I’ve been purified by fire;
washed and scoured by raging rain;
buffeted hither and yon by
winds of changing fortune.
Never safely planted to grow strong roots
that hold me close and whisper
soothing lullabies.
I have suffered all, not gladly,
but fortuitously.
I have survived, have imbibed
the luscious nectar of hard found
fruits, endured trials
testing every aspect of integrity,
grown in wisdom and honour
and lack of trust
for any who have never dwelled
in these wicked realms.
No one may know these travails but I and
the holy trio who
underwrite my progress.
No matter. 
We are, my traveling band:
inspiration, organization
and sacred core of self-empowerment
forge intimate family
I have always so desperately
I am blessed, blissed.
I am that I am and none
shall cast asunder.
Fall into whispered memory,
the best of scenes in dreams, in ether.
No time left for hope.
It’s do or die unsung.
One scene at a time.
Busy weaving
click, click, click, click
Moving, breathing, in the rhythm,
straight ahead.
Never glancing past the engine
that entrains, chugging
brain engaged by current of song,
encouraging movement
on cue, on time, in serial rhyme.
This surreal fantasy
weaving, weaving…
Always on the threshold.
Never really anywhere.
On the road from here to there.
Not accepting.
In motion, like a trance, without a goal.
Expecting what?  A fortune to be
told?  A jaunty rainbow?
The miracle of love?
Stalling at the crossroad,
on the threshold,
unsure of correct direction.
Whose reflection
calls to follow?
The Moon, she shines
brightly, suffuses sky,
so hard and cold and unaware.
Where is my soft strong melody?
Where is that voice, sonorous glee,
tug of eerily familiar tune?
Running through umbra of night,
hoping to surface, wild and free.
Yet, as Sunrise obscures
my vision,
sense recedes. Lost, treading 
miles of exhaust and grease.
Chain fast food, car shops and fuel, infest
this secondary road.
No wavery door marked by ornate
gargoyle knocker shows.
I reach for higher substance, better trance.
Mystic keys, clues to advance vast scavenger hunt,
peek discreetly along arid, apocalyptic trail.
When each clicks into place,
a lock will open.
If I am wise, I will arise,
walk the circle,
traverse the threshold,
up the stairway,
home at last.


#4 Scales, Veils & Tales* * * *October

Peaceful Co-Creating Emerging Visions #16 October