Monday, April 2, 2012

The Secret Ministry of the Moon

The Secret Ministry of the Moon

Cool breeze from behind me whispers
From the dark, over my exposed ears
While frogs and bugs speak vespers
Of Mother Earth’s trickling tears…

These deepest and highest mysteries
Of the body zoom away
Upon every Merry Little Breeze
That escapes the day…

For the Moon’s ancient name: Soma—
Has 100 trillion rounded cells that all remember and each
Is complex and comes-and-goes
From bruised clouds your gentled hands can teach…

Each time you smile at me
The universal becomes specific
As moonlight sets us free
And living becomes terrific.

Poetry is a sacred calling
From void-to-void, souls lost
Recall the fires of Mr. Coleridge—
His breath made visible by
The secret ministry of frost.

Bugs dance to-and-from
The brilliance of my brow
And I wonder—must we sacrifice something alive
To make art? Or is it quite the opposite, in that
We defy death and create in that place
’Twixt love and fear
Where all stars blaze as meteors
And all that we know
Is breathing unaware
Of anything but the flow?

The gentle yet relentless wind
Picks up on the brow of the blind hill—
Then strokes invisible hands along forest tops
Until, until…
I’m breathing still at this end of the forest track;
And Brother Moon goes down in the west
Behind my back.


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