The crows had been gone for a couple of days.

I noticed the bread crumbs hadn’t been eaten

and thought they’d lost their taste for whole wheat

but when a fresh salmon skin sat untouched

I knew something was up, a crow convention

or an earthquake coming,

thinking apocalyptic as the skin dried

and the bread hardened, wondering

about a world without crows

and what the silence would tell us

when the birds were gone.

Last night moon broke through the clouds

and in the stillness with the ebb softly flowing,

luna’s light across the water,

I forgot about the crows

though I still missed them

and let the oneness with Her go deep

in union like the days of old

before the tweet and ring tone.

I settled into the rock and the earth beneath

letting my desire surface as I rarely do,

falling asleep still looking out to sea,

knowing She was there but wanting to know

that I was still in touch with what I loved.

In the morning the crows were back;

they’d spent all their money in Vegas

and were pretty hung over

but said they’d had a good time

before eating their stale bread and dried skin

as I sat on my bench in the early breeze

still filled with a feeling of wonder

and the muttering of crows.

 

 

There are times in the month
when the moon goes soft,
her pull relaxed, diminished,
leaving the sea to drift
in a gentle whirl of sea bird
and circling weed.
A time when little moves,
gulls cry lonely and questioning,
moments to gather and reflect
on what she has given
and what may yet be born
without urging or demanding
she receive our seed.
Allowing her to rest
in the gentle pace of slack water,
drifting quietly in shades
of grey and blue.

 

 

Crows have taken the nearby point,

dark shadowy forms

against rough hewn rock,

reed-like feet an after thought

to their coal black feathers,

speaking in crow when one returns

with stories gathered from the sea,

of how she stirs, lifting her veil,

shocking us with her ancient face –

us I say though featherless

and clumsy as a falling leaf

but smart enough beside the crows

to wait upon her beauty.

 

 

Everything continues as it has
until it doesn’t,
water flows downhill
until it won’t,
dinosaurs sleep in ice
with green grass in their teeth,
fearless armies march
to Napoleon’s latest ditch.
Then the long pause
while power gathers
within the sleeping earth,
giants awaken and stars come to life
with songs of something new.

 

There are ghosts in every land,

spirits the 1+1=2 world

cannot comprehend

in the places of birth

where elders watch

our faltering steps

toward a world

beside and within,

whispering quiet music,

shadows in the moonlight

calling us to live the life

they hold in promise

but cannot touch,

needing our faulty vision

and fumbling hands

to write the words

and sing the songs

and more than that

to live the life

as yet unknown

that is their hope

and what we feel

when we walk again

upon the ground

of our ancestors.

 

It’s enough to be a man,

to walk the path of suffering

by the light of kindness,

giving the gift of oneself

however imperfect

again and again,

intimate with Her body,

alive to the witness

of the stars.