Symbol

a symbol is a line, twisted and bent upon itself, full of significance, but meaningless to the uninitiated; a symbol is an aperture into a world of thoughts, ideas, concepts, a symbol is a gift and a poison, a pure tool and a means of contamination; a symbol is not just a sign, it is its own source, it shows and is shown by itself, it is what it is, it is nothing without the symbolist; a symbol is a thin percussive instrument; a symbol is a baby lion; a symbol is the sun; a symbol is a circle

Pattern

I I I I I I I I
I don't know how to handle reality; this is my pattern, I repeat it. I don't know how to handle reality; this is my pattern, I repeat it. I don't know how to handle reality; this is my pattern, I repeat it. No one knows how to handle reality; this is our pattern, we repeat it.
Get up, make coffee, eat breakfast, eat lunch, work all day, party hardy, go to sleep, get up make coffee eat breakfast eat lunch work all day party hardy go to sleep getupmakecoffeeeatbreakfasteat lunchworkalldaypartyhardygotosleep gtpmkcfftbrkfsttlnchwrklldyprtyhrdygtslp
Until you vomit forth your own dizziness and sorrow with the pattern and go around saying to people
You You You You You You You You
You destroyed me, and you betrayed me, and you abandoned me. You destroyed me, and you betrayed me, and you abandoned me. You destroyed me, and you betrayed me, and you abandoned me. We destroyed each other, and we betrayed the world, and we abandoned ourselves.
Because this is the pattern: self-blame and passing the buck doesn't work because I am You and You are Me and if I blame Me, I'm only blaming You, and when You pass the buck to Me, You are only passing the responsibility back to Yourself.
And we all see this in rare instants, and we forget instantaneously and we go back to the pattern, reinforcing it, in self-absorption.
I   I   I   I   I   I   I   I
U U U U U U U U

Essence

In essence, I mean, essentially, what the core of the matter is at heart; its base, its foundation, the building blocks, the atoms, the structural scheme, the vision - this is what the author saw, the director imagined, the primary, the gist. The kernel, the acorn, the core, the old block off of which you are a chip; these are at the center of the thing, the hearth of the home, the distribution point, the throttling choke point, the lens. Eau de something, I know not what, je ne sais quoi, ineffable, inestimable; the being which must be perceived or perceiving, fruit of the womb, fruit of the loom, fruit of our labors, fruit of change. And yet it changes not, is permanent, persistent, eternal, unending, the absolute, standing behind and beneath all things; it sustains, supports, includes, is the whole of the part, is completely untouched, like a sail or a day or both in essence.

Force

once there was a girl who did not understand force until it was used against her repeatedly; she had to learn she was not culpable when force was used against her, only when she used force against others, especially if she used force against those who forced her, even if she was only using force in self-defense; and most people think they understand force, think they know how it hurts, how to resist it, what it looks like, but they do not know that the man least likely to force you is the one everyone expects, the man in the bushes, they do not know that the man most likely to force you is the one no one would guess, the husband, the boyfriend, the best friend, the friend of the family, the family man, the uncle, the father, the brother, the cousin; they do not understand that women can force men and women but do so fractionally as often as men force men and women; they do not understand that force might never leave a mark where you can see it, but it always leaves a mark on your soul, and sometimes those marks accumulate until you are just one big walking scar; and they don't understand, and they don't care, and they wish you would just shut up so they can believe that it is the end

Existence

Being is becoming.
Becoming is being.
Essence is existence.
Existence is essence.
By definition, no-thing cannot be being,
but all depends on what the definition of 'is' is.
To be; I am, you are,
he or she or it is,
we are, y'all are, they are.
To be; I was, you were,
he or she or it was,
we were, y'all were, they were.
I have been, you were being,
he or she or it has been,
we had been, y'all will be,
they shall be, should be, could be.
To be or not to be;
to become or to stop becoming -
to cut of what has been
from what may be
by the sharp blade of what is now being.
To be, to exist,
to do, to act,
to happen, to become,
to grow, to change,
to persist, to ensue,
to endure, to abide,
to prevail, to remain,
to continue, to last,
to live, to stay,
to obtain, to rest,
to stand, to inhabit,
to breathe, to hold,
to subsist, to survive,
to move, to go on.
Why is it even a question?
Life lives,
that is its nature,
that is its essence,
that is its being.
Is it necessary
that to be there must be a not-being?
Is the contradiction
required to make the mechanism work?
Is there a kernel of not
inside every is?
Is there a nut of being
within nothing?
If there were not
an endless cycle of
is-not-is-not-is-not-is-not
could there be anything at all?
And what is the third option?
I don't believe in dichotomies,
nature is too multifaceted, multifarious
for things to simply chug along
one-two-one-two-one-two-one-two;
girl-boy-girl-boy-girl-boy-girl-boy;
in-out-in-out-in-out-in-out.
I've seen rainbows,
I know better than to believe
in just black-and-white.

Surface

Superficial, they say,
that's the problem -
not looking deeply enough
into the murky depths of things,
avoiding the real source of the problem
by sticking to the surface.
What is depth,
but one surface piled
upon the next?
And when you cut through
the layers of an onion
(crying all the time)
and get to the deepest part,
the core -
it is still 
just another
piece of onion. 
The surface is where things happen
quickly,
where life happens,
where two worlds meet,
where you can touch and kiss,
the surface
is
what is.
You skate on top of the ice,
not inside it.
Everything on your surface
is indicative of whatever
supposedly lies deeper:
your reactions,
your expressions,
your very clothing,
your grooming habits.
Someone skilled at surfaces
can read your image and know
what kind of person you are,
how you appoint your home,
how you treat yourself,
how you treat others.
Are you worthy of hire?
Were you raised gently?
They evaluate your shoes
and inspect your teeth.
Are you kind to others?
How do you treat the help?
Shakefeel the hand and up close
a quick whiff of the breath.
How do you choose to present yourself?
How do you see others' self-presentation?
You select a picture,
you make remarks.
I stare at my navel,
you ask me
what am I thinking
I answer
I am contemplating void
and you say
that's deep,
but it means
that I'm thinking
about nothing.

Form

Socrates taught of ideas
which Plato wrought into forms,
claiming they were the perfections
of the things we encountered
in our every day lives:
tables, chairs, trees, bowls, and the land -
but more to the point:
justice, virtue, beauty, love, and the good.
But let us not forget to ask:
what of man and woman?
what of the elements, fire and water?
what of the least things, hair and dirt?
And let us also not ignore the problems
of distribution or composition.
And let us also not merely accept
that if there are objects,
and they have a form,
that if there are forms,
that they have no third greater.
And let us not balk
at the infinite regress
of thought or its objects.
And let us not become too dizzied
by the wildly indiscriminate multiplication
of likenesses in similar regress.
And let us not be too baffled
by how we may know them,
nor how the gods may know us.
For:
if we are made in their image
(or if we make them in ours)
we are of the same clay
and like understands like.
And all patterns converge on one pattern,
this is no mystery
and the greatest mystery.
And infinite regress
is the stuff of which
the universe is made,
it is how creation has always worked.
And there is always something greater,
and there is always something smaller,
and anyone who claims to know all
is more arrogant than those who say,
"Here is where I know not more."
 And learn to capriciously switch
from whole to part and back again
for the logic is our lens
not our fabric.
For if there is a thing,
there must be a something
which precedes the thing,
even if that something
has to be a nothing.

Flux

Nothing lasts;
this, too, shall pass;
the only constant is change.
In the beginning,
everything began to change;
in the end,
everything shall stop.
I get dizzy with the swirl,
the up and down, to and fro,
back and forth, in and out,
and here we go again
over the top and
around the bend,
over and under and through.
And as if that breakneck speed
isn't enough, there is time
for a breather, a pause, a break;
and then
back on the horse,
back in the saddle,
gee-yup and go,
on the march,
forward all,
nauseating with the whipsaw
of stop and why are you stopping,
be polite and don't waste time on manners,
do the bare minimum, why didn't you do more?
It cannot help but be nonsense,
when the rules depend on who you are,
where you are from,
what you did before,
and not what you are doing
within the current context,
too little, too late
(a day late and a dollar short)
(don't short me)
(come here, shorty).
Nothing ever changes,there is nothing new under the sun,
a tiger cannot change its stripes,
nor a cheetah its spots;
and the more things change,
the more they stay the same.

Energy

Boundless bounding,
the whip-crackle of static
and the twitch-tail speed of an agitated kitten,
ricochet from beginning to end,
from top to bottom,
from floor to counter to cabinet to ceiling
and back down again, creeling,
cavorting capriciously, comically,
before wheedling for more food.
Capering, careening, colliding,
I encounter one wave of energy, breathless,
only to be swamped in the wake of some vessel
sending out crossing waves
where I founder, flailing, until
a new wave carries me forward again,
laughing with the unexpectedness of it all.
Build enough momentum
and you may carry yourself forward
away from the familiar shores of waking
deep into the seas of dreaming
where you may face small players full of fun,
predators and prey whom prayers save not,
great beasts of the imagining
who rise up and burst through
the quiet, unsuspecting surfaces
without warning, without precedent.
Just so: all energies may be quiescent
for a time before the potential activates,
becomes kinetic, bombastic, dynamic,
radiant, glorious, mechanic, organic, and wild,
unpredictable, wholly chaotic, haphazard,
governed only by the laws of necessity,
triggered, and released explosively
until all is transformed again.

Singularity

Look across the great skyscape and there see
all the fires of creation alight;
look with closer eyes, for dragons here be,
though seeing them requires second sight,
a second glance from the left and not the right,
that allows you to see empty spaces
scattered through the pattern of dark and night,
that only exists as faintest traces.
What exists beyond the stars' blank faces
and those of their inverse twins, the black holes,
is seen as in string theory's laces:
equators vary far more than the poles.
But the further we get from the first trend,
so the closer must we be to the end.

Planet

Mother's breast, broad bosom of rocky earth,
the birthplace of all mad humanity,
a thin veil separating her from space,
variegated body of colors
swathed in white clouds, blue oceans, swards of green.

There is such a thing as unhealthy green:
we see such in the pollution of earth.
Poisons create vibrant toxic colors,
the by-products of sick humanity
pouring relentlessly out into space.

Now see our halo of garbage in space,
what obscures or discolors blue and green;
these are the sins of long humanity,
generations failing duty to earth.
See faces blush, shame burns in all colors.

Pestilence hurts worst the darker colors;
theoretically the rich have space -
they can flee to the sky and escape earth
when she is no longer strong, hale, and green.
O! think of each other, humanity.

Can new planets survive humanity?
Or will xenophobia kill colors
of strange species whether brown, grey, or green?
Do we even deserve to rise into space?
Have we not earned our burnt, bleak, scorched earth?

Perhaps new earth teaches humanity,
gives us space to love new colors of green.

Sun

Four times we celebrate changing seasons,
Four times the changing state of our day star;
Though planting is the oldest of reasons,
New holy days replaced them, times afar.
Sunshine and starfire bring light and joy
To all who work at the earth for their food;
Though a queen, she quickly became le roi
When men proclaimed men the source of all good.
Golden orb of liquid amber burning,
you light the day and fire up our hearts,
you mark the passage of cosmic turning,
you can strengthen or damage human parts.
Everything is good in moderation;
Including immoderate vocation.

Moon

Gleaming disc of silver, please hear my words:
O! see the lovely moon who shines so bright,
She guides the way like a torch on dark night.

I send my prayers to you by night birds
Who fly on wings of shadow and of light;
Gleaming disc of silver, please hear my words:
O! see the lovely moon who shines so bright.

Please guard the solitaries and the herds,
For we worship you in depths and at height,
You who bring guidance, love, and second sight.
Gleaming disc of silver, please hear my words:
O! see the lovely moon who shines so bright,
She guides the way like a torch on dark night.

Stars

Deep in the inky vastness of the cold
of dark space, far from others, burns fire
that sends a power into the wild black,
a power which shines forth exquisite love
despite the star's sharp internal hunger
for the love of others, for their clear light.

Even in the dark of night, there is light,
though the stars give no heat for they are cold.
Starlight does not satisfy most hunger
because you cannot cook with their fire,
yet starlight satiates many in love
by the contrast of day's bright and night's black.

There is nothing more beautiful than black
of night scintillating with shining light
of fixed and wandering planets of love,
strife, and luck, maneuvering through the cold
as they burn with exotic hot fire
which has unsatisfiable hunger.

A star is overtaken by hunger
and becomes singular, a hole of black
which consumes all light, heat, sound, and fire.
You may see it by a nimbus of light,
bullet-hole dimple within metal cold,
like betrayal or desertion of love.

There are many who cannot tell their love
is any different from their hunger;
their love is sickly, wan, and even cold,
pale, having drawn no nurture from the black
soil nor any nourishment from the light.
They cannot see the meaning of fire.

The most pure flame is found in star fire;
the cleanest passion is within star love;
the finest shine comes from tiny star light;
the all-consuming maw is star hunger;
the deepest darkness comes from stars gone black;
the iciest frost chills from stars gone cold.

Only in vacuum finds one cold fire -
ever in adversity find black love -
always poets, we hunger for the light.

Astral Projection

I close my eyes, rise up, and start climbing
out of the gravity well towards space,
towards the heavens, towards the Goddess,
further up and further in to myself.
(This is a metaphor: we have seen no
deities floating around in vacuum
as we maneuver back and forth from the
moon or satellites and return to Earth.)
(To cross the boundary to the next realm
is also to go deep into oneself;
astral projection is travel without
movement to other more Platonic worlds.)
I see electrical clouds which sizzle
past and through me as I rise and move on;
I pass through organic fractal walls and
thread my way through mazes of carbon seas.
There is a sparkle of starlight in the
deep darkness beyond everything, yet
the stars are already passing by me
as I move towards the source of all things.
(I never quite make it but I always
have to try going forward, upward to
whatever it is that draws me, I must)
So I go on to the light without end.

Invisibility

You cannot see me, no matter how hard
you look, for you do not wish to see me.
You wish to see me as you like, and not
when it is inconvenient or my need.

You keep your first impression of me like
a mask or veil you wear before your eyes,
and you see me only through that, as you
have always seen me, how you always will.

I am hidden, I am concealed, I am
anonymous, I am obscured, latent;
I am nameless, and inconspicuous,
I am imperceptible mystery.

I do not appear only because there
is no one who wants me to appear there.
If I could hear one voice explicitly
speaking to me, I would reveal myself.

And then everyone would know that I am
no different, no better, no worse, nor
any more of a genius or a fool,
savant, idiot, than any of us.

As of now I hide waiting quietly
for explicit, direct invitation;
these are their most rare when you are wholly
and completely invisible to all.

Flying

In olden days when witches flew, they say,
two theories explain what people saw:
either people imagined everything,
or someone actually saw women
somehow high in the sky without any
hallucinations or any madness,
and the simpler of two explanations
is supposed to be the better  of them.
Is it simpler to believe people saw
what they say, or to believe that all must
be liars, or crazy, or subject to
mass hysteria, dreams, visions, devils?

When I was a child, flying on airplanes
cross-country between one parent and the
other, I would peer out the window to see
the fairy-land of clouds above the small
world of humans, doll-like, tiny, and laid
out like a patchwork of ego and shape;
when my sight was obscured by clouds, my eyes
focused on the clouds themselves, all fractal
like the rivers and coastlines and postage
stamp farms, like the ant-sized roadways branching
arterial, until the clouds closed in.
In the grey blankness of clouds, I learned how
to see the floaters in my eyes and past,
to swirling fields of probabilities,
electrons or pixies darting quickly.
Clouds are cold and wet; just walk through a fog;
were you to sport among them, the image
of fairy-land would melt - but from the seat
of even the smallest plane, you may dream
of flying among sunset ice cream clouds.

Rendered baby fat recipes were an
invention of the Inquisition; so,
what oils and herbs, what minerals, you ken,
permitted flight must have gone up in flames.
When pigs fly we will know that they have found
a stand of the right plants and such, and need
only to look for where mother sows are
guarding their fledgling piglets near the copse.
Until then we must suffice ourselves to
fly in machines, or fake it by falling
in special suits, or trick our senses with
virtual reality, or not fly.

Psychism

The dream eye, unfocused, turns to the light
of day where the sun shines sharp, blindingly;
images tumble relentlessly through
the mind, jumbled together as if in
a stew or casserole, rich broth steaming,
streaming hotly as the light spills cutting
through thoughts and memories, unexpected.
This is not how it should be happening:
there should be slight but obvious changes
in the positions and players today;
I remember it quite differently,
I remember it exactly the same.

You may seek to perform any act of
divination with no especial gift,
but psychic talent is like balance or
rhythm or perfect pitch in that you are
born with talent but can choose to learn skill;
as such, psychism is like any in-born
native ability - we all sing and dance
but some are gifted where others are not.
However, some neglect their own talents,
and thus never achieve the great heights that
their devoted, persistent peers may climb,
perhaps because privilege expects no work.

In meditation, you clear the mind but
in trance you open it wide to the wind,
letting fly in what may, sifting, seeking,
panning for gold in a cold mountain stream.
The rocks are slick, it is easy to fall
and then you become one with rushing wind,
you are the river, flying down the side
of the face of the planet until (if
you are very lucky) you find your way
back down to yourself, your own mind again -
you climb back to shore, swim to the mossy
banks, and kiss the earth, thankful and breathing.

Divination

Books, cards and crystals, planets, stars, and stones -
I can smell herbs, incense burning, hot tea;
soft bells are chiming, the room is stuffy
and closes about me like a soft cloud.
The I Ching, Urim and Thummim, and poe -
religious divination is calling;
we communicate with the gods to learn
what the future might bring or steal away.
Horoscopes, sortilege, and sikidy -
each system is different and the same:
determining one's fortune or favor
in society, in labor, or love.
Haruspicy, scrying, and casting lots -
they say the gods help those who help themselves,
so let us help ourselves to the future,
let us learn how to predict what may come.
Palmistry, Ouija, numerology -
peace comes with the knowledge that you have done
all that you can to prepare in advance
whatever is necessary to thrive.

Yet because all other gods become imps
under any One True God, all attempts
to speak to them become necromancy,
demonolatry, black magic, evil.
Such gods only want sorcerers controlled
by the church, not hedge women, not witches,
no illicit family tradition,
nothing outside what priests can understand.
High ceremonial magic is theirs,
makes sense, requires pomp, patriarchy;
low magic, ditch divination are not,
allow madness, feminism, other sins.
So they suffer not the witches to live,
always saying it is for our own good,
the fires will cleanse sins from our spirits,
save us from the worst, the fires of Hell.
I might like to think that in the next life
they will learn what it feels like, the burning,
and that they will never repeat again
such cruelty as they reincarnate.

I read my horoscope this morning with
my coffee and it said that decisions
can be daunting right now, but thankfully
I have a little more time to relax.
I find it difficult to slow down, rest;
I hate waking up, cannot stay asleep,
so perhaps I could learn how to stop and
really smell the roses once in a while.
Another source stated I was ready,
which is good because I do not have time,
contradicting the first astrologer,
which could be somewhat confusing for some.
However, I know that when I look at
a table from one direction and you
look at it from another perspective,
then we must see different shapes, colors.
Interpreting oracles is much the
same, because we are all learning to see
the otherwise invisible with our
sixth sense from multiple odd angles.

Love

Love is the greatest mystery to me:
I am still not quite sure what it entails,
or if love without pain can even be.

Love stories all read like false fairy tales;
love: the monster at the end of the book -
(why if you talk of love she always pales).

I could not recognize it at a look;
perhaps I have never seen it before,
perhaps I have only seen what it took.

I have seen the results of keeping score,
and what neglect does, what abuse does, too:
reduces love apparatus to gore.

Yet each stranger, I wonder about you,
whether you could teach me to love again;
so far there have not been any who do.

Thus all I know of love has been much pain,
no matter from whether maiden or swain.

Wisdom

Wisdom is not about all your knowing,
just how you use what you think you may know.
The only thing I know: I know nothing.

Ignorance is not bliss; it will not slow
injury or worse - so it exhibits
just how you use what you think you may know.

Foolishness into sagacity fits,
unless you see what good the results be;
injury or worse - so it exhibits.

It bodes not well to build goals you can't see,
especially not rewards after death
unless you see what good the results be.

Work for what you can while you still have breath,
but waste not time for imaginaries,
especially not rewards after death.

Fantastic thoughts be luminaries,
but waste not time for imaginaries.
Wisdom is not about all your knowing;
the only thing I know: I know nothing

Healing

There are some deep wounds that never quite heal;
even those which you cannot touch or see,
you have to at least admit they are real.

Whether left upon your heart, mind, or heel,
whether they cause you greater pain or wee,
there are some deep wounds that never quite heal.

Perhaps you think you have learned how to deal,
yet even if you come through when it's key,
you have to at least admit they are real.

Without real healing, from yourself you steal
energy, strength, and power; and thusly,
there are some deep wounds that never quite heal.

Though conflict throws you on uneven keel,
ignoring pain does not mean you'll be free;
you have to at least admit they are real.

The soul must sport an emotional weal,
if the sole answer is the facts to flee:
there are some deep wounds that never quite heal;
you have to at least admit they are real.

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Courage

Courage is not having 'no fear,'
but continuing in its face,
acting under fire with grace,
let wind dry your eye of its tear.
Perhaps you act, future unclear;
maybe you win any foot race;
probably you have little fear -
which needs not much courage to face.
Or you could hold safety too dear,
never make effort, try to brace,
only giving danger much space,
behind others who hold the spear.
Courage is action in fear's face.

Strength

I found I had weakened in my body;
this brought a disturbance to my poor mind,
and caused arrhythmia in my shocked heart.
I have been so unprepared in spirit;
I must learn to steel my spine and my will.

Bend to the task of self-strength with a will,
but learn to empower more than body:
how does one seek to strengthen the spirit?
Only thinking will fortify the mind,
only loving will reinforce the heart.

Thus change is the best solution at heart:
If time heals then as it passes so I will.
In the meantime it weighs much on my mind:
I must toughen and harden my body,
I must shake up and challenge my spirit.

Resilience, plasticity of spirit,
forgiveness, love, and mercy for the heart,
endurance and potency of body,
perseverance and control of the will,
celerity and keenness for the mind.

These are prescriptions for strength to my mind;
strive to uphold both letter and spirit
of this law, if overcoming I will
for health, power, and hardiness of heart,
for prosperity of soul and body.

Neglect neither your body nor your mind;
control heart and spirit with healthy will.

Holy

Enthusiasm - the intaking of deities,
the indrinking of the Goddess,
the revelation of divinity within -
now reduced to mere excitement,
interest, or even fanaticism:
the thrilling skirl of thousands
shrieking in a higher key
than any of them can sing,
directed at the false gods and prophets
of far-away lands called holy,
Holly Wood and Silver Screen and Small Screen
and Live from New York on Saturday Night,
places you either become a god yourself
or some universally-despised monstrosity.
It is quite possible to intake the false deity
instead of some truly divine being;
in such a case, your enthusiasm becomes
- like a false pregnancy -
a hollow swelling, purely psychosomatic,
the mind telling the body what to do
because the mind is the true believer
in the deep subconscious where
we make temples for the gods
whether they are false or true.
Let us build an immune response
against these phantoms,
that we may know their pseudo-divinity
for what it is, by how
it makes us sick, nauseated,
we break out in hives
if we try to consume their
fake miracles, false prophecies,
curses in disguise as blessings,
by our inability to breathe their bad air.
Thus, when we face true
Holy Spirits, Divine Beings,
Faces of the Goddess,
we know Her and Them by
the health They bring, the joy,
the clarity of lung and sinus,
the glow of the skin,
the flow of blood,
the enthusiastic dancing of feet.
Let us inscribe new sacred spaces,
delineating a separation of the
divine from the mundane;
and let us enter consecrated ground
with bodies and minds clean, purified
with devotion, and let us receive the
Holy Spirits of the Goddesses and Gods
with the blessings of true enthusiasm,
and be full of the divinities,
our bodies inhabited however long
by beings of light and purity,
of shadow and play,
of darkness and healing;
and let us worship true gods,
be they old or new,
but let us avoid the demon, the imp,
the lying, malicious entity
who seeks only to damage, to harm;
and let us know them by their smell,
by their nauseating rank odor
that we may avoid their stinking charnel-houses
dressed in furs and clad in ivory and called temples,
to hide that they are built on decay, of rot.
Let us serve only the Goddess,
the Sun, the Moon, the Earth,
the Starry-Eyed, girdled by the Zodiac,
multi-faceted and aspected,
but always Herself;
and let us know Her by sweet fragrances
of flower and fruit and furrow,
rich with growth and life, living;
and let us lift up Her Thousand Names
in song and charm with art,
sweetly spinning from our lips like honey,
crying "Holy, Holy, Holy"
in ecstasy, standing outside of ourselves,
for we are the enthusiastic ones,
the ones who take the Goddess within,
and none are so blessed as we.

Messenger

Come, traveler,
rest your weary feet,
let down your tired wings.
I have soup in the pot
and the kettle is on for tea.
Hospitality is my duty
and my pleasure; be easy,
for until you are on the road again
I will provide you with all
the comforts of home.
I do not know
what angelic spirits eat,
but you are always welcome
to my earthly repast;
whatever I have is yours,
for all I have comes
from our mutual source of origin.
I know you cannot linger long,
it is your way, the way of your kind
to always be on the move,
shifting from one dimension to the next -
but for now there is a quiet moment
for you to drink in the warmth of my hearth,
for me to drink in the radiance of your countenance.
In the time between your sudden entrance
and what will no doubt be
your startling exit,
I am content to abide,
to be here now.

Elemental

Underwater
after lunch with the sirens,
I found myself discussing politics
with a mermaid
who was none too liberal,
being motivated by the conservation
of the oceans and their life-stock,
but far more so than the trolls
and ogres beneath the mountains,
in caves and crevasses
where little has changed
in hundreds of thousands of years
except for the size of the stalactites
and the stalagmites
and maybe the occasional shift
in the tectonic plates;
I had more luck with the sprites
and the pixies,
but the wind was too fast for me,
and I could not keep up
with the wild hunt,
much less persuade them
to slow down and listen.
The djinn and the dragon
were largely inscrutable,
so I left their fires
with little hope.
But when it became time
for the election,
the whole fairy host turned out,
all in their best glamors,
to vote in the biggest landslide win
for the fae Queen in all history.
Normally the fair folk decline
to engage in mundane electoral rights;
but each knew who best
would protect their realms:
the fauns their forests and fields,
the oreiads their mountains;
the bean sidhe their rivers,
the undines their oceans;
the phoenixes their high places,
the bluecaps their low;
the griffins their aeries,
the sphinxes their deserts.
Only the fey and the feral
care to conserve the wild world -
but this often requires breaking
with destructive traditions;
conservation of the elements
requires real progress of character.

Nature

Beneath a high verdant canopy
the wind stills for a minute,
the clearing holds its breath
and we all anticipate the arrival
of we know not what.
Perhaps some dryad
will emerge from the forest,
or some naiad will
arise from the spring;
maybe Artemis and Pan themselves,
the horned huntress and her consort,
the feral man of the woods,
will come crashing through
on their wild hunt;
it is just as possible
that Demeter and Dionysus come forth
to correct us in how we apply their gifts
of agriculture and civilization,
so that we may once more remember
that even civilization,
agriculture, and moderation
must come in moderation themselves.
They will teach us the joys of the maenads,
the ecstasies of the mysteries,
and the secrets of life and death.
Probably Titania, Queen,
and Oberon, horned consort,
are here taking their
forty-second honeymoon,
and if they do not take insult
from our boorish, common ways,
perhaps these nature spirits,
these gods, these fair folk
will take a liking to us
and feed us strange food and wine,
and carry us away to a place
where it is always summer.
The wind picks up again,
and the animals resume their activity,
and I awake from my reverie;
the gods did not bless us
with their presence
this time.

Ancestor

Grandmother's grandmother was not
who I thought she was
in broad strokes, wide outlines,
the basic gist: she was less and more.
And I do not know how to tell
which tales of her are true or false.
How close or how far
are your family myths
from some semblance of the real?
Perhaps your visions, like mine,
reach back farther than you thought,
to two or three or four
generations before
is where the source of our images lie:
not doubly great but quadruply
or quintuply or more.
Then again:
maybe our visions of the past
have nothing whatsoever
to do with the facts
but rather with
some psychological truth,
some personal issue or ideal or illness.
They say disease,
like heritage,
runs in the blood,
traceable from dam or sire
to the young, and thence
to the future generations.
I know madness runs in mine,
though I presume not about yours;
but our very acquaintance
makes you suspect, stranger.
After all, ideas are contagious,
whether those come from family, from friends,
from strangers on the internet,
from strangers in the media,
from celebrities who might as well be
family, friends to their followers;
and madness has spread for generations.
It runs in the blood;
it streams from my mind,
unspooling over all I produce
from some source hundreds of years
and a thousand of miles in my past,
from some hole in my head,
orifice or partial trepanation,
from an ancestress
or ancestor or not
who survived long enough
to reproduce at least once
and thus achieved 
evolutionary success.