Snow Snow Snow

My mind is full of snow.

Air turns soft with feathered light–
ten thousand stars falling to earth,
a nest of dreams in winter down,

nothing but stillness
and heart hushed with wonder.

Hunger

Full moon

deer crunch frost-bitten grass
white tails, short beards quiver in the cold
ears alert, noses hoaried by first snow
crystallized breath, falling, falling
into tree shadows long against a blue white earth

nothing but silence
                   and ice-jawed winter,
gnawing from inside out. 

   

  
  
  

Heart

Little wild song bird,
love is not a cage
but a nest
to which you return
day after day.

Tattoo

Elvis Barukcic/AFP/Getty Images

  

  

Your touch
is like pen to paper
indelible on my skin,
a language of belonging
pressed deep into cells
and soul,
tattoo
forever marking me
as loved.

Appalachian Native

Into the Appalachian wilderness,
no rules but the rule of the wild,
no god but the god of presence.

My nest is amidst dead leaves
where-ever I stop for sleep,
wandering all day to feed on nuts,
bitter fruit and sweet mountain waters.

Shedding my shell,
shedding the shackles of all I thought I knew,

here the human creature
sinks back into the soil,
merging into bark texture,
mushroom, green leaf and bird.

Plans rot down,
expectations wear away like riverbanks,
while a mountain of thoughts
      transform
           into trees.
 
 
 

Midsummer Hunt

Humid air comes rolling in,
hair-curling moisture,
fine dew upon my face,
                 inhaling the scents of
another world
    a summer world
a world heavily pregnant
amidst dark forest floors.

I have walked this Way
      every year
hunting for the hooded one
                   the hidden one
his name unnamable
save by midsummer trees.

Humidity makes me drowsy,
mind on the ground
under a stupor of heat
panting, licking cracked lips,
even the Shade is heavy–

    

then a voice on the wind! 

     his his his ... the hunted one now hunting

   hunting hard for blood and bone

  hunter down upon me
 my skin to buckskin,

hand in hand, hoof in hoof,
                     penetrating from his darkness,
all knife stare and death kiss.

Humidity swelling,
I can hardly breathe
hardly move
for the weight of him
the weight of air
weight of the world

holding me here,
heaving doe
in mud and rotten leaves,

pressing down until
    clouds burst forth with rain

all that weight
      falling
                  piercing
                                 plummeting
to the earth,
sky       rent       apart,
by lightning’s blind arrow,

hearts heave, earth growls,

wind blows back the dark endless hood
and I am his

 heart his harvest,

 soul his own. 

  

 

Breathing Towards Birth

Wind,
strong wind,
tell me,

are you
my true nature? –

heart dispersing
like pollen
on the breeze

and every thought
a flutter,
leaves at evening

even my body
this earthen animal thing
bending
unbending
to the currents

as here

invisible
becomes
visible

swelling up,
lungs a balloon,
full bull frog throat,

I am swollen with spirit
and feel as though I might explode

and in the same

moment
of fullness,
tension,
expansion,

the exhale arrives,
emptiness,
space,
a void unfurled.

I am not …
yet I am.

I cannot express
the fullness
of this being-ness
this such-ness.

Impregnated
by presence,
I am a dandelion gone to seed,

each breath
a step
towards birth.

Wind,

strong wind,
tell me,

when my last breath
rejoins
you,

will I finally
be
born?

 
 

The Cure Lies in the Curse

I am Lot’s wife
having looked back
became a frozen stone,
a statue of salt,

but now
having stood all these years
with the rain and desert storms,
world dropping down
to the ground,
my rigid silence
dissolves into tears.

This has demanded time
and the sure-rhythmed seasons of life
to cast my eyes forward again,

knowing that 

release 

is the eventual way of all things.

  

  

 

Following Bouyancy

floating in the Eno on a hot day ... ahhh

Naked in the Eno,
    hot day,
sun beating sideways on
silver ripples,
pale green leaves,
turtles toasting their shells
while I toast my pale skin
beneath the yellow eye.

Tufted titmouse and chickadee calling,
the slightest breeze soft kissing
my vulnerability.

Skeeter bugs skate on the river surface,
purple violets and spring beauty blossoms
crowd the river's edge.

Oh–

“Follow your bliss,” the wise men say.
      My bliss is out here,
squidging toes into riverbed sand,
as a slow slow tide washes over my body,
                          only me
                    only me here
with the rest of the world,
                           the wild,
the world far from any well-marked track.

I sink back into the current
legs lifting, belly to the sky,
hair drinking in brown water,
grown heavy

floating
breeze and river

my soul a dogwood blossom
caught in the wind,
carried away by this hot sunny day
and the cool relief of giving in
to the riverway

the river’s way of
       drifting
             ebbing
rapids here and there
but rare,
               wide, deep course
finding the down-hill path
                            down …
                down …
down

following
perfection

mind gone buoyant
soft in the current
where-ever gravity leads.

 

Carolina Spring

dogwood and chinese wisteria along the Eno

Four years
since I saw a Carolina spring,

Four years
since I saw the dogwood in bridal white
next to the redbud tree or woodland drifts of
daffodils perfuming the air with honey while
wild wisteria hangs like Dionysian fruit,
intoxicating the senses, heaven-on-earth.

Four years
since I kissed the faces of field pansies,
fingers aroused by mouse tail buds and silky
river flags, lady’s slipper and pussy-toes,
tasting the tingly tang of winter-cress,
cherry birch and woodland sorrel.

Four years
since I walked through a Carolina spring,
everything so … green!
greener than all earthly memory,
wanting to spend every moment out in the woods
or meadows along the Eno, or on Occoneechee Mountain,
staring as pine trees turn the world yellow with pollen.

Four years
since I heard the cadence of tree frogs
and birds gone mad with springtime–
robins vying for love,
eastern blue bird warbling out his relief that winter is past
as the Carolina chickadee cries in fast succession
“chick-a-dee-dee-dee!”
nuthatches stealing old woodpecker holes for homes
while blue-black grackles and crows argue for limb space.

This is the season for sparrow song and goldfinch,
tufted titmouse, red bird, and the meadowlark’s
“Spring-is-here! Spring-is-here!”
Oh there are birds, more birds than I could name,
birds in search of nests and safe havens,
who know their voice in the greater song of things.

My heart is like the sweet spring birds,
opening forth into full-throated rapture,
mind abandoning winter’s house,
gone feral, naked in the sunshine,
lapping up penumbral rain until
I am drunk, soul splayed out like
apple blossoms before the bee.

Four years,
and I’ve awoken as
Carolina spring.

  

 

Waking After the Storm

Morning after rain,
Earth rests in reverie,
Soaking up jeweled silence.

 

Mountain Dao

Occaneechee Mountain, in Hillsborough, NC where I first spoke this poem

Up
     up to the mountain top,
this wild place of pine trees
and hickory oak.

Up
     up to the mountain top,
river valley spread out
from ancient mountain roots.

Wandering path along the ridge
hugs boulders cut by years of wisdom
while wizened trees hold on--
hold to that horizon,
allowing themselves to be bent and turned
where few can go.

Here, there is Grandfather
      and grandchildren,
Here, there is youth and old age,
saplings stretched green in the sun,
in search of wind, soil, light and rain,
six hundred million year old rock weathered by
volcano, glacier, flood and time.

The brown hare hops off into the distance,
leading the way
up
     up to the mountain top
as I leave behind human constructs and thoughts,
arising out of the dark valley
into pure white sun.

Even the salamander is out to
greet this day,
darting this way and that like
a snake's glinted tongue.
He knows the way,
up
    up to the mountain top.

A thousand generations
have passed this way,
and humans
       --almost none,
melting the mind
like snow into mountain,
bent and turned
along the edge of wilderness,
the Way the heart is weathered, 

sharpness smoothed down
by the river of yearning
a soft stone
dissolving
into sediment
leaving behind
soil
and the pure crystal peak
of mountain top being

I will follow and sing,
trusting in the wild ways
stepping closer
moment by moment
up
     up to the mountain top.

Rock Meditation

mountain tops piled with stones in ancient Dartmoor

Lying on the ground,
back curled up to soil,
dead wood, leaves, winter’s dreams.

I rest like snow,
a rock lodged deep,
inert, still, silent yet
full of presence.

I wait here on the ground,
not for anything or anyone
but
for waiting itself,
knowing nothing but

this.

No need for questions
     -- not on the ground.
No need for beliefs
or reasons why, how or where
because I am

simply

lying

on the ground

resting on earth
a billion years in the making of
now.

That is enough
      more than enough
assurance for me here
in this moment,
lying on the ground.
 
 
 

Hail Like Lotus

Hail hits the house,
Soul trying to get in.
We build our minds,
place bolts on the doors,
locks on windows,
shutters,
blinds,
curtains,
mortar and bricks,
cement thoughts,
fears,
expectations,
desires.
We build our minds
and Soul wants back in.


 
 

Eno River Walking

Eno River in Durham, NC

 

This place with birds calling to one another,

the slow whir of river walking upon

age-worn rocks from another life,

red clay sinks down, accepts, slides,

green thorns covered with promises of spring,

snow like winter’s ghost melts into the earth.

The river runs and walks, then runs again,

as quiet eyes of trees observe

passing of time

passing of years

dropping their leaves down

sap rising

budding

shooting forth into fullness

the color and splendor of death

as falling leaves come anew.

But now, now their blood,

their heartbeat pumps stronger

after long, unconscious sleep.

The deer have eaten at bark and branch

during winter’s starving bite,

but now, now from roots

spread forth green blades,

speared desires for sun and air.

This place is open

and intimate

the pebbles and small shells

mingle together like brothers and sisters

at the river edge,

each stone a story past, each shell a life long gone.

This place with its tall trees,

buckeye and oak: white, blackjack and laurel.

This place with holly, rhododendron, sycamore,

white ash, maple and beech, the trembling beech,

walnut, pecan, wild thorn, alder and dogwood,

sourwood and ironwood, honeysuckle,

a thick array of river birch, cedar and hemlock.

This place with grasses, grasses and grasses,

moss and lichen, ivy, sumac and creepers,

shooting bulbs wild with spring’s coming day.

And pine trees, who could not mention the pine trees,

short-leafed pine in bunches with loblolly pine drooping down,

long-leaf pine that needs fire to seed, fire to be freed,

ancient giants that covered this place long ago,

pine-cones everywhere before deciduous trees took root.

A sparrow peers at me now,

querying my intentions in this place,

then carries on, moves along feeding off the ground,

dancing with a hop in his step,

his lover nearby,

their white breasts glimmering

beneath brown wings and

gleaming eyes.

I am breathless,

breathless

at this place,

at its rolling sides rising up into blue sky,

this valley, this river course,

this place of cosmic lineage,

about to awaken to Spring again

like all other years — yet unlike ever before.

The joy that fills me

reminds me of home,

tells me I’m home,

tells me to walk softly on this clay,

to slip with it and slide with it,

to feel the leaves, the bark, the dead grass, new grass,

smooth stone, volcanic etrusions,

woodpecker in the distance amidst creaking trunks.

I know this place in my dreams,

have known it for many years,

but this place is real,

this place breathes,

it lives,

carries with it memories

sinking in,

sinking into me,

seeping in like blood and breath,

like scent on the wind.

In this moment,

there is no me.

Woods, river, birds, shore,

the silent white-footed mouse staring at me from his hole

as he melts into grey rock light,

blurring his edges,

not mouse, but stone,

not stone, but mouse.

So too I melt

dissolve

blend into hues of green and brown.

I am earth and wind,

murmur of water as it kisses stones,

tree-creeper hopping, moving up bark paths,

wren in the distance shrieking his warning,

rising rocks emerge from the hillside,

winding their way along a river’s long walk

all this I am,

all this flows in me and through me,

the Eno River walking and running, then walking again,

part and whole,

whole and part.

This place is real.

This place is home.

Note: The Eno River is my native North Carolina watershed … the rocks here stretch back 600 million years and are very deep, not only in my mind, but in this place's psyche too.

  

Todd Triad

Copyright Jack Brauer, Mountain Photography

"Todd" --  24th January 2010

It’s enough,
his laughing eyes to melt with mine
as he walks past me uninhibited.
“See me,” his sleek perfection demands.

It’s enough,
to be a woman alone with him,
in a wild, long-forgotten place
of all things, to find him waiting.

It’s enough,
his face a full moon of recognition
and my mind unsettled by his desire.
“You’re mine,” his smiling fangs declare.

More than enough,
his bold attempts at wooing, enough
to make me fall in love forever,
my soul caught naked by a fox.

  

"Kitsune Todd" -- 26th January 2010

He was going about fox business
when I met him again.

The trees were thick and he wore that
hunter’s grin on long black lips.

And when I asked him of the day,
he said,
“Kiss me quick.”

My heart ached like fangs sunk deep–
stealing the wind, a desert in drought.

I placed my lips to his cold wet nose
as he breathed in my vital breath.

No sound but the fire burning within,
now igniting in me as we breathed as one.

Heart sat stuck, stuck in my throat,
choking on care, desire, and whim.

He ate my heart with that fatal kiss,
devoured it bloodied red and raw.

My heart burned up in the belly of a fox,
I did not know love could empty the self.

The universe seeps in this hole for a heart,
pulse-pulse-pulsing with the beat of stars.

Note: ”kitsune” is the Japanese word for a fox, but in Eastern culture, the fox is so much more than “just” a fox. They are shapeshifters who, like many other cultures’ Otherworld inhabitants, fall in love with humans, mete out justice, trick the greedy and foolish, etc. The fox who has kept appearing to me in my border dreams is very much a kind of Otherworld fox … and his name “Todd” is linked to my animus. This poem comes from an actual dream-body experience.

 "Love is a Hungry Fox" -- 27th January 2010

Last night, a dove cried on my window.
She wept for her lover in the fox’s belly,
her mourning woke me to moonless night.

“Little one,” I whispered across the sill,
“Come in and rest your tears somewhere safe.”

But she would not come near.
“You’re the wife of the fox who ate my man,
and your love is hot in him. If you feel sorrow,
then so will he, the one who ate your heart.”

Then I wept for her and for myself.
I shook with tears for all the loves
stolen and maimed in the world.

My Todd came home at first light,
his eyes a trickster laugh.

I wore my anger like a coat,
my hair a flaming red.

But he laughed at me and kissed my hands.
“Don’t be angry with me who holds your heart,”
he said with a toothy smile.

“I exist to make the little birds faster and the
sleek hares nimbler,
without me
they’d grow lazy and die, and where would be
the food in that?”

“I exist to make you, you, and
without me, you’d never learn
to be more than who you are now.
I am your longing and I will devour
until there is nothing left but an empty cup
filling up with the tears of the world.”

   

   

  

Red Birds Laughing

Something drew me out
from a long unsensing sleep
into the woods behind my house.

Maybe it was the snow melting into sunshine
or the blue morning deepening into noon.
Maybe it was the red birds laughing outside my window

or perhaps it was the silence
between their songs giving way
to another world awakening from seed.