The plum tree fires pink fireworks
into the gray skies of Febru’ry
lavish petals filling the gnarled trunk
with no apology for color so audacious
Earth herself awakens below
the broad swath of cement.
I greet her across the open street
daring to lift my color with hers
into the face of winter.

Gaia sends her signals from deep within
tremors of neglect shaking her wounded body,
asking for help in so many ways
yet only drama compels attention
in these days of Narcissus.
She is not a mechanism for study
nor a faulty watch we can replace.
Is it possible the beauty she gives
is intended for us, to soften our hearts
and release our spring color?
Like Aladdin we possess a magic gift
to create from the wellspring of our hearts.
How would it be today if our one wish,
our one desire was for her?

The journey to their new world
mired step by slogging step
in the rain soaked bog
feeding ground and sanctuary
to countless birds and fish
to them a sucking pool
of unforgiving mud.
Remembering the defeat
they would later drain
this memory of inadequacy
paving the water course
to be rid of the hindrance.
There are trails to the river
where sand is piled against stone
and the powerful river eddies
in a dark pool of aquamarine.
We carve our names in the sand
knowing the next hard rain will erase us
knowing the hope we seek is yet upstream
and if we are to find our selves
we must learn the way of water.

Unhappy with immovable mass
he remembers water
how wind rises in the south
recalling motion something moves in him
a breath where there was constriction
a relief to the constant pressure.
Those who stand and wait appear foolish
but within there is treasure
of stillness containing the soul
ready to sing out from the hardened cleft
of something deep and joyous
even within stone.

Look into the morning sun
during the first hour
when the brilliant fire
turns light into awareness
of origin, reverence
and the unexpected;
as we join in rising
the day is ours, incense
lifting the weight
on the inborn song
of our hearts.

Old memories stir
like the coal bed of a log fire
fierce heat of distant times
when the circle was intact
and joy unclouded.
We knew we would forget but not
how hard forgetting would become
yet the oil of awakened memory
softens the wounding, easing
our entry into this day, this time
when only love will join us
only the deep well of certainty
water cold and full of solace
the Earth so wedded to our souls
that as we look up She rises.

The wandering soul
one foot before another
moving yet not moved
as if constant motion
would avoid the imprint
of something or someone
to fear or simply avoid
loneliness preferable
to the imagined harness
and though he notices
the sometimes loving
he seeks within hegira
to know the witness
who touches his feet
on the stone lined path
gently lifting the gravity
of his many beliefs
welcoming him long before
he gives himself the gift
of worthiness to be home.

Crows circle the predawn sky
their flock of dark wings
massing impossible turns
pivoting with the certainty
of a thousand feathers
their delight a private joy
before the city’s demand
in the hour of descent.

During the winter season, I would travel with the Duhalar reindeer people and stay with an old shaman called Tsuyan. On odd days of the waxing moon, she would go into a trance and transform herself into a reindeer bull, flying off to a place she called the Dark Heavens: a twilight world full of light, sounds and voices from where the ancestors reveal their hidden messages in the form of birds and beasts. ‘We exist in relation to three things (she would say) …nature, animals and the memory of ancestors. Once we forget, the guardian angels abandon us and we invite demons to take hold of our destiny.’ – Hamid Sardar

Her ungoverned hair and heliarc gaze
speaks to a fierceness
beyond the curtain of power
the unbridled desire of moon
and tide to move full circle
to have her whole self be known
whether or not she dances in solitude
though in the storm driven ocean
and delicate blue camas
on the cliffs above the sea
her yearning is present
a delicate hand extended
to one who will love
her fury and her peace
and the way she carves her self
as sculptress of the forgotten form
in the disappearing beauty
of her wildness.

The edge of the rock leads down
from the inland hill
like a spiny tendril to the sea
tapering until the finger tip
joins the rise and fall
of wet tide and ocean
as if to receive the tender feeling
of what once was and still may be
the rock more nerve than bone
surface coarse but through it
a gift of connection
to something old and kind
as if some choice were set in stone
a frozen wish from long ago
pulsing with a slow quiet,
believing in all that is to come
through grief and despair
the assurance of many years
in just one place.