Trails of love, laid out for us to follow,
fluid in this layover of the stars.
Travel back with me to the icy beginnings;
we’ll watch the dust clouds form,
mother’s milk for the gods.
Our Britannic Majesty’s Request
Sacred, ancient Albion
lend your ears to me.
Let whispers of the reed stems
bleed into fields around me.
For language, blood, and spirit
draw a bow string and I feel the pull;
there something shared.
Possess me of your story’s wisdom,
a wrestle with love and fleeting calculation.
There’s a door somewhere in your grassy web
and that’s why the heart and why the head
had their tether split in you.
Ah, but how to mend anew?
and life-bent trees
and garden sighs.
Just we two, alone,
A sun and
And kisses placed
and fingers run.
Our inner space.
The runes of light and life,
where the mind flies hither and yon,
see the knowledge bound in land’s trails.
Planets above wave to our shores;
everything a slowly creeping composition.
Thank you to the trust of vectors,
your lines connecting shrines
in certain nodes of earth’s unknown curves.
I sidle up
to the welcome embrace of these places
while wearing sheer masks–
whose impressions I can see,
who invite us more to be.
Flying the skies with the winged gods of eagle rock
we find ourselves truly in the Core.
Roman temples and Alpine forests portal us to that center,
particular means for our perfected shapes.
The forest court echoes of the messengers,
the valleys of mystery we traverse
and reveal the undercurrent,
Living through the grand proscenium of time
the hills march with us,
a tradition that springs eternal:
our communion with the land.
The inner splendor unravels outward,
the once-coiled spirit in my plexus
now rays of light in our daily deeds.
Beauty shows the king of each land
suspended in the golden space of life,
attendants to the infinite moment.
The queens breathe their harmony
through everything they pass
to our mutual delight.
Heart Of It All
now as ecstasy mistaken,
traded in that ancient market.
Echoes across the Janiculum of Rome;
chants dressing a pagoda;
cries of duty sworn at the burial mounds.
Each of us cut by fathers
and coaxed by mothers
into our cast for the world.
Can it be that we’re overrun
in this undertow,
like tokens lacking even the Hand?
Decrees uttered by overlords,
in solitude too they search for the first–
first thought, first flicker, first flinch–
that gives rise to that warmth in their breast.
Without the world pole,
lacking the unmoving North Star
all truly is vanity.
That desert lament
knew what we’d deserted.