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A POME 4 U
Pray tell sheep messenger
what sad and slippery pin pricks
lay in wait underneath my underworld shower cap?
can, do you not, to tell, tale by tales length parting?
be missed, yet seeds automatically planting
timing perfect, within cycling seasonal coordination.
facts mingled with fairy tales
and misconstrued magistrates responding with nods and giggles.
I’ve no bones for killing
every time their black and bright red specked bodies smash
beneath my death wielding device
I shed a tear inside
Every time, I look to creator & tremble asking forgiveness,
knowing, in the act of asking, it is given.
always inner eyes be not blind to cultures howling wolves,
giving space, hollowing out holes,
in which new paradigm may burrow
to sprout anew and push forth once more
that which must present herself as truth
and truth she’s is and speaks.
Standing in the middle of your pulsing heart,
wearing her shimmering brilliant white wedding gown,
which spills out bravely in all directions.
In my dreams, I take up residence
in black widows body,
I am smashed a million times, by a million frightened humans.
but upon the instant of my death
I awaken in the soft and silken web
of my mothers making,
seeing the eyes of my brothers
and sisters, yearning for the taste of my first kill.
There is no satisfaction in ti,
it is what i must do, who i am,
there is no sorrow in my death.
She sitting in hearts central chamber,
pleading with me, asking for my eyes to sparkle
with the special light, where her body
touches the sun.
to tattoo her transformational hymns on the walls
of each and every blood vessel within my being,
that i might spill out, even minutely, a trickle of the majesty
of what she creates within.
There should be no sorrow in it.
is it not what i am?
as i go to close my journal, there on the edge of page, crawling is tiniest red spider
i pause, not wanting to crush.
and so the book stays open, now unslinging
battle axe of divine inner mistress once more
my pen attacks and scratches parchment,
as on papyrus, as on wood, as on stone,
in days long past, the same quest calling,
how to articulate this love giving energy
that douses through me, into forms, words,
that might be heard, felt, recognized
and made law within the hearts of all who
wear this human skin.
how to plant kisses within each heart
who’s seeds might grow into beautiful
unconditionally loving smiles
on the lips of each soul sister and brother.
a dream worth living for, worth dying for,
so she whispers, as I awaken again
wrapped in the etheric white feathers
of her eternally expanding tantric temple.
blessed with the burden of her living grace.