cross quarters

Stars’ Crossing

 

 

Crossed roads, slowly swaying

entrance beads from day to night.

Slip in between to become

for that instant of eternity

dancing gypsy calling to

Moon, to storytelling stars.

Embrace that mystery, train tracking

adventure.  Breathe forgotten fields,

lush or shriveled, dependent on water

and feed.  Let go of all but one brave

hand solidly grasped to the doorway.

Let go; let fingers fall reaching.

 

 

 

Second Star to the Right

 

 

Traveling beyond Persephone's garden

on the etheric threshold

'tween mortality and death.

Taking an oblique path at the crossroads

onto an accessway

along the axis of bliss.

It's not a road on which

the dramas fade.

It's not about a numbing block

to pain.

Drama unfolds --

my chemistry responds exquisitely.

Touch is just touch;

sensation translates information.

All the appointed tasks,

routine errands of the everyday,

little pauses along the bliss path,

allow me to breathe the scent

of endless possibilities,

as path and consciousness expand

blissfully aware.

 

 

 

 

Liminal Spaces

 

 

Twilight, the wee hours,

the dark of the moon,

liminal spaces,

places where magic dwells,

crossroads, crises, cusps.

 

There is static on the radio.

A song

my voice was singing,

rhythm of sound

takes flight to surround me,

a comforter of down

to ease my soul.

 

I've been trying to define a taste,

a sense of bittersweet and salt.

I've been trying to find a trace

a footprint in the desert,

a sight, a scent,

a memory.

I've been trying to discern a trace of me,

a piece to fit the puzzle,

my contribution to the grand design.

Seeking in shadows,

the space between

myth and matter,

those places words

cannot define.

On those insubstantial plains

of myst and awe,

the stuff of dreams,

threshold of wonder,

creation is spawned.

 

 

 

 

Crossing the Threshold

 

 

At the crossroads at midnight

My lady did swear

That she must be alone

To face up to her demons

 

"Please understand that I must

be aware of just who I am

and where I've come from."

 

I sat by the bridge

as she set forth her tools,

her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes

So she'd know who to honor, to break

and to blame

What she'd been made for,

her journey, her truth.

 

At the crossroads, past midnight,

just before dawn

My lady thrice nodded and

stamped out her flames.

She beckoned I join her out on the meadow

to kiss and rejoice

and reveal our true names.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Alchemy

 

 

Simple acceptance.

The dancer with the dance

entering pre-dawn mystery.

Quiet interval, enchanting music.

Undulating reverie.

Alone in Hekate's garden,

breathing in memory

of jasmine and spice.

Weary roads traveled

crossroad to crossroad;

the journey continues.

Weary days have found sustenance

in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.

Convoluted talk, empty gestures,

soul-less ritual

take up the stitches of time.

Some brave midnight,

if I learn my lessons well,

I will eat the fruits of Hekate's garden,

dancing in piquant reverie,

leaving my tears and anguish

along the windswept trail.

Ebullient music

dances me

as the Goddess kisses

my tearstains into

gold.

 

 

 

 

Green Magic

 

 

Ancient prototypes etched into collective retina.

Vast vegetation, expansive cure for distressed

neural cells.

Casting outward.  Hope for connection

to sacred ground, profoundly real.

Reborn to forest,

nurtured in nativity.

Green, deep healing green.

 

Fear is a thrill.

Rush anticipation of danger.

Piquant romance with what might kill or maim

or carry dread.

Warnings fill imploding head; adrenalin syncopates heart.

Fear, a crossroad to start from,

then taunting groves to hide behind.

Fear can dazzle, delay, explain years of wasted time.

 

Any sufficiently

advanced efficiency of

chemistry, natural

technology, exchange of toxic breath for

benign symbiotic ecology.

(No college degree could assure

so lush a life.)

So sad that we only see what we expect.

Trained to tragedy, to forget the best

that could be manifest.

 

Sagacious find a quiet relaxed pace.

Days drift and wander.

Daring to explore pleasure, infinite awareness.

Leisurely share what feels genial, good, light.

Engage.

 

 

 

 

Make Peace The Issue