Becoming an us.

So long held in the strength of self,

warrior, mystic

all lone things.

Tempered with age.

Swan takes long in her becoming,

and wolf, after an era as lone, mates for life,

and births a pack, a tribe

from the union of two fiercely independent beings 

willing to practice togetherness.

 

Boar tusks interlock with goat horns 

and worlds are ripped apart in our stubbornness.

Then hooves move in tandem

stirring the compost,

aligning the rocks,

preparing the bed.

Learning how to hold the obsidian mirror,

to shine on each other’s darkness;

and the crystal,

to magnify each other’s light,

How to not lose one another

in the long shadows 

we ourselves cast.

How to build a love that lasts

through storms of fire

and the falling of empires,

the poisoning of oak

and the raging of what is broken, 

sweetbitter, 

the tender tinder 

within us

that would fuel a phoenix flame.

 

Your body perfectly fits mine.

Inner sanctum of my heart 

unlocks to the impression of your hand on my breastbone.

Harmony is born of very different voices

coming together in one song,

and though the tune at first seems strange,

our souls have known it all along.

Our crowns forged in the fire

we feed every time we turn towards each other:

the journey from co-dependence to independence to interdependence.

 

Unique pillars hold the temple roof

but they are hewn of the same stone;

the story of us written on every shared breath,

lips lost to the illusion of separateness;

the trees’ roots and branches intertwine,

two trunk hearts carved with one name:

mine, yet also yours,

alone, all one, together.

 

Forgetting and remembering, and forgetting again.

loosing my way in all that has been,

the generations of anguish and misspent power,

bringing us to this fateful hour.

this now

this now

when everything matters,

but nothing is what it seems.

I am created from my dreams.

or is that nightmares?

Half-remembered phantasms, 

plotted patterns remaking the world

in every played out power dynamic.

 

I may cling to the aching ages of wrongness,

the betrayals and lies, the subjugation

sublimation of all that is precious and fertile,

the time and time again 

I lost my life or kin

to the hunger of another's ignorance or greed.

The role of victim

worn like a worthless coat,

hiding my true raiment,

providing no real warmth,

but too familiar to cast off.

 

I can carry the bitterness until it is all I know. 

holding it close like a lover on a heaving ship. 

But resentment is a jagged bomb, 

potentizing until it explodes,

waiting to shred our hearts into shattered bits and fractured lenses.

 

Seeing only the pain blinds me.

Thoughts of hatred bind me.

make we want more want revenge want reclamation want justice want destruction want hiding want numbing want forgetting want forgetting want dying.

But I can no longer be for getting.

We are not for  getting.

We are for  giving.

forgiving 

for  giving

for giving something new to our children,

for making a song of the discord,

for weaving a blanket of the shards,

to catch the babies coming into this healing world.

Nothing we have held onto will carry us to the clear dawn of our species' morning.

There is no more time to be for getting.

There may be countless reasons to be a victim,

but choose to let the light in.

choose the deep breath.

choose the open eyes

choose the bright morning

choose to be for giving.

giving it all away.

 

 

Image by Julie Interrante

Gift given,

duly received.

Piper paid

by the ways we say “yes,

thank you, more please.”

 

Gift given.

More than I receive.

We partake in the majesty

when we think in terms of “we.”

 

We are this gift given. 

Most notably esteemed

in the ways we open the portals and chasms

of this pulsing home,

this eternal tome

in which are written the secrets of true cognition.

This patter-patter nothing is the matter,

lub-dub everything is matter

everything matters

everything is a part of the pulse.

 

Rhythmic vibrations of life’s fluctuations,

given, received, as simple as I breathe.

In and out.

Expand, contract.

Life’s primordial law exemplified

in every rising wave and receding tide.

 

Gift given,

duly received.

When we give from our hearts,

we get all we need.

But not by trying to get

Nothing can be bought from life,

not even more time.

Especially if we believe it only moves in a line.

We are not for getting,

don’t let yourself forget,

this life is for giving

and thus, forgave.

Day in, day out,

from birth to grave.

Not a line, this living,

a pulse, a rhythm.

From the grandest star to the smallest cell,

breathing defines every particle.

 

Gift given,

duly received.

What if our gazes continually returned

to the emanation of the inquiry: “What can I give?”

How would we live 

if that question 

began each day, 

each moment, each exhalation?

And inhalations allow us to realize

every breath is a new beginning

of the same old thing.

We are offered every moment, 

this air, these bodies, this precious life.

Everything a gift.

Flowing out, flowing in,

to be given yet again.

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© 2018 by Medicinal Poetry