Undulations

Butterfly visions
Abound in the wrist

– A flick of a tempest
– A wick of a cyst

A fiery sorceress
Tempts and expands

A wizened old mistress
Unfolds her worn hands

A child underneath
A girl yet unborn

A teenager
Sullen and stricken with scorn

All of these women
Are here with me now

They speak in the spaces
That I can’t avow

They leave a mark, sudden
A contemptuous spark

Lines that condemn – and affirm – from the start.

Vessel of ‘Me’

Cringing in blackness –
Greed of the seed
I don’t want to enchant
These things that I need.

Forsaken souls parted,
Drifting afloat
Aloft of the carcass
Missing the boat.

What if our vision
Is only a ruse?
A giant game started
Only to bruise?

Happenchance meetings
Run wholly amuck,
Heart strings strewn all around
And I’m stuck.

A piece of me here,
A piece of me there,
A piece of me drifting
Away to the lair…

Located down,
And deeper down still,
Launching through waterfalls,
Leaping to spill.

I cannot be here
Any more than I
Can keep this work started
And here by my side.

Heart Song

Sightings, songs, lullabies
Starting down the road

I see myself before the seeds
And where I need to roam

“Please be by my side today,
and exist within forever.”

“Of course,” I hear, replied to me
“Why would you think it’s never?”

Heart-Shaped Herring

Boney, stringent
Lines that cross

Steely gazes
Minds of loss

Pearls of wisdom
Lined up, neat

Beaten down
With golden wheat

Trusting no one
“Who is there?”

Fraught with misery
Winds that scare

Solace seeks us
– Every – One –

Yet turned away
We look for Sun

The rain will fall
If only we’d ask!

The hidden heart flutters
“Are you up to the task?”

Plexus

Mindless galaxies triumph by
Locking mechanisms, each in stride
Leaving by the wayside, knock
The pocks of craters, grateful stock.

Sinking to my knees and then
Putting bygones at the end
Crass, brass, renegades pass,
Not really listening to the grass.

Meet me here, again and now,
Meet me there within the bow.

Sight

Breathing, misty,
Into light
Yearning for much more,
Despite.

Be here now,
Walk the line
Never straying
Down the spine.

Follow footsteps
That you know
They are there before you,
In the snow.

Do not question
Your own heart
For that was there
Before the start.

Cardinality

Starry folds
Hands entwine

Lightning burns
Time unwinds

Light years ahead –
See the curves!

Love the blisters
Twinge-ing nerves

Like a stone-man
From the ground

Like a pebble
Echoing sound

Dropped from my perch –
Way up high –

Falling, twisted
Through the sky

I know not where
The falling goes

But faith, have I
To touch my toes.

Within (the heart)

Glittering sparks, glistening time,
Setting forth intention in rhyme.

Falling suns and perfect moons,
Sitting princes with harpoons.

Hoping for the moment, ripe
Seeking hardship, writing type.

Fortunes wait in stiller tides,
Myriad minds are making strides.

Tied to the sun rays, moon beams, stars,
Traveling space to far flung scars.

Shooting back – arms wide in thanks,
Hearts pour open, fill the ranks.

These sparks know not what care they do,
They only see the One in you.

“Language-twisting-twisting”

Words are always following me. They hang above, trailing me wherever I go. Constantly composing, re-forming, re-stating. Once I have a moment of peace or silence, they flood me like the deluge…. An onslaught of compositions, essays, poetry, and random statements.

I am used to this constant internal narrative. It’s been there for me all along, so it’s all I know. Constant and normal. But I do have to work to keep it productive and not obsessive. Once I open the gates to the flood, it is hard to retain balance. To find the prior equilibrium. I’m working on it, but it is an ongoing battle. A battle I enjoy, really, so I am at least thankful for that!

The more I write these thoughts and think things out in words, the more I find it’s not really about the words at all. The individual words, meanings, or technical skill. It’s not even about the literal story. No… it’s really only about conveying a concept. Communicating a feeling. Incepting pictures to the hearts and minds of others and to myself. The words themselves are meaningless, but together with intention and imagination they create, transform, and build.

Feeling these concepts in my writing, spirited and soulful concepts, is the goal. I hope I am on the right track. It feels good, and moves me passionately, so I think I am stepping in the right direction. The pictures of the soul are so much more communicative than any human written piece could aspire to be. Transformative, intimate, touching. These pictures are the ones I reach for and hope to glimpse.

Amazonian shamans have a distinct relationship with words. They talk and describe their spiritual journeys and ayahuasca dreams in far-reaching metaphors that seem nonsensical to the outsider – but they make perfect sense to them. They tell us that this is the only way one can know the unknowable and examine the unseen. To get close. To glimpse.

They describe this as tsai yoshtoyoshto, which means “language-twisting-twisting.”

In his wonderfully readable memoir about his studies in the Peruvian jungle with indigenous peoples, The Cosmic Serpent, author and anthropologist Jeremy Narby posits why they must speak in twisted language – the “language that is double and wrapped around itself.” The shamans use their koshuiti, or particular song they sing, during their hallucination dreams in order to communicate with what they are seeing. They say:

“With my koshuiti I want to see – singing, I carefully examine things – twisted language brings me close but not too close – with normal words I would crash into things – with twisted ones I circle around them – I can see them clearly.”

Here, we could infer that normal language does not let us know these concepts adequately. We need the metaphoric meaning, as this is the only real way to see. Mental pictures cannot be described in mere words. They are concepts, feelings, pictures that reach beyond and within the self.

I have been writing my poetry stream-of-consciousness style for a while now, and I am only just grasping the pictures and concepts that it conveys to me. When I write, I try to let it flow unhindered, and it naturally comes out in rhyme. I’ve decided not to fight it – indeed, maybe rhyme is the best way of seeing the universe?

I will heed to the “language-twisting-twisting” as it shows me what I cannot see in this rationalistic, brain-based world. It shows me the language of the heart…in singsong.

*

I want to know, but feel unrest.
I want to formulate the best.
And so I must take my time…

Pyramids are built in rhyme.

Deceleration

Breaking bread in utmost haste
Singing soldiers, making paste
Sought amongst the gravel ruins
Partial maladies seek cocoons.

Casting nets both wide and vast
Reeling in the fishes fast
Cranking, beating,
Flesh and bone
I can’t see past the hues and tone.

Fast forward through
The muck and dew,
Slowing down now,

Breathe.

Anew.