Here in the unspoken….
Where a dead lover
immaculate in her
Brought me to a flowing river….
The trees ascending into the water….
Where her eyes opened for the last time
This is where dreams bring their wounded…
This is where dreams cross over leaving
This is where dreams….
Come to die….
From the stronghold
April 2 19
Here in this quietude….
There is your voice
Whispering from a remembered place…
Smiling from the distances that separate fear from joy….
Agony from aloneness….
Your cigarette smoke forming ancestral light….
That embraces calm
In a world lost….
Under storm clouds of mythic gifting…..
Beauty as life….
The dust of human words on the outskirts
We move within the infinite…..
Shards of burnt spirit light all around….
Pieces of grey fur caught on the stacked wood
Old ones have passed here….
‘It is raining hard’
‘It is a strong wind’
Sweat lodge song
For peter and Lynn.
October 30, 18
My grandmother whispered to me in a dream….
Beware the white cities…the ones filled with hatred and fear
The ones where the ones who can see are
Imprisoned by the blind….
The ones who live from the dead meat of others…
Devouring their eyes that are staring at them….
The ones who have arrived from the putrid underbelly
Of human waste….
Formed from the shit of their ancestral darkness…
Carrying the heads of their dead gods
As tokens of their devotion…
Eating the white plate of their deities
Forced upon her as a child..
She looked at me whispering
The white cities.
Why have I awakened here
With the watches of the dead scattered like eyes
On the floor….
Somethings that are left of me
Have found their way here
Where I am kneeling….
Praying for you….
Along this rain soaked columbian road
Where singing arrives out of the darkened trees
sitting among the tears
Of the missing….
Drying on the frosted leaves….
In the Andes above Medellin
The aorta spattered flapping against hope
Innocence the last gurgling sounds
Of a baby….
Fissures of unconsciousness
Drying as blood on a broken prayer….
The dead zone texts
From a twilight dream
of open eyes in a dark room
Hope an emaciated silhouette standing in a burning forest….
Our seized breath….
Guardians of an emptiness we cannot remember….
We cannot forget….
From the stronghold
Silence is heavy
As it carries all its loved ones
Ones whose silence lives in the water
Ones whose voices begin and continue in a language
We have yet to learn
It sings in the between breath of the newborn
It weeps with the hearted ones whose prayer is the dawn
And the last breath of a child and the last breath of a
Mother and the last breath of a soldier
is followed by silence
We see our silence
Not as we knew it
And we wish to return to it
Though we are too changed….
From the dead zone texts
Poem number five
17 December 2016