I hear it in the twilight there; the
Head of Orpheus singing
It comes out of the black earth shining
Wrapped in a cloak of shadows
Who can trace it or predict its path or flight
Ink stained wings beating the air
In the clap and the step of the flamenco
Dancer
The last breath of the bruised guitar
The hand of the trembling poet who
Channels lightning terrible and swift
It moves in creation as well as destruction
The onyx statue that waits in the desert
To be worn down by wind and sand and Time
The canvas of the purple and yellow dawn
And the artist that summons it like a daemon
The fallen angel polishing the skull of a once
Great King
In crypts and cathedrals
In chapels and temples
And the sacred groves when so moved to
Animate and waken there where it dwells
In the deepest recess of the mind
I call
Do you hear me my secret twin?
I summon, I invoke you
I break these manacles that enslave
You to Time
I free you from the battlefields where
Blood and bone stain and scrape
Consecrated ground
Come and invigorate these pale limbs
Brink your black fire and death song
To all who seek to know your name

I came singing
Pushed through the water
I came dumb
Without a man on my side
I drifted downward
From the moon
With every indication
This city would be mine
I came to under the mirrored water
Blue-black wings shining
Feather issuing streams of light
I came in the Mother's toothed ******
My black eyes blessed with insight
I came alone, with brave words
For speeches
And a riddle from the Unicorn
To solve
I came with a curse on my head
And gifts to bestow on mankind
I came with a song etched in stone
I came valiant
I came meek
Crawling backward like a crab
In the sea foam
I came heart broken
Without weeping
Clothed in rags
And precious stone

"Time flowing in the night"
                           Alfred Lord Tennyson

"Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?"
                           Walter Von der Vogelweide


Look for the sleepers on
Their backs, eyes closed,
Their palms upturned to sacrifice
Their dreaming bodies to the night.

Not knowing that even as the
Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold,
And as their long dark lashes lazily open,
They are not waking from their dreams.
Outside the hummingbird whirring in
Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl
Shutting its fierce yellow eyes

Are dreams too;
All dreams.

The morning routine:
The taste of honey and oats
On the tongue, the orange-yellow
Melon scooped and swallowed hard,
Waking the senses; the bitter coffee,
The slightly burned toast

Dreams,
All dreams.

It was a book delivered to him
By a misty-eyed stranger in rags
Who spoke but a few words barely
Audible and, with a toothless grin,
Hobbled away, though his gait was
Somehow a noble one.
This had happened a few nights ago,
Only the book remained unopened,
He was too tired at the end of the
Day and there was work to do in
The fields and that stubborn tractor
Breaking down each midday.

It was last evening that his curiosity
Got to him and he kicked off his
Work boots and sat with it in the
Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles
And began to read.
He was not a reader much; his time
Reading was mostly spent on the
Good Book, which he found somewhat
Difficult to stay focused on.
But this book was different: he was
Engaged after the first sentence.
There was a stirring in his chest
And he intuited from the incredible
Words that there was something here
That was true.
He read until the moon was high
In the night sky and he turned the
Last page at sometime after midnight,
Falling into an easy sleep in which
He dreamed that he was a Persian
Prince and each night he was told
A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW
that he was dreaming and he knew
There was such a thing as magic, even
In his mundane world.

Now the sun in a heat haze.
The old chipped weathervane on the
Tin roof of the barn, casting a long
Shadow on the rows of wheat,
Waiting to be harvested.
As he climbed onto the rusty
Tractor he felt a sense of wonder
Present in all these things.
As the old tractor belched and
Caught fire, he had the thought
That if he was still dreaming,
As the book had said, he felt more
Awake than he had ever been in
His life.

"Time flowing in the night"
                           Alfred Lord Tennyson

"Have I dreamt my life, or was it a true one?"
                           Walter Von der Vogelweide


Look for the sleepers on
Their backs, eyes closed,
Their palms upturned to sacrifice
Their dreaming bodies to the night.

Not knowing that even as the
Sun rises wearing a halo of liquid gold,
And as their long dark lashes lazily open,
They are not waking from their dreams.
Outside the hummingbird whirring in
Dizzying aeronautics, and the barn owl
Shutting its fierce yellow eyes

Are dreams too;
All dreams.

The morning routine:
The taste of honey and oats
On the tongue, the orange-yellow
Melon scooped and swallowed hard,
Waking the senses; the bitter coffee,
The slightly burned toast

Dreams,
All dreams.

It was a book delivered to him
By a misty-eyed stranger in rags
Who spoke but a few words barely
Audible and, with a toothless grin,
Hobbled away, though his gait was
Somehow a noble one.
This had happened a few nights ago,
Only the book remained unopened,
He was too tired at the end of the
Day and there was work to do in
The fields and that stubborn tractor
Breaking down each midday.

It was last evening that his curiosity
Got to him and he kicked off his
Work boots and sat with it in the
Reclining chair; he put on his spectacles
And began to read.
He was not a reader much; his time
Reading was mostly spent on the
Good Book, which he found somewhat
Difficult to stay focused on.
But this book was different: he was
Engaged after the first sentence.
There was a stirring in his chest
And he intuited from the incredible
Words that there was something here
That was true.
He read until the moon was high
In the night sky and he turned the
Last page at sometime after midnight,
Falling into an easy sleep in which
He dreamed that he was a Persian
Prince and each night he was told
A story by a beautiful girl. He KNEW
that he was dreaming and he knew
There was such a thing as magic, even
In his mundane world.

Now the sun in a heat haze.
The old chipped weathervane on the
Tin roof of the barn, casting a long
Shadow on the rows of wheat,
Waiting to be harvested.
As he climbed onto the rusty
Tractor he felt a sense of wonder
Present in all these things.
As the old tractor belched and
Caught fire, he had the thought
That if he was still dreaming,
As the book had said, he felt more
Awake than he had ever been in
His life.

What will you do when the clocks no longer tell?
After you smash to pieces Cronos' clock
And you slip into the stillpoint as the Eye opens
In the palm of your hand; after you cross
The Threshold and return to offer up your Boon
To man.
When the ego falls away and you begin your
Gift of servitude.
When the trees drip light, and each child you
See has around their head a circle of light.
Light surging up and over,
Bleeding from eyes and hands;
Oceans of light illuminating beaches;
Lovers enveloped in a cocoon of light;
The crow blasting through photons,
Climbing currents into the face of the sun
To erupt in all-consuming flame;
Like William Blake driving Apollo's
Chariot into a supernova;
Walt Whitman pulling from the River
Why a fish erupting and igniting his
Beard, showering him in corpuscles of light;
Like a Devish whirling, shooting off sparks
And laughing like a madman dancing and
Burning in the Dragon's jaws.
And Vincent, in your dreams, deep in a
Sea of sunflowers looking up at you
With the wondrous eyes of a child
And waving his arms like a Sorcerer
Conjuring and you see what he sees:

Heaven in a wildflower.

A shadow stands beneath the tree
Pointing at its heart.
The Other lies in a puddle
Of blood on the forest floor.
There, the shadow begins to
Merge with the tree; going thin,
Wide, spreading inward, leaving
The body on the ground to its
Own sad fate.
The shadow raises its hands upward,
Fanning them like leaves; its black
Skin becomes rough, porous,
Joining the roots that splay
Underneath the soil, reaching and
Seeing those invisible kingdoms.

There, with an intuition of its
New life, it forgets shame,
And hatred
And fear.
It wants to give up its shadow
Ways, and live a new life,
A pure life;
Simple being,
Never hurting another thing.

I know you;
I recognize the sorrow in your eyes.
These roots run deep;
They are the calluses of the world.
You come from the center
At the heart of time; you are proud,
And trusting, wounded and bleeding,
And your shame drags you down
Like a lead weight into the
Darkest regions of your mind.
I have seen your daughter; I believe
She has your mother's eyes.
She is the brightest jewel you
Cannot touch, and you are wading
Water until it is time.
I think I will call you Narcissus,
And pluck that flower and
Place it between the pages
Of a treasured book, the one
Celebrating the life of the Poet
Who no one loved until he died.
I know you are hiding from the
Gaze of the Gorgon's eyes, with
Arrow notched and bow drawn,
With the intention of slaying
Her before you turn to stone.
I know you walk the dark woods
Where there is no path,
Insistent on making your own.
Here, I drop a pebble and watch
Your face ripple until it comes
Smooth again.
The calm, black water frames
Your haggard face and masks
Its hidden depths.
Behind your face there is
Darkness looking inward
Like a collapsing star.
Your mouth moves like mine
But it does not speak; it betrays
The artist you think you are.
Just one thing before I
Let you reclaim the depths in
Which you swim.
I have denied knowing you
Three times already, and told
I look a lot like you I have sworn
"I am not him."

High above and brave;
Taunting the waters below.
With this bridge we have conquered
Open spaces
And Time opens its wings
To let us pass without aging.
Who ages on the bridge?
No one.
Children are arrested in a state
Of wondrous apprehension.
The old forget gravity's pull
On their brittle bones.
It is a marvelous thing that connects
Our world to
Middle Earth and Rivendell; the great
Castle of Gormenghast, Narnia and
The fathomless depths of Cthulu; the
Temples of the Oracles; the lost rock
Walls of the Necropolis; the emerald
Towers of Oz; the Memorial to Krypton
In the Fortress of Solitude; the waters of
Lethe; the expanse of Midgard and the
Rainbow Bridge; Mount Olympus;
Daedelus' Labyrinth; the Inferno, the
Purgatorio and the Paridisio; the dark
Forest's of Pan; and the broad field's of
Chiron.
And the galaxy of stars, of worlds destroyed
And created by your Will, that shapeshifter
Of Prima Materia that stretches out in
The limitless space that is your mind.
This ancient construction of arched
Rock, mankind's greatest achievement
That draws the curious, the adventurous
Without verdict or punishment, and gives
Them the ability to walk on air, defeating
The current of death that rushes
Obliviously below.

They come to the Garden
One by one.
With a gentle lion by my side, and a
Brilliantly colored peacock strutting
Close behind me
I meet them each night beneath
The beaming smile of sister moon.
I shake the stardust from my hair;
I am the creature that absorbs all light;
I greet them as a man, though I might easily
Descend from the currents, gently coming
Down, a creature on the wing.
They come to me mute, tongues silenced,
And I see the desperation in their eyes.
They come to me because they have
No words.
Far below the surface of this world, at
Its hollow core, Chronos keeps watch
on his giant clock.
He strokes his long white beard, and
Sips the steaming contents from his
Jewel- bedecked goblet, the clock resounding
with every tick and tock and the inhabitants
Of this lost city let it rule them with its
Rigid demands.
The clock tells them when it is time
Time to sleep and when it is time to rise.
It tells them when to eat and when to make love.
It even tells them when it is time to die.
And should one try to break free of the bond
And the weight that keeps them enslaved
Their heartbeat, loudly beating its own time,
Would be silenced by the others who fear
Its heresy might lend itself to chaos and
Threaten their order; or incite the old god's
Wrath.
In all that dark and stifling world there
Is only one place outside of Chronos' reach.
It is my realm; a place untouched by solid
Things, existing only in a thought, a wish,
Or a dream.
It is a Garden where we, the First dwelt,
Naked and innocent before death appeared
To stake its claim.
And I, a descendent of that primordial couple,
Am a creature of infinite faces and unknowable
Names; and each night they come to see me,
Bringing Gifts, simple things made by grateful
And earnest hands.
In return I give them a word, a word never
Known to any in their world.
This word comes to them like a whisper, and
Grows in their minds like the fruit of
A Timeless Tree.
I am the one that pulls words out of that dark
Place; I am full of words, the last of my kind,
A race that had made our Kingdom out
Among the far stars.
My kind were the keeper of words and in our
Minds were kept the history of worlds
Both ancient and new.
The lion purrs, yawns and stretches. And
The peacock spreads its plumage like
A dark and shining rainbow.
And I bestow on them the Gift.

Words.
So filled with power.
Of magic.
Coming up and out
Of the Mystery.
Naming things.
Rooted in the
Glowing mists of dream.
Priceless, a great and shining
Gift: words.

Sear your wounds
With underwater flame
And sacred sorrows.
There is hurt in your eyes,
And a bitter heart moored
In the leaves of your open
Veins.
A girl of salt will bring
A cup of tears
To wash your broken feet.
They are burnt tears,
The girl a ******,
And youngest of sisters three.
In her silver mirror you will
See the reflection of a tortured face.
She will place her hands
Tightly over your eyes
And her palms will bring
The night like black sunflowers.
While death meditates
You will have perfect dreams
Of faces rife with compassion;
And centuries will pass
Under the mirrored water.
When you awake
You will possess great power;
And it will free you like an
Arrow to its ark.
The heart's sharp pain
Will release you and you will
Go forward into the dawn
Like wildflowers exploding
On their stems.

I am not those lips that
                  drink death
                   I am the constellation
                    of a sky full of black birds
                    only solitude is real;
                               when the claws that
                                 rip and tear
                                 cannot get past the locked door
                     until I am ready to wear the mask again