Knocking

And when Fear comes knocking?

Or, more likely, bamblarkblasting its way in,

do you invite him to sit down,

notice her nebulous sucking barbed wire darkness,

and surrender yourself to the visit knowing

something important will be learned?

Come, come Fear, welcome,

enter and offer what brings you through town-

you might say

in honor and awe of,

out of respect for the guest with power

to leave you shivering, quivering

and yet more able to walk on

with starlight in your eyes-

have yourself a cup of tea,

You must be tired.

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“About” page republished:

Once entitled Rooted In Grace {Rooted, embodied, bound, nourished, held.
In.
Grace, the Infinite, great Mystery, artful movement, expression of silence}

Now entitled “Salt, Smoke, and Stone”-

Unavoidable chafe and Dance, delicious moment and precipitous drop, disappearing Scent and heavenly Body-

Here.

A gathering of the ephemeral and limitless, the bruise and Magic of experience.

A medicine of word.

Welcome. Your presence, and any comments you may offer, are a gift.

Reproduction or use of any of the writings or photos on this site are by permission only.                         Please send an email if interested:

feralpoetrootedingrace@gmail.com

~ All Rights Reserved ~

In gratitude…

The mendacity of the Father

The mendacity of the Father,

the for-your-own-good, you’ll-

understand-one-day,

spank you on the ass ruler of the house,

might there not be another way?

Look the white shark in the eye and see

what he claims to be is none other

than the abuse he forgets

once brought him to his knees.

Question where you came from,

you may find there’s a curse

invisible, iron gripped,

you alone can shake off.

Pain, unaddressed, is only fed

to the next generation who cling,

cling to the same pedagogy

that poisoned your once Free spirit..

Now’s the time-

reclaim it.

The naked Emperor

To what cost,

this silence?

Protecting normal, the naked Emperor,

who rots your bones of its mineral support,

your heart of its song,

your pelvis of its dancing motion,

your mouth of its natural speech.

Stop pretending.

And, with it, generations of loss.

Open the vault.

You may find yourself alone.

But the outcome

will be possession of your own soul.

Second Street Cafe

Horse sits in the corner

noticing possum hasn’t touched her tea.

Possum, meanwhile,

wonders about her pedigree.

Tortoise dozes in his shell,

tipping awkwardly toward ostrich’s tail,

when zebra waltzes in swishing his stripes

sending peacock for the door in utmost fright.

Such is a day at Second Street Cafe

with elephant missing and

rat wandering proudly off to play.

Order a cup and join the crew,

there’s a little something for all of you.

Her own

At forty

she felt seventy.

Experience’s weight

had sunk posts deep into the landscape of her being.

Ache and limitation, an undertow of fatigue,

confusion at the seeming permanence

of the uninvited, the resisted,

lead this human to take possession, fully-

and for the first time-

of a life unwritten, free of guarantees,

and her own.

Entirely her own.

Her landscape now is a garden,

loved and wanted, with posts that may disappear.

Or not.

With their origins recognized, appreciated,

and their presence finally respected,

perhaps a hammock will be slung between them

in honor of spring’s arrival.

Soft arc of hmmm

A woman reading across the room,

and her soft arc of hmmm at words eliciting her song,

calls forth the bigger music of the library-

four blocks away, a sacred monolith of imagination.

“Libraries for All” declares a sign on the wall.

Yes, except for the drunks,

spoke a woman at the counter-

the police were just here.

I’m sure you see it all, I responded,

libraries are havens for the homeless.

Yes.

Warm. Dry. Open, lit, and cushioned.

Rest your weary bones. Pick up a book,

a newspaper, an image-heavy magazine.

This roof shelters whoever enters.

With or without the fortune or choice

of a place called home,

just best not to betray how many pints

are helping get you through the grey day.

Read on…

Gnarls & knots

Gnarls and knots-

twistings of difficulty and experience

train the tree toward ancient mastery.

R i n g s

spread in stilled ripples-

water’s character in wood.

Toes wrap in dark, salted earth below,

fingers stretch through blue air above.

In storm, drought and calm

echo countless ancestral voices

from forests long ago gone.

In the saddle

At a beginning,

with the closest solitary prayer being

“I don’t know,”

my hips work to keep the rest of me in the saddle.

Movements in the sky-

valley fog, and clouds weaving high through the hills-

live their nature in waves, currents, and vanishings,

grand teachings of the cycles of continual change.

Sometimes, I wish I knew.

But, unintentionally, artfully, that greatest illusion

has been set on the shelf-

a furry trickster friend

who flashes me a smile, and snaps his tail

at the most wicked, and absurd times.

I don’t know becomes

a delicate, gritty daily worship.