed with alleycat hackles.
With two hands and ten fingers she swings her arms
with elegant composure, to gain impulsion.
One nose and one mouth for a Golden Mean,
in the middle of her head, God's compulsion.
The uptown patriarchs and the downtown boys
in their ever most assimilated gear
dart their gaze back and toward, caught between
haughty assessment and private, disquieting fear.
With two lungs she breathes in the vaporous essence
from each of them as they stare like boorish children in the hedge;
Her flame burns hotter and brighter with every utterance,
her back grows stronger with each shove toward the ending's edge.
The sidewalk ends at the cobblestone road,
but her two legs continue forward without pause or slip;
she has been here before, she has been farther toward sundown
than what has been passed between fleering and lip.
She will keep on walking with or without them,
and with or without this loosened rhyme.
Her gait keeps its own clock,
her clock keeps its own meter,
her arrival will be right on time.
~M. Black
Traveler
On or in, this river that is not water,
water that has no form,
form that has no name.
On and in, there is no riverbed,
No silty, weedy bottom on which to plant human feet,
to ground the body against the flow
that endlessly churns and roils in all directions at once.
There is no boat to ride upon,
no place to store belongings.
There is nothing here that is not you.
There is no way to carry or to wear.
All that is not you is left where it lays.
This river that is not water that does not wet the skin,
carrying you naked as your first newborn incarnation
with ultimate speed and utter stillness.
You do not move your mouth to call out or even to whisper;
You have no breath here.
Silence a living thing, an aware entity,
heavier than the haze on Lower Lake the moment before dawn,
when the eagles rise from the island and spread their august wings.
In the dark hours you found the way here;
You have always known the way.
In the dark hours you left the world with the stinging ice days
and scraping loud beard bristle voices chastising whither and thou.
You turned on your heel as a lone dancer into the shadows, hidden
from the searching eyes and knitted burnt coffee brows,
and pointing needle nose fingers that groped and grabbed,
prodded and pulled at your sacred being.
They had no right, they had no right! They hadn’t any right.
In the dark hours you wept, and then you ceased weeping.
You followed the deep, red darkness of the roses;
Remembrance returned you here.
You have been here before,
Between worlds, in and on.
The weaving between is the fabric of the next;
To feel it, to touch it, to reweave the pattern
In order to bend the worlds.
To reshape the very form of all that has happened,
Or will happen.
Do not despair,
these words are no beacon to the unaware.
The hidden culvert will remain secret,
For only those who know where and how
to set their back, and place their feet, can find it.
On or in, to ride this river there is a price, you have always been paying it.
The weariness is beginning to toll; It is of the heart, and of the soul.
And the course is never set, the weaving is not precise,
For I am not the weaver, and you are not the river;
we are merely travelers.
What will happen, dear fellow traveler, if you offer your hand?
Perhaps you will lead me back to shore;
To the beginning, where all is eternal and fresh born,
The place that has been searched for endlessly and left behind,
Where our children are welcome,
Where redemption waits quiet and sublime.
M. Black
water that has no form,
form that has no name.
On and in, there is no riverbed,
No silty, weedy bottom on which to plant human feet,
to ground the body against the flow
that endlessly churns and roils in all directions at once.
There is no boat to ride upon,
no place to store belongings.
There is nothing here that is not you.
There is no way to carry or to wear.
All that is not you is left where it lays.
This river that is not water that does not wet the skin,
carrying you naked as your first newborn incarnation
with ultimate speed and utter stillness.
You do not move your mouth to call out or even to whisper;
You have no breath here.
Silence a living thing, an aware entity,
heavier than the haze on Lower Lake the moment before dawn,
when the eagles rise from the island and spread their august wings.
In the dark hours you found the way here;
You have always known the way.
In the dark hours you left the world with the stinging ice days
and scraping loud beard bristle voices chastising whither and thou.
You turned on your heel as a lone dancer into the shadows, hidden
from the searching eyes and knitted burnt coffee brows,
and pointing needle nose fingers that groped and grabbed,
prodded and pulled at your sacred being.
They had no right, they had no right! They hadn’t any right.
In the dark hours you wept, and then you ceased weeping.
You followed the deep, red darkness of the roses;
Remembrance returned you here.
You have been here before,
Between worlds, in and on.
The weaving between is the fabric of the next;
To feel it, to touch it, to reweave the pattern
In order to bend the worlds.
To reshape the very form of all that has happened,
Or will happen.
Do not despair,
these words are no beacon to the unaware.
The hidden culvert will remain secret,
For only those who know where and how
to set their back, and place their feet, can find it.
On or in, to ride this river there is a price, you have always been paying it.
The weariness is beginning to toll; It is of the heart, and of the soul.
And the course is never set, the weaving is not precise,
For I am not the weaver, and you are not the river;
we are merely travelers.
What will happen, dear fellow traveler, if you offer your hand?
Perhaps you will lead me back to shore;
To the beginning, where all is eternal and fresh born,
The place that has been searched for endlessly and left behind,
Where our children are welcome,
Where redemption waits quiet and sublime.
M. Black
Enlightenment
Walk beside me, not behind me
Walk beside me, not in front of me
Or do not walk with me if you so choose;
but know that I will miss your presence.
Post # 100!
Walk beside me, not in front of me
Or do not walk with me if you so choose;
but know that I will miss your presence.
Post # 100!
Traveler's Guide To Wasting Precious Time
*Begin each day by looking for ways someone else has made a mess in the bathroom, and then be annoyed by it.
*Do not notice the beauty of the new day.
*Whatever the weather is, be upset by it.
*Be sure that every hair is in place before you leave the house, looking like a GQ/Cosmo model is tantamount to success, and equivalent to high intelligence.
*Do not make your own coffee, but go to Dunkin or Starbuck's and wait in line. Try to feel impatient at everyone ahead of you. If possible, say something rude because you are more important.
*When you get to the window, display your displeasure with the person who is very arrogant about being a cashier, and who is being slower than you can stand just to personally annoy you.
*Do not remember any service jobs you had or sympathize with their obvious distress. Do not admire them if they are amazingly efficient.
*Take the busiest route to work so you can get in a traffic jam.
*Beep your horn at anyone who drives their car on the same road you are using.
*Display any displeasure you may have at other drivers, especially if you are in the wrong.
*Avoid common courtesy toward other drivers, and do not allow for human error in anyone else but yourself.
*Cut people off, especially in a dangerous traffic jam, and then glare at them.
*Listen to morning radio if the hosts are obnoxious, bad mannered and bigoted (race, gender, age/its all the same), to set your mood for the day.
*When you park your car at work, be upset that you couldn't get a better spot.
*Do not make friendly noises, gestures, or expressions at anyone when you get to work unless they are your buddies, pals, cronies, or "brothers". You wouldn't want anyone to think you liked them, after all.
*Be annoyed every time you have to do the job that you were hired to do.
*Display anger every chance you get; it will make you seem like you are doing something important.
*If you are a tradesperson, be sure to be very dramatic if you receive a slight injury, show everyone your blood!
*Tell the story again of how your arm almost fell off that one time when the same thing happened.
*Tell the story of how the same thing happened to your brother/friend/uncle/cousin.
*Talk over anyone else who is speaking in order to tell your story, and ignore anyone who also has a story.
*If you are a white collar employee, be very dramatic if you receive any injury at all in order to get out of doing work. Ask to go home.
*Whatever your job is, be cliquey during any kind of gathering, such as meetings, breaks, or lunch.
*Purposely try to make the prettiest girl feel bad about herself, this will win you points with not-so-good-looking people, who clearly deserve a better life than someone who they find physically attractive.
*Do not speak to anyone who you feel inferior to in any way, try to make them feel left out.
*Give the silent treatment to anyone you feel superior to when they try to make conversation, especially if you are physically larger than they are.
*If someone is physically larger than you, kiss their ass, because you probably think that they are just as shallow as you and they will fall for it.
*Treat all of your coworkers according to your most negative image of them, and according to their gender, race, and size.
*Ignore any capability of your coworkers unless you like the person.
*If you deal with customers, be annoyed at their presence. They are an inconvenience; treat them accordingly.
*If you are a boss, be annoyed at your employees before you ask them anything. Do not think of them as people like you.
*If your boss asks you to do something, roll your eyes after they leave and tell all of your coworkers what a pain in the ass your boss is. If the boss is female, add extra name-calling according to their appearance or their voice. Do not think of your boss as a person like you.
*When you leave work, do not say goodbye to anyone but your clique, you wouldn't want the outsiders to think they were in your "crowd".
*Take the busiest route home so you can repeat your activities from the morning.
*If you notice any animals on your ride home, do not admire them; be annoyed at them.
*Stop off at a bar and do not call home to say you will be late. Its none of their business, especially if they are expecting you and will be worried.
*If someone calls to find out if you're okay, be annoyed at them, complain to whoever is nearby.
*Stop at a store in order to be even later, especially if you can sabotage any plans someone else is looking forward to.
*While you are out and about, look for people who dress differently than you and your buddies. Make a mental note of how inferior they are to you and what they look like so you can trash them later.
*When you get home, act tired and cranky to convince everyone that you are very important.
*Continue to act tired and cranky, until your buddy comes over. Show him or her wonderful courtesy, hospitality and respect. When anyone you live with comes near, put the tired and cranky act back on.
*Refuse to interact with everyone you live with in a positive way; no games, walks, jokes or music.
*Be annoyed when you are asked anything.
* If you do find yourself in a conversation, oppose anyone else's viewpoint in order to sound smart. Do not listen to what they have to say.
*Watch TV and sit in an annoyed position.
*If a relative calls on the phone, whine and flap your hands. Do not show happiness to hear from them.
*Ignore/dismiss anyone who has an experience they want to share, or a grievance to discuss. Yours are the only ones that are important.
*Focus on how everyone else in your household is lazy, incapable, slow, messy and ignorant. Magnify any negatives you can, it will make you feel superior.
*Whatever they happen to be doing, it is wrong. Make a mental list at everything they have ever done that displeased you and show your annoyance.
*If you have a pet, complain about having to feed/walk/clean up after it. Complain about it coming to you seeking affection.
*Make noise like an ape and slam things around to appear important.
*Laugh at the television loudly but not at funny things real people in your household say.
*Ignore accomplishments by anyone else, or put them down, on TV or in real life.
*Before bed, look around and notice the terrible things other people have done, like leaving a toy in the living room or leaving the cap off the toothpaste. Feel very annoyed.
*When you go to bed, if you sleep with someone, do not display any affection toward them. Make loud, bouncy movements until you are completely comfortable.
*Act annoyed if they try to make conversation.
*Take up more than half the bed.
*Complain about their sleeping habits but expect them to be sympathetic of yours.
*If they have a nightmare, do not comfort them, especially if they comfort you when you have them. Be annoyed.
*If you wake during the night, do not try to be quiet, just truck around loudly like it's noon.
*When you wake in the morning, rinse and repeat.
~M.Black
*Do not notice the beauty of the new day.
*Whatever the weather is, be upset by it.
*Be sure that every hair is in place before you leave the house, looking like a GQ/Cosmo model is tantamount to success, and equivalent to high intelligence.
*Do not make your own coffee, but go to Dunkin or Starbuck's and wait in line. Try to feel impatient at everyone ahead of you. If possible, say something rude because you are more important.
*When you get to the window, display your displeasure with the person who is very arrogant about being a cashier, and who is being slower than you can stand just to personally annoy you.
*Do not remember any service jobs you had or sympathize with their obvious distress. Do not admire them if they are amazingly efficient.
*Take the busiest route to work so you can get in a traffic jam.
*Beep your horn at anyone who drives their car on the same road you are using.
*Display any displeasure you may have at other drivers, especially if you are in the wrong.
*Avoid common courtesy toward other drivers, and do not allow for human error in anyone else but yourself.
*Cut people off, especially in a dangerous traffic jam, and then glare at them.
*Listen to morning radio if the hosts are obnoxious, bad mannered and bigoted (race, gender, age/its all the same), to set your mood for the day.
*When you park your car at work, be upset that you couldn't get a better spot.
*Do not make friendly noises, gestures, or expressions at anyone when you get to work unless they are your buddies, pals, cronies, or "brothers". You wouldn't want anyone to think you liked them, after all.
*Be annoyed every time you have to do the job that you were hired to do.
*Display anger every chance you get; it will make you seem like you are doing something important.
*If you are a tradesperson, be sure to be very dramatic if you receive a slight injury, show everyone your blood!
*Tell the story again of how your arm almost fell off that one time when the same thing happened.
*Tell the story of how the same thing happened to your brother/friend/uncle/cousin.
*Talk over anyone else who is speaking in order to tell your story, and ignore anyone who also has a story.
*If you are a white collar employee, be very dramatic if you receive any injury at all in order to get out of doing work. Ask to go home.
*Whatever your job is, be cliquey during any kind of gathering, such as meetings, breaks, or lunch.
*Purposely try to make the prettiest girl feel bad about herself, this will win you points with not-so-good-looking people, who clearly deserve a better life than someone who they find physically attractive.
*Do not speak to anyone who you feel inferior to in any way, try to make them feel left out.
*Give the silent treatment to anyone you feel superior to when they try to make conversation, especially if you are physically larger than they are.
*If someone is physically larger than you, kiss their ass, because you probably think that they are just as shallow as you and they will fall for it.
*Treat all of your coworkers according to your most negative image of them, and according to their gender, race, and size.
*Ignore any capability of your coworkers unless you like the person.
*If you deal with customers, be annoyed at their presence. They are an inconvenience; treat them accordingly.
*If you are a boss, be annoyed at your employees before you ask them anything. Do not think of them as people like you.
*If your boss asks you to do something, roll your eyes after they leave and tell all of your coworkers what a pain in the ass your boss is. If the boss is female, add extra name-calling according to their appearance or their voice. Do not think of your boss as a person like you.
*When you leave work, do not say goodbye to anyone but your clique, you wouldn't want the outsiders to think they were in your "crowd".
*Take the busiest route home so you can repeat your activities from the morning.
*If you notice any animals on your ride home, do not admire them; be annoyed at them.
*Stop off at a bar and do not call home to say you will be late. Its none of their business, especially if they are expecting you and will be worried.
*If someone calls to find out if you're okay, be annoyed at them, complain to whoever is nearby.
*Stop at a store in order to be even later, especially if you can sabotage any plans someone else is looking forward to.
*While you are out and about, look for people who dress differently than you and your buddies. Make a mental note of how inferior they are to you and what they look like so you can trash them later.
*When you get home, act tired and cranky to convince everyone that you are very important.
*Continue to act tired and cranky, until your buddy comes over. Show him or her wonderful courtesy, hospitality and respect. When anyone you live with comes near, put the tired and cranky act back on.
*Refuse to interact with everyone you live with in a positive way; no games, walks, jokes or music.
*Be annoyed when you are asked anything.
* If you do find yourself in a conversation, oppose anyone else's viewpoint in order to sound smart. Do not listen to what they have to say.
*Watch TV and sit in an annoyed position.
*If a relative calls on the phone, whine and flap your hands. Do not show happiness to hear from them.
*Ignore/dismiss anyone who has an experience they want to share, or a grievance to discuss. Yours are the only ones that are important.
*Focus on how everyone else in your household is lazy, incapable, slow, messy and ignorant. Magnify any negatives you can, it will make you feel superior.
*Whatever they happen to be doing, it is wrong. Make a mental list at everything they have ever done that displeased you and show your annoyance.
*If you have a pet, complain about having to feed/walk/clean up after it. Complain about it coming to you seeking affection.
*Make noise like an ape and slam things around to appear important.
*Laugh at the television loudly but not at funny things real people in your household say.
*Ignore accomplishments by anyone else, or put them down, on TV or in real life.
*Before bed, look around and notice the terrible things other people have done, like leaving a toy in the living room or leaving the cap off the toothpaste. Feel very annoyed.
*When you go to bed, if you sleep with someone, do not display any affection toward them. Make loud, bouncy movements until you are completely comfortable.
*Act annoyed if they try to make conversation.
*Take up more than half the bed.
*Complain about their sleeping habits but expect them to be sympathetic of yours.
*If they have a nightmare, do not comfort them, especially if they comfort you when you have them. Be annoyed.
*If you wake during the night, do not try to be quiet, just truck around loudly like it's noon.
*When you wake in the morning, rinse and repeat.
~M.Black
"Why would you want something scary like joy when at least you know how to navigate hell?"
~ Jennifer Howell Gillies
Leave me be~
I have but one life,
a dot on the map of time,
a jot in God's notebook.
I haven't the time to be your lamb.
Your mirror of lament.
Your target of blame.
You call my name not to join me
but to own me,
to use my back as a ledge to climb higher,
and then point to me for the cause
of your self inflicted shackles.
I don't have time;
there are too many paths to explore,
songs to sing, verses to write,
mountains to climb,
secrets to learn,
laughter to revel in.
You can not follow the map of my soul,
you do not know what secrets are in my heart.
I have no time to sit still for you
while you treat me as a mote in your eye;
you must look in the mirror and remove it yourself.
It was already there long before me.
My smile to you was not an invitation
to carry the burdens of your soul
while you point to me for their existence.
Leave me be if you refuse to see me clearly;
Set me free if you can not lift the veil of your past
when you look at me.
Or walk with me without shackles,
without judgment,
beside me, toward the golden horizon,
with liberty and light hearts.
~M.Black
I have but one life,
a dot on the map of time,
a jot in God's notebook.
I haven't the time to be your lamb.
Your mirror of lament.
Your target of blame.
You call my name not to join me
but to own me,
to use my back as a ledge to climb higher,
and then point to me for the cause
of your self inflicted shackles.
I don't have time;
there are too many paths to explore,
songs to sing, verses to write,
mountains to climb,
secrets to learn,
laughter to revel in.
You can not follow the map of my soul,
you do not know what secrets are in my heart.
I have no time to sit still for you
while you treat me as a mote in your eye;
you must look in the mirror and remove it yourself.
It was already there long before me.
My smile to you was not an invitation
to carry the burdens of your soul
while you point to me for their existence.
Leave me be if you refuse to see me clearly;
Set me free if you can not lift the veil of your past
when you look at me.
Or walk with me without shackles,
without judgment,
beside me, toward the golden horizon,
with liberty and light hearts.
~M.Black
Countenance
Metatron, pray be kind; I am weary and falling behind.
These earthly shoes I so did choose;
tofore I went, up off knees bent,
shoulders squared, the Dark beware!
Silver shortsword swinging at my side
in synchronicity with my stride,
poised and ready to stand for life, ne'er a scintilla of fear for strife,
aver Heaven's army behind my knife.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
This heart not so brave as resolute, courage was an absolute;
No trepidation on my nape, nor uncertainty to lay in wait.
The road was cobblestoned with truth,
each brick inlaid behest to move in patent exhortation;
not in need of explanation.
Imperceptibly the way turning slowly with each day
from the solid, even ground, into something more or less profound.
Steeper and steeper yet, cobbles loose and slippery wet;
here a wall straight up to scale; now a chasm of a vale.
Wilderness around my head, pays no heed per hap I'm dead.
Strain my eyes to find a trail, blazes have all long past failed.
Compass now my dearest friend, guides me as I wind and wend;
thank you Metatron, for this, an onliest and precious gift.
The shortsword silver at my waist is heavy and its blade oft scrapes
at my own flesh while forth it swings.
I might trade it for a pair of wings
to soar above this baleful trek, and find a hidden place to rest,
or rocket off into the sky where angels do not care to fly,
and carry off away from here my very heart, my young so dear.
To anger, no, to rage, I'm stirred, to be inadequate as shelter
for the one whose charge I'm called, against this mortal caterwaul!
I loathe to see his feet are sore, his crown unshielded, spirit torn;
Just how and what, how much to guide, and when to know to step aside?
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word.
Dear Metatron have mercy still
when on your book you work your quill:
my given name if your hand writes, pray see me in a friendly light.
Forgive my frail and human form,
not always strong against the storms.
I fell and faltered, on knees and hands,
at times my legs refused to stand.
Such beasts you sent to challenge me, to hone my foil mastery.
Not every one I recognized; my shame that I was hypnotized.
And avalanches, hail and mire! Chasing me from wrong and dire
shortcut paths that I desired to use instead of frost and fire.
Grateful is my beating heart for gracious wisdom you impart
to this unworthy little soul, battered, torn and unconsoled.
This mission I did volunteer, my own accord to witness bear;
as envoy, fay, or warrior, as messenger or Harkener.
But if I may have one request, to find a cool, soft place to rest.
I have not, will not, lay my sword, down on upon an ending word;
continue on this quest I will. And pray for mercy with thy quill.
~M.Black
East Face
Blaze morning! Open my windows
from the vaperous caverns of sleep.
Deliver my name from the indigo canyon walk with dream horses
and shadow winds that whisper spirit words.
Burn away yesterday's dirge,
burn out the gloom corners from back rooms
filled with empty boxes,
useless coffins dry with dogma dust.
Sweet morning!
Incalescent on my cheek freshly turned from sins of the other,
still chill with last night's dewfall,
still chafed from last year's bitter cold.
Still stinging, but only in memory now,
fading as with the night,
soon to be forgotten in the yellow-fire horizon.
All is now and here, clean and newborn,
baptized in forgiveness.
Peaceful in stillness like new snow.
Gracious morning!
Evaporate these self inflictions,
illumine my feet so I don't misstep,
my hands so I don't injure,
my lips so my words land sweetly.
Let this be the new blazing day;
let the long, dark night diminish
until only half-remembered tales remain.
from the vaperous caverns of sleep.
Deliver my name from the indigo canyon walk with dream horses
and shadow winds that whisper spirit words.
Burn away yesterday's dirge,
burn out the gloom corners from back rooms
filled with empty boxes,
useless coffins dry with dogma dust.
Sweet morning!
Incalescent on my cheek freshly turned from sins of the other,
still chill with last night's dewfall,
still chafed from last year's bitter cold.
Still stinging, but only in memory now,
fading as with the night,
soon to be forgotten in the yellow-fire horizon.
All is now and here, clean and newborn,
baptized in forgiveness.
Peaceful in stillness like new snow.
Gracious morning!
Evaporate these self inflictions,
illumine my feet so I don't misstep,
my hands so I don't injure,
my lips so my words land sweetly.
Let this be the new blazing day;
let the long, dark night diminish
until only half-remembered tales remain.
Silent Moment
This is the one, then, Rider~
Take it all away, for a silent moment,
hide it in the day for a year.
What I'm saying here is strip yourself of all things,
then sit back and watch what appears.
Look inside the life He bestowed upon you,
know this life is yours alone.
Think before you speak, the answers are the questions;
you must live and love your own.
When you're facing winds of blood and chaos,
cling to your own flesh and soul.
Strength of Spirit has no fault to break or crumble,
Prince of Peace has paid your toll.
M.Black 1988
Take it all away, for a silent moment,
hide it in the day for a year.
What I'm saying here is strip yourself of all things,
then sit back and watch what appears.
Look inside the life He bestowed upon you,
know this life is yours alone.
Think before you speak, the answers are the questions;
you must live and love your own.
When you're facing winds of blood and chaos,
cling to your own flesh and soul.
Strength of Spirit has no fault to break or crumble,
Prince of Peace has paid your toll.
M.Black 1988
Aeon
There will be time to sleep but it is not this hour here,
the one we are setting in, this hour that wraps around our backs,
enclosing us in its shelter like the walls
of the great grandfathers' drawing room,
our fervent philosophies echoing upon one another,
bouncing and colliding,
building in magnificence to a cacophony of intendment.
Not this hour here, that we are awake in,
this hour that surrounds us like a soundproof bubble,
within it our laughter growing louder and louder with each tick of the clock's long hand,
rising up in a tangled riot of shrieks and giggles,
weaving together like silken threads,
to float back down as song.
The lamps glow golden here, now.
Our words have no restrictions, our yarns we can spin
for as long as the strands hold together,
as long as the fibers remain unbroken;
our tales will turn and turn
until our waggling tongues grow weary;
our glasses will remain full; the Golden is timeless.
We will remain here, untouchable, invincible,
unsinkable, until our reverie breaks
and we begin to forget again.
But not this hour, the one that we are alive in.
It is not yet time for sleep.
M. Black
He is here~
the one we are setting in, this hour that wraps around our backs,
enclosing us in its shelter like the walls
of the great grandfathers' drawing room,
our fervent philosophies echoing upon one another,
bouncing and colliding,
building in magnificence to a cacophony of intendment.
Not this hour here, that we are awake in,
this hour that surrounds us like a soundproof bubble,
within it our laughter growing louder and louder with each tick of the clock's long hand,
rising up in a tangled riot of shrieks and giggles,
weaving together like silken threads,
to float back down as song.
The lamps glow golden here, now.
Our words have no restrictions, our yarns we can spin
for as long as the strands hold together,
as long as the fibers remain unbroken;
our tales will turn and turn
until our waggling tongues grow weary;
our glasses will remain full; the Golden is timeless.
We will remain here, untouchable, invincible,
unsinkable, until our reverie breaks
and we begin to forget again.
But not this hour, the one that we are alive in.
It is not yet time for sleep.
M. Black
He is here~
Pulchritudinous
At the edge of the brook I perch on a bed of emerald green moss,
my right leg folded under me,
my left foot skimming the water as it sluices by,
my hands in the softness of my moss cushion.
The sun on my head has changed my hair into a halo of warm gold.
A twin Paper Birch behind me scratches affectionately at my back
as I rest against its soundness.
My skin delights in the contrasting noon heat, and cool, slow breeze.
A Rockbass breaks the surface.
A cobalt dragonfly stares up at me from my knee.
Two amber eyes appear from beneath a tangle of reed grass,
then quickly vanish.
Downstream about 50 yards, two does bow their heads to drink;
they have not spotted me.
Another I have fooled with my silence:
a chipmunk investigates my shorts pocket;
I stifle my breath, but he only stays for a moment.
Above the trees a Red-tailed hawk glides ceremoniously
across a sky that could not be more deeply blue.
A tiny black Jumping spider, glinting metallic,
catapults sideways off a nearby stone, startled by my toes.
The does raise their heads to regard my presence,
find me innocuous, and resume their business.
Another bass breaks the surface,
a second hawk rides the thermals.
All of this glory surrounds and envelops my small self;
my spirit floats in blissful wonderment;
my body sings with the resonance of life around me;
and yet I wonder just how much more (beauteous) this would all be
if you were here to flash your brilliant grin at me~
M.Black
Someday
She bought a new dress today, something simple, yet elegant;
it took her 3 hours to find what she was looking for.
It still doesn't really reflect her personality, but does anything, ever?
She wonders if she should wear it around him,
or not.
She can never tell what he thinks of her.
He gives nothing away.
Then again, do they, ever?
She has never been courted the way the older folk speak of,
those dawn-kissed days when a young man called upon a lady.
She can picture it in the cinema of her mind;
he would ask her, "would you accompany me on Friday evening? I am inclined to seafood and white wine, and afterwards, the theater"
She would reply "why that would be lovely"
He would say "wonderful, I will pick you up at 7"
When Friday comes, he will arrive at 6:55, and he will not forget, or make other plans, or decide to work late, because she is the person he is thinking of.
She is the one he is looking forward to talking with, lamenting with, laughing with.
He will open the door for her, just to show her he thinks she is a lady.
And she will blush at his handsomeness,
and he will admire how lovely she looks in her lacy dress.
For the rest of the evening they will speak only to one another, caught up in solving the world's problems, in solving each other's botherations, in conspiracies against the other patrons, in unbridled laughter.
He will tell of his grand adventures and frightening ordeals, and he will listen with rapt attention when she tells of hers.
She will delight in his myriad shining talents and accomplishments, and he will goad her into telling hers.
They will stretch the evening into the night, after all the Greek diner is open for breakfast in the wee hours.
He speaks of his friends, how silly they are, and how much they are going to like her.
She will not be conscious of her fading beauty, her face lined with laughter and fatigue, make-up undone, and neither will he.
He will not notice the voluptuous waitress who blatantly snubs her and vies for his attention, and neither will she.
She will not notice the exquisitely lovely man three booths over who seems to find her very interesting, and neither will he.
When they can no longer hold open their eyes, they resign to the night, to their humanness, it is time for sleep.
And she will dream of him, and he will dream of her, and neither of another, and they will each know, and no longer wonder if they will ever find the other.
When the credits roll she is not sure if she feels more hopeful, or less.
It is not an extravagant dream.
She is sure that it has happened before, and it will happen again.
Just, perhaps, not for her, not in this lifetime.
So she picks up her pen again, and opens her notebook.
Not many pages left, time to buy a new one.
Something elegant, yet useful.
Something that will reflect her personality this time.
~M. Black Photo: Bertille Black
it took her 3 hours to find what she was looking for.
It still doesn't really reflect her personality, but does anything, ever?
She wonders if she should wear it around him,
or not.
She can never tell what he thinks of her.
He gives nothing away.
Then again, do they, ever?
She has never been courted the way the older folk speak of,
those dawn-kissed days when a young man called upon a lady.
She can picture it in the cinema of her mind;
he would ask her, "would you accompany me on Friday evening? I am inclined to seafood and white wine, and afterwards, the theater"
She would reply "why that would be lovely"
He would say "wonderful, I will pick you up at 7"
When Friday comes, he will arrive at 6:55, and he will not forget, or make other plans, or decide to work late, because she is the person he is thinking of.
She is the one he is looking forward to talking with, lamenting with, laughing with.
He will open the door for her, just to show her he thinks she is a lady.
And she will blush at his handsomeness,
and he will admire how lovely she looks in her lacy dress.
For the rest of the evening they will speak only to one another, caught up in solving the world's problems, in solving each other's botherations, in conspiracies against the other patrons, in unbridled laughter.
He will tell of his grand adventures and frightening ordeals, and he will listen with rapt attention when she tells of hers.
She will delight in his myriad shining talents and accomplishments, and he will goad her into telling hers.
They will stretch the evening into the night, after all the Greek diner is open for breakfast in the wee hours.
He speaks of his friends, how silly they are, and how much they are going to like her.
She will not be conscious of her fading beauty, her face lined with laughter and fatigue, make-up undone, and neither will he.
He will not notice the voluptuous waitress who blatantly snubs her and vies for his attention, and neither will she.
She will not notice the exquisitely lovely man three booths over who seems to find her very interesting, and neither will he.
When they can no longer hold open their eyes, they resign to the night, to their humanness, it is time for sleep.
And she will dream of him, and he will dream of her, and neither of another, and they will each know, and no longer wonder if they will ever find the other.
When the credits roll she is not sure if she feels more hopeful, or less.
It is not an extravagant dream.
She is sure that it has happened before, and it will happen again.
Just, perhaps, not for her, not in this lifetime.
So she picks up her pen again, and opens her notebook.
Not many pages left, time to buy a new one.
Something elegant, yet useful.
~M. Black Photo: Bertille Black
Inimīcus
that reach to slice and cut.
These are ones to turn your ear from,
they seek to thwart you and yours.
You will know them by their ill and muddy yarns:
tales not of the great deeds of another, not of the courageous heart of another,
but only of weaknesses, failures, imperfections and eccentricities.
Do not be fooled by their lament of martyrdom.
You will know them by their rigidity.
Their stories will not cast their perpetrators in a flattering light,
there will be no compassion in their words,
nor acknowledgment of their own transgressions.
They are adamant in their goal to convince;
their words will leave no space for speculation,
their ears will not be open to hear discussion,
their minds will not be seeking any other viewpoint but their own.
Beware of those who seem energized when speaking ill of others,
do not let them sway you.
Find the truth for yourself.
M.Black
Rain
(Kevin, is this the one? It's about T. S. )
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
Apprentice
Thank you.
Gratitude for pointing to my attitude,
I needed your help to find it.
These hidden corners of my heart hide all manner of nasties;
they must be swept from time to time.
The dark hallways of the mind are places for monsters to lurk;
please do shine your torch on them,
tell me where and who and how they are!
You have given my comings and goings much attention,
what of your own tasks have you put aside for me?
I am ever grateful for such thoughtful reflection,
and to think, all I expected from you was a warm cup of tea.
Dancing and singing to thee, dear friend,
I know that is what you wish for me:
to live a life free from worry and pain,
free from slander and glaring disdain.
I can see that you wish for me laughter and celebration,
infinite love, eternal elation!
Each tear in the parchment of my soul that you point out
for me to fix makes a lovelier message to send;
every open wound on my back that you salt
is a hole that hadn't healed, that I can now see to mend.
Tell me! Shout to the world!
Tell everyone of your supposition!
I am grateful for these calumnies.
Each aspersion is a step toward Heaven.
Thank you.
Gratitude for pointing to my attitude,
I needed your help to find it.
These hidden corners of my heart hide all manner of nasties;
they must be swept from time to time.
The dark hallways of the mind are places for monsters to lurk;
please do shine your torch on them,
tell me where and who and how they are!
You have given my comings and goings much attention,
what of your own tasks have you put aside for me?
I am ever grateful for such thoughtful reflection,
and to think, all I expected from you was a warm cup of tea.
Dancing and singing to thee, dear friend,
I know that is what you wish for me:
to live a life free from worry and pain,
free from slander and glaring disdain.
I can see that you wish for me laughter and celebration,
infinite love, eternal elation!
Each tear in the parchment of my soul that you point out
for me to fix makes a lovelier message to send;
every open wound on my back that you salt
is a hole that hadn't healed, that I can now see to mend.
Tell me! Shout to the world!
Tell everyone of your supposition!
I am grateful for these calumnies.
Each aspersion is a step toward Heaven.
Thank you.
Jeremiad
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
Revelatio
Yes, and yes,
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
Emeline
Skipping boldly through the mud puddles in your new red shoes
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
Rabbit
Through the backyard,
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
~M.Black
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
photo:James Doyle
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
~M.Black
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