Tag Archives: Cy poetry

Bachelard week 8

“They [the neurological conceptions of personhood] have argued that the human brain… is evolved for a collective form of life… and the formation of groups both small and large to pursue common aims.”
Rose, N. Abi-Rached, J., 2012. Neuro: the new brain sciences and the management of the mind. Princeton University Press. (pg 226)

 

“She says the tree
Is stationary and multitudinous in her chest, untouched
And skeletal, almost like metal, in its network against the sky.”

‘Duality’
Rogers, Pattiann, 1940 – The tattooed lady in the garden. Wesleyan University Press. (p. 15)

Each body has many deep and unyielding roots

that reach to the earth, whether the eyes can see the branches’

silhouette against the dewy sky,

or its forces are hidden in spectral starlight of spirit. The patient arches

of these unfurling footsteps

begin to braid together,

finding, as they join, their common direction

which is slowly unwinding

in an ever widening spiral

which reaches out into the neuronal hands,

seeking to touch, and be held

in the rivers caught in sharp relief

that flow through butterflies’ wings as they soar

over eyes to show the branching

fractals innate on the earth, and in the trees

and in each fire filled body that creates

and destroys, and are created and destroyed

on the skin of the planet which heaves and rolls

its life blood underfoot to remind all beings with roots

of the finite blessing of this time, and this space.

The light of the storm – Poetry week 7

The rain it pours
and the lightning lashes.
Each season comes
and each season passes.

The cycle of life,
the cycle of death,
neither will stop,
neither will rest.

The tree, it stands tall.
The branches, they sway.
The tree, it teaches
we can all be this way.

I stand in shelter,
still in the rain.
Inescapable
is nature’s pain.

And, just the same,
is nature’s light.
Through lacy wings
air finds its delight.

Cathedrals of fractals

Cathedrals of fractals

The new sapphire glass glows in petals of iridescent fractals
refracting into the spirals of the unfurling fern fronds.
The honey sun rises slow over the redwood ridges
Sounds of sleep soften
The fog drenched slopes crystallize into emerald sunlight.
Patience grows as rocks on the hillsides
Gradually covered by the lace of leaves.
Arches of cedars escort young eyes
Through the light scattered path of the cathedral
Born of the gradual determination of anima
And the sharp, persistent footsteps of the animus,
And borne by the fertile skin of the ever forgiving
And generous Mother.

Haikus of Evening

Darkness drifts down now
Silence flows into my soul
I find peace in breath

Whole, I meditate
A star blinks through the trees
My thoughts are now still

Water leaps through rocks
Trees dig deep to find the source
River, tree, bird merge

Head bowed, walk humbly
Become an empty vessel
Gifts flow from freedom

 

Sun in the Storm

The rain it pours
and the lightning lashes.
Each season comes
and each season passes.

The cycle of life,
the cycle of death,
neither will stop,
neither will rest.

The tree, it stands tall.
The branches, they sway.
The tree teaches
we can all be this way.

I stand in shelter,
still in the rain.
Truly inescapable
is nature’s pain.

And, just the same,
is nature’s light.
Try as we do,
we will never lose sight.

C: Poetry week 4 – I am the needle stitching

I am the needle stitching

The point of my body pulls
The thread of energy behind me as my legs pump
They go up and down
Round and round
Synchronized with the beat
Of my lungs – air becoming sound.
As my heart slips from the seat
And back into the drumbeat of my breath
The stone walls, earth halls that follow
And contain my ascent
Breathe with my whole body.
Tumbling the indigo of dreams
Of death and rebirth back into the world
Of this dimension, though I see and smell and
Taste the same to me as I wander
And sway through both simultaneously
In the heart of the mountain of my heart
And on the peak, unbalanced, precarious
As a monarch just unfurling its wet,
Orange, new wings, moments before flying
For the first time.

C: Poetry week 3 – Dream fabric

I once heard that when caterpillars turn into butterflies, they dissolve entirely inside of the cocoons. Their bodies become liquid and energy and memory, which takes on new form, an entirely new and surprising and harmonious body. Do we turn to liquid each night? Are there an infinite number of possibilities of who we could be and how we could look and act each day before we awake?

I am the liquid dreamer
Come swim with me in the scintillating waves
Which I have woven from the carded wool
And the fibers of flax.
I am the waves of the dreams,
As you, my lover, stitch the patches
Of rain back into my life where
Peace and soft breezes can rest a while.
I am the thread you stitch with,
The energy of my heart beats
The blossoming of the blood in my veins
Brings my body into the earth
Where I disintigrate,
And where you pick me up, one pebble
At a time to return me to the carefully balanced
Streams – beams of reflection –
Dreaming their time slowly until the next storm.