beholden ~ ~ ~

 beholden ~ 

how do we get from there 

to here 

here to there 

afar from womb & wonder 

tightly bound gravity held 

to the 

percussive lightening 

wicked wildling 

riotously arriving

wearing chaos & wisdom 

in an old comfy black tee 

woven from ancient-star-stories 

then 

tossing it aside for raw giggly-ridiculous-laughter 

piercing 

cutting

cuttting

cutting

thru the shit

hold tight & release 

hold tight & release 

hold tight & release 

leaving space

only …space .. and the awareness

of space 

you taught well oh coyote wizard … oh being of light! 

being of joy! 

stretch

i can't separate enough

peel

myself away from the wonder or the tumult 

long 

     enough to write a word down 

maybe i should try to write a word up 

with the tiny white hairs of my dog 

or the blood of a thousand sorrows that feels so laced within this day . . . 

all here 

all knowing 

maybe i can just become a cloud full of particles & 

change & sunlight . . ..

maybe then 

just then i can become hollow enough 

full enough to listen to the wind
finding contentment in the bind 

contrast abides

 pressed between this alice blue sky of morning 

here within the walls of home & things 

with every step i circle the drain 

of dying & death 

a misplaced vowel 

a broken heart 

a ripped dish towel 

foretells of a sorrow branched in ash 

replete with the softest goodbyes while flooded waters rise throat-high  

morphing to a great plains hurricane 

thundering tunneling closer to that alice-blue sky than 

any thoughts on death & dying 

pause here 

and wonder at the light 

vokzal

What is it that attracts?
that pulling together of fragments:
moths to flame
hands to hearts
ink to page 
polarized metal
butter to knives 
skin to skin
eyes to the garden of possibility 
tetthered 
to 
aubergine rye-whiskey dreams
the torn edges of leather coats
and
childhood gardens
a myriad of particles collide in recogniton 
something shared 
something desired 
gestures seem innocous
thrown down as carmine on leaves 
and borealis wounds 
a minutiae of fluttered moments hanging breathless
the plethora of pleasure gleamed in the capture 
intellect to intention 
light to shadow
close to open 
wings to weather 

magnectic north 
lies in the curve 
of you 

of six-thirty in the morning

in the morning when birds are remembering their feathers 

i walk with my wee scruffy dog 

stumbling over worms & branches & my own remembering 

forgetting to look up where clouds shift & separate & open 

filling my lungs with promise & forgiveness 

and by the time i return home i have become my dog 

the feathers 

the clouds 

open & remembering 

contemplation #7/15/25

i can't separate enough

peel

myself 

away from the wonder or the tumult 

long 

     enough 

to write a word down 

maybe i should try to write a word up 

with the tiny white hairs of my dog 

or the blood of a thousand sorrows that feels so laced within this day . . . 

all here 

all knowing 

maybe i can just become a cloud full of vapor & crystals 

& 

change 

& sunlight . . ..

maybe then 

just then i can become hollow enough 

full enough to listen to the wind 

and rain a word down 

Day #17 - the matter of antlers

we hold the moon against the soft bone of days 

what longing is reflected there? what missing? 

what shattered porcelain sorrows crowd this moment? 

are we too broken or merely wrapped in gossamer marrow? 

can we not talk of hounds & wonder? 

look! there! we are gathered petals at last 

come! hold the sacred thread & place the darkness in the crystal to simmer & bind 

tides turn ghosts to familiars leaning leaning with their clementine desires 

oh friends! come! once more we hold in slender hands this ancient thread 

this strange wonderous thing 

          where we become white-silver 

of 'Gypsy and harlequin' 1947 by Remedios Varo

and 'And Then we Saw the Daughter of the Minotaur' 1953 Lenora Carrington 

Day #16 -- superposition

grebes tuka 

bunting & grouse 

herons 

cormorants 

blackbirds whistle 

there --

along the Ångerman where I have spent my entire morning watching 

a moose migration 

rustling along with wind & water determined & regal 

while --

out my window 

here -- 

a redbud trembles in full amethyst glory 

and the contrast between the purple and the sky and the moose leaves me tilted & easy 

a dog barks 

and the wind carries the laughter of children or swans from a playground 4 blocks to the south 

and I become the sky and it is home 

go-round (aka late to the party)

words stopped sometime in december ....

once the unstoppable 

now a popcorn tumult churning swirling pony riding 

swelling 

hiding 

amongst brambles of clouds & chaos 

they've gone for a drive 

windows down westward ho! 

fields april golden 

as the sky whispers its cerulean secrets 

i sit between the words & the walls of a westerly wind 

... waiting 

storyline

sandhill hill cranes become words upon sandbars 

blue water becomes the spaces between 

dip & dance 

rest & ruffle 

waking to the rising sun becoming golden golden 

transforming the moment into the unexpected 

grey to blue to pink to gold 

white white 

telling an ancient story of migration & adaptation 

remaining 

staying 

true 

birds to words and back again along this bright blue water 

fields golden grain their backstory 

this story timeless 

weaving a narrative of a river morning 

winged adventure primal & perfect 

remaining 

staying 

telling another Spring tale of feathers & weather & wait ....

of wind

recycled words from sorrow's lips
replete with thundersnow & wine
darken the corners of this trip
no trace of trumpet vine
ride the north wind
as long as you dare
lashed tight - eyes closed to the chill
push the luck to the shadowlands
and
fist raised to gravity's spill
flying - always the art of kings
poets & blue
land ye soft upon fields of gold
escape lies north of you

march wind

walls flat-line to ivory sails
winter's ghost trailing
love stories defined in black sharpie
against the azure day
shifting
shifting 
dimensions blending into ripe copper moments
shifting
a single desire to feel your skin against my back
breaking the fall
into
the turning 
the
opening
of
spring
the north wind shifts suddenly to the left of you
at 30 mph
and
I
smell
the river
and all those copperline moments
sparked
&
full
distinctly riding upon the backs of sandhill cranes 

skin to feathers
wind to home 

when all is quiet in late winter

can i not find the words or the woman 

who writes under winter stars? 

barren lies the fields cold the comfort 

no tea served to crows or crocus 

no pause under bare white birch 

as the wind whips up space & forgiveness 

come sun 

come waken the reach the sugarcane wildness 

come woman 

come words 

reach me here wrapped in these melancholy drifts

come....