Rite of Passage

you ask me
to carry you
to the pyre,
to burn
bury
or leave you
unspurned,
to be devoured
by the elements
that design
both life
and death.

but how do I
perform
the last rites
of a seed,
which
in its falling
to its deathbed,
explodes into life?

when a hush
between seasons
is breached by
a noiseless seed-burst,
holding within
its failed shell,
forests and deserts of yore,
cracked dust still warm
upon a moistened shore,
springs and winters
yet unborn,
and all of life's
stardust confetti?

and so when you ask,
I stand frozen
upon my trembling feet,
eyes welling up
in disbelief,
for I know
all I can do
is hold this
unfathomable space,
where you and I
are but motifs
on a shimmering shroud,
walking together
in every step
of this rite of passage.

Down the Alley

every once in a while
I walk down that alley
where walls grow in
to touch each other,
where shadows lurk
without a form,
where there's no space
to walk for two;
yes, there are moonbeams
and foggy streetlights
down the block,
but here in the alley
there's only inky black
stitched into every crack
on the cold stone walls;
yes, every once in a while
I walk down that alley
where my body grows eyes,
and prickly spines
of wicked laughter
choke a heart
that bleeds red wine;
where the eerie claws
of deathly silence
dig into the hollows
as I grope,
and a heavy cloak
upon the chest
is where
a raucous breath is caught;
yes, there's a fire in that alley
that's been seething there for long,
there's hatred and there's kindness,
and lost souls waiting to be found;
there's sadness and misery,
and poverty of thoughts,
where shadows laugh together,
where there's adventure to go around;
so if some day you miss me,
you'll know just where to look,
I'll be there down in that alley,
where you don't really want to look.

Thoughts and Words

sometimes
thoughts
and words
stick
in my head
like drops of glue;

sometimes
they dart
across
like starlings
from an
unsettled tree;

sometimes
they slip into
a dark void
like pennies
falling
to their
soundless end;

sometimes
they melt
like popsicles
rolling along
a sleepy
warm tongue;

oh! how I wish
I could catch them,
and hold them
for just a moment,
a little longer,
so I could listen
to what they
have to say;

but they
come and go
like happy travellers
exploring
a shifting landscape,
where
to rest a while
is a trespass
on silence's shore.

There is no hurry

there is no hurry-
listen
to the wheels turn
even when they are
still
as they move.

there is no hurry -
listen
to them converse
with a pliant earth
who holds, then
releases them
from their bondage
and self-imposed
oppression.

there is no hurry -
listen
to the silent drumbeat
of the cosmos,
tune into
the void
where song
and dance
meet and die
and are reborn
endlessly
as the whirling dervish.

stop.
listen.
there is no hurry -
to get somewhere,
to find yourself
anywhere,
but here.