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Twenty-Five Days on Turning Fifty Day Twelve

Surrendering at the Gates Where Dreams Die

The brilliance with which the white shone hot moon foretold your retreat was ominously stark in it’s crystal bell jar death toll crescendo … the rarity of it’s spoken glass whispers taking me off guard, icicle stakes of filament follicles raising hairs on the back of my neck … me, stepping out on to the vacant path as I had … confident in your devotion for me, the stones passing over each other with such ease beneath my weight … It was the exact form of insanity sworn to through looking glass hazel eye anklets riveted to romance … a wine goblet tourniquet tubular slow bleed of a real part of the soul your sacred~less salvation will drain dry … in words… in trust … in humiliation of the temple harlots you flog at will for their frailty … Now daunted by day light’s candy castle craven to be your lotus blossom … revealed a petal at a time in the candle of the sky’s glow, the grape to know me as child and woman alike … fruits of the God’s lips mingling in suckling songs at morning … palm pressing painted pain to the river horses’ dungeon … tracing me with every line you had begun to speak and found trailing off to dwell in ice slag havens … surrendering at the gates where dreams die for lack of believing.   6 more words

Spider's Gift

Twenty-Five Days on Turning Fifty Day Five

Spider’s Gift

Resting for a moment while listening to the rain fall in never before spoken patterns outside study door … I lean my head back on the chair letting the thunder seek my mind for a moment … a crab spider is busy walking about on my still partially clinging turquoise rich painted ceiling … the old hippie weeping glass globe lamp has cast a shadow dance there … seldom edged ebb and glow of the electric socket’s bright ballet … She, for soon I see she is a web builder … moves through this stage as if it were a maze of hedge or hay … keeping to and turning with the light’s accord … crossing possibly a time or two at a dim yet slight cast shadow of partial stay … a quickening or a lesser doorway across to bridge with Bright and Self again … after pacing patterned labyrinth prayers … She turns home to Her corner bound web … petting it in a manner … so odd it would seem … as if presenting a gift to a  child … I smile … wondering what must it have been she found … in our upside down worlds … on her journey worth to bundle away home ? 6 more words


Awakening Autumn

Twenty-Five Days on Turning Fifty Day Four

Awakening Autumn

Through the wild wilderness of the pagan heart … rides the woman who Autumn has by the hair … hand fulls of wet and wild potent play … One kiss brought one by pheary invitation … claims of coals and candle wax alike … hoping to become a red stallion between her peachy lips longing chained … mortals would try to tame and break her … as if she were a white pony in a fringed bridle … side saddle and so little known of her … less the memories of their loins begat in begging … The Summer Sun turns her hair as copper as the Tin Smith’s dreaming dares … punching into the Netherworld’s drawn vapor … fed flame passing the scent of pregnant Ginko fruit … through those hidden gates … yet back it will grow in her belly … when Winter leaves her bed abandon … His purple toes between her thighs prying secrets belonging to Sister Spring alone … Once, when she was young and frail, she mistook this for a sadness … tho now even as the last of the hummingbirds kiss to sip … drowning the loss of hours in ever lessening blossoms … she listens for the sleeping bells toll … strings her hazelnuts with certain wisdom … sadness is as sadness does … and all masters are a slave to their making … Love of a good woman is forever free … if forever it is cared for and not forsaken … As for me ?… My wild heart is fancy still … yet, taken by mortal, I agree … Tho’, happy, buxom, and bonny am I … the Lord wanton of me. 6 more words