DAILY
The dark life remembers
What it lives without.
The shadowed psyche undresses
Strewing torn garments
Across grass, flattened by first frost,
As the bone white sliver,
Pushed by damp clouds,
Rises in twilight indigo.
The imagination unfolds,
Excited by lost affection, hapless wounds,
Careless words of what we idolize
And demonize,
What we pray for – then regret.
Can new seed, dug down with care,
Transmute this woolly life?
Can wrists and palms bent back in surrender,
Too vulnerable to hold the knife,
Carry weight, or shape mudra,
Yet lift skyward?
Can fingers, once cupped carefully
Around white stones of wealth,
Tingle in glimmering rituals?
What celebration seeds the dark life?
Who carries the shadowed psyche to the teat
Where it suckles the moon and the bone white breast?
In spring new shoots of bone white sliver rise upward towards the azure newness cupped safely within mudra hands of prayer.
I love you to the max. CarCar
I so love your poetry.I have read this many times and glean something new each time. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I smile, but most times I sigh with knowing. Bless you for sharing yourself with those of us who are unable to put our thoughts and feelings in to such beautiful words.
Love that in the re-reading new gleanings appear. It is always what is hoped for, seldom gained. It is your eyes that choose to re-read, realize, re-configure. You are the poem you choose to read. And lucky me, I am the one who submits to your vision.