12th Century - Anonymous*

Lullay, lullay, my tiny child,
Too soon you’ll know the world so wild,
Yes all too soon, you will be grown,
And I’ll bide here, alone, alone.
The rushing billows you shall ride,
And the light of the North Star will be your guide,
But yet awhile, I’ll have you stay,
Lullay my sweet one, my child lullay.
For you shall run in meadows green,
And sport with otters all in the stream,
And you shall chase the dappled deer,
And swim with salmon in waters clear.
To pluck the small birds from the sky,
On the tail of the South Wind you shall fly,
And take the high hills for your home,
Blood of my blood, bone of my bone.
The moon must sleep beyond the tree,
So weep sweet maid of Galilee,
The sun must rise before the cross,
To dry your tears and share your loss.
The darkest hour of the starless night
Must bow to the power of the Eastern light,
That heals the Earth and makes us whole,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul.
And when at last your course is run,
Joy of my joy, my little one,
Beneath the sky you’ll stand alone,
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.
Yes, you shall stand on the coal black sands,
To cross o'er the waters of Western Lands,
But now I have you at my breast,
Lullay my sweet one, gently rest.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SrQ9tTEKaI

βλέπω*

Hope flickers in gathering darkness.
War, sickness, death, poverty, loss:
we must suffer them all again.
The dark heart of being
wears the weary soul.
The common world of pain,
a place we all know best.
Yet even as night falls,
a new morning of light beckons.
Hope flickers but does not falter.

Consider the optimism of alchemy.
See how desperately we strive
to create what we never were
from what we really are.
A stone, a potion, a spell:
anything that can transform us
into the actual we aren't,
into the being we'll never be,
through a pulseless world
of winter, still and lifeless;
where yet, the tantalizing
possibility of Spring
beckons like the ghost
of a beautiful woman
murmuring to us:
*yes I said yes I will Yes.

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

That instant
when everything
equals
everything else
just before nothing
equals
anything else
again.

All I want for Christmas
is peace on earth
(well, at least in Amerika);
a black, velvet painting of Elvis
(the old, fat Elvis of course);
massive volcanic eruptions
along the Rim of Fire
with ensuing Tsunamis
for a bit of Yule excitement;
A Maserati (red, gently used);
health, happiness and peace of mind
for my friends and children;
a stuffed and mounted Cassowary
(but still safely caged);
a distance learning course
in Alchemy and White Magick;
continued success and mastery of
obscurity, poverty and poetry;
for all the men I served with
to be alive, thriving and happy;
for all the women I've loved
to remember me and smile;
for Steve McQueen to play me
in the upcoming movie of my life;
the usual end to world hunger
(more Kale for everyone!);
a bottle of pure testosterone,
tumescence and liver disease combined
(just once, Doc, I promise);
a routine, tropical winter for Pennsylvania;
release from the burden of time,
but not immediately;
to end all my dreams with laughter;
to meet and shake hands with Buddha;
and, of course, to see you again.
Think that's too much to ask?
It goes without saying
I have been very, very good
(just ask my loving, schizophrenic cat).

Poems are
the deeds of language,
but meaning
dances in the silence
between the lines.
Listen hard.
Take up the dance.