centre of the universe - the dreaming

last night a golden, low slung
heavy-hipped moon peeked
through naked branches,
peeked at me and winked.
She had a secret
"it comes," she whispered
through the leaves.

the river snaked under her golden glow
long, dry grass chattered back:
"it comes"
the grass held no secrets,
but the river,
ah the glass river
hid a cipher beneath
the moon's perfect reflection.

stars too shy to shine
not a bird to whistle
before September's heavy-hipped moon
and her sister the glass river
and the silent secret song
they share.

Labels: fall, poems

I happened to glance out the window this morning as I woke.
Clouds, like tufts of soap bubbles, dotted the mountainside.
Even mountains get bedhead, I thought.
To the east, clouds embrace everything above the blue tin roofs at the ranch
just visible through the spruce across the river.
I could believe there was nothing behind them, nothing inside that ephemeral touch.
I could believe this was a valley in Scotland
(even though I've never been in a valley in Scotland)
but that's dangerous.
I hear out in these parts, they giggle at you if you let your brogue show.

Labels: mountains, poems, summer, vacation

Tuck-in time, with songs
three songs; you're sick.
I stroked your hair back
off your hot, damp forehead,
And caught a glimpse of
the man you will become.
Be good to others; if you have a good heart
goodness will follow you.
Ask many questions
love often, and well.

Labels: I have to go, kids, poems, The Nipper

Here are some words just for you, then:
When people say "it was just Hell"
they don't know what they're talking about.
Or maybe they do,
but then they don't know what Hell really is.

you do.

There is a story
it is a story of creation
one of the great myths
where the wife of the child of the sun
pulled a turnip from the ground.
Even though she was told not to.

The turnip left a hole in the ground
Which, to the humans, was the sky
And the woman fell through the hole
And couldn't see her husband anymore
Not ever again
Because she was on earth and he was in the sky
with his mother, the wife of the sun.

This story reminds me of you.

It is you in the sky, looking down through the hole
That that woman made when she pulled the turnip
your mother told her not to pull.
You are sad, but
there's nothing you can do.
You hold your children on your knee, and you tell them
of their brave,
proud mother.

And your mother, the wife of the sun,
she holds your children on her knee
and tells them of the great spider who lives
just beyond that hole where the turnip used to grow.
She tells them, "never go near that hole".

But this isn't about your mother
the wife of the sun.
It's about you.
You are the son of the sun.
Your challenge is not to blaze too brightly;
just shine enough to light a few fires
to cast enough light
to read by.

Labels: poems, ring made from a spoon

Were I to take a lover
truly, take a lover
Were it my place to have a lover
I mean
another lover

Were I to have two lovers
really, two different lovers
Were it my place to have two lovers
Again,
I'd choose you

Why me?
Why would you choose *me*?
You could have anyone; everyone in the world
as your lover.

No, not everyone. Not anyone.
Neil Gaiman, you see, is taken.
No, I'd choose you.

Why?

Well, because, you see ...
I say, it's like this.
I could fall forever
in your eyes. I could, I say
lose myself in your laugh.
It's trite, I know.

My eyes?
You'd take me as your other lover
because I bat my eyelashes?

Um, I say. Well, you have
a very nice bum also.

Labels: Odd day, poems, the goggles they do nothing