The geese
Form a procession
in their northern formal dress.
Single file they march down
The hill
Coming from deep out of
the tree line and through
A courtyard of grass and sedge,
Their solemn walk
An act of unison metered by
webbed feet.
And an overdone elegance.

At shore of the pond
They prostrate themselves,
Head bowed to the water.
As if encountering an old
priestess among the
church pews.
Solemnly they shake their
Necks like human hands-
A time honored ritual.
Then, an unknown cue,
Their heads
turn up to the blue sky
launching themselves Into
the water
splash-less, like
Floating clouds blown on
The breeze.
Now moving independently,
leaving ripple paths
across the pond.
The ritual has ended.

everything under the sun
has a shadow
my brother the hawk
my sister the tree
myself this spirit am I
put into form
on my journey
I walk forward
on my path
to the great infinity
beyond time
the tree is me
I am the tree
we are one
as is everything under the sun

Have you seen the Goddess Moon tonight?
She rises flush, the color of ancient, bleached bone.
Magnified by her own regal-ness.
She hangs above the charcoal black tree tops.
Her reflective, pale light diminishing and
intensifying as her dress of wispy, threaded clouds
moves in front of her seraphic face.

Fae, built from shadows of canopy and the sound of twigs breaking, dance in the Moon's undulating radiance-- a reticent waltz.
Not far off-- from behind me, from in front of me,
I hear the fox cry and the coyote yip.
Then a call I can not identify, a rasping,
weighted down with mass and age.
A scraping made by heavy stones grinding together.
Perhaps it is the door of the Barrow opening.
Allowing one courtesan reveler to
come pay ancient homage to the Moon.  

A night-breeze blows out of the east
carrying the smell of Ipomoea and Almonds.
In her light the Oak and Maple leaves wave and shimmer.
The forest shakes its coat of green,
waking, after a long nap.
Enraptured, I stand, letting the poetry of the moment,
the master surrealist-- my own mind, paint
impossible murals of symbolic meaning
from what I observe.

Overhead her pale Majesty receeds up,
Her magnitude reducing as her distance increased.
I watch her go...
Have you seen the Goddess Moon tonight?

As the sun slips away to die in the eve,
I lie in wait for your thunderous howl.
My knees quiver and my tail shivers
Under intrusive moonlight so bright.

My claws rake against the fragile wood--
Would you? O, would you howl for me?

I give chase; though, I long for embrace.
A feline may flee, but she is flighty.
Nothing satisfies the hunger more than the way you sprint to me.
Am I a tease? Or does my game please you?

The hunter in you craves the chase more than I do.
Be you wolf or not, I can outrun you--
And yet, it is not my desire to.

I throw my race and give up the chase under the ghostly moon for now.

I do not flee you anymore.
I want to make you howl.

there's something disgusting about young love because we're conditioned to desire it
"your time will be up soon"
"you don't want to die alone"
"find someone early and work on them"

"WORK on them"

that's for the birds
i am a puma

a puma doesn't waste time worrying about who will sprint with her or love her in winter
a puma will have her fill until her hunger is sated
two rabbits for lunch and a buck for dinner
"aren't you lonely?"
no, because a good hunt requires solitude

why is it we are so keen to find love early and rush the hunt rather than
wait until we've become seasoned to the task?

i sink my claws into my prey and rejoice in the warmth of my victory as i whisper,
"think of all the time you spent choosing
when you should have been
hunting"

The walls have faces,
so our minds say.
That’s all it is,
a trick of the mind.
Right?

But what if the streets have souls
quite like us?
What if there are faces,
real faces
unlike we thought.
Right.

Ogun owed Oxun for the fee he paid
to divorce Yemayá in the watery deep.
Babalu Aye‘s messenger delayed
(no *** in the bargain – price too steep)
until San Martín, divine caballero
deceived the third wife of el Indio Guerrero.

(Obatala‘s beats got lost in transit
the rhythm robbed by macumba-bandit.)

Eleguá cleared paths for He Who Opens Pores.
Black roosters smoked puros at midnight. Outdoors,
Santa Muerte was asked to turn down the noise
so Nana Buluku could get some sleep.

As she gathered Ashé, reduced to a heap
of Yoruba fool’s gold anointed with blood
Oduduwa pretended he understood;
but his mother-in-law knew he never would
until Olódùmarè returned from the feast
having sacrificed roosters while facing east.

The santero drew me a pictogram
to protect me from forces my poem conjured
but the blood of a sacrificed perfect lamb
affords more protection, I knew. He wondered.