Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Not Down Yet, My Friend

Thank God Great Spirit Mother Wit Sister Moon

you managed to stay alive again

despite all the wrong workings

of that body (well, and mind)

bold errors in judgment,

those sleepwalking elixirs,

the underhanded means of humans,

self-indulgences like ghost trackers

hunting in daylight or dark, into the

advent of happiness, inside bright hoops of love.

It can be a long howl toward peace.

But you just get up–if needed, one-legged–

shove off sick bed, shake lioness head

toss out a guttural laugh with eyes like horizons

What a mighty fine morning, I woke up again

what trouble are you up to? Need any help?

And we both know those days are over

so now there are little rescues, holding up the roof,

warming empty hands, not running for cover.

We made it this far, my friend,

and it’s better than we hoped

so there is sure–not today, not ever–no going back

as long as we can get through another door,

seek truth, care –as long as we can answer,

one to the other, on this mad earth, and–

let’s face it–if not.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: A Small Knowing

Photos of Pacific Ocean beaches, Cynthia Guenther Richardson-copyright 2020

This body knows some of light.
It has followed gradations
slipping east to west,
beams of sun and moon
that cast sparks of wisdom
on an earthbound being.

Such messages from afar
appease my longing.
The homesickness like thirst.

I have walked along its edges
and deemed it wanting,
transparent shadows
(or remnants of lost light),
harboring me without demand but
also without my full consent.
I have scooped up light while falling,
hands cupped for sustenance, more power.
I have called it closer only
to find austerity, a hard review
of endless want. Denial is an answer.

But that light which knows me loves me,
delivers me to the Source. I slip within,
shed flesh, find spirit braver.

But how can we stay alive without living?

When does light reveal its colors if we are not watching?

Every step closer breaks water as it fills this vessel.

This soul knows signs of light.
It accepts transformation.
It allows slow burning radiance
to envelop me in its long passages.

How can we love if the soul does not?

It carries me like wind carries seed.
Come, it tells me,
may you shine, shine
far beyond this blinded time.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: This Flesh on Earth

How tender this skin, voluminous

frailty of flesh that nets our dreams

labors in favor of greater longevity

hijacks time and its intentions

redresses error to redouble efforts

carries fear and courage in cellular symmetry

sees depth and breadth in a flash

accepts lust or purity in equal measure

entreats mind and Mother Wit to share wisdom

quiets then rings out voices of billions

bears all stories and creates more tellers

harbors secrets or offers them freedom

restrains, forgoes and denies basic needs

and welcomes touch, water, bread

fights losing battles to preserve a breath

then sooner or later relinquishes its hold:

this skin that brings the miracles together

until– well-used or unbearable– it is shed:

bless this flesh that we may live better,

bless and guard us in our deep seclusions

and may we use great libraries of mind

discover cosmologies of spirit

hear songs of earth and galaxies

dance with a resurrecting Light

to the beat of the blood-deep

yes I mean yes hold close this one moment

lift up our weeping hearts, feel their might

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: Deconstruction, Renewal

Photos by Cynthia Guenther Richardson 2020

Abstraction, dismantling the function

of things, of spaces, of partnerships

brings an essence of

form and its originators,

play of light on matter,

life in hand like water,

flotation when there was gravity,

gathering where there was separation,

movement where there was bondage.

This is what there is of love:

possibility though there was little left,

regeneration where all was static when

waiting to be undone,

peeled to the core,

discovered.

Friday’s Passing Fancy/Poem: A Small Incantation for Restoration of Goodness

These reminders of the old ways come forward-

so long have we been arriving from Spirit,

how long has the world been turning, teeming–

and the promise I feel beneath my feet

where the heart of a planet yet beats

and we creatures all who live and die

amid dirt, mineral, insect,

moss and vine, the tides that turn,

taste and hear and see. Feel at one.

I seek more courage, my Mother, my Father.

Here are earth, air, fire, water, ether,

a map, a memory of greater things,

our place to become wise, to create, offer love.

Wings and trees that hold up the infinite sky,

every light woven with every dark,

stars combusting, planets revolving:

these that honor flesh, bones, blood

in accordance with the design,

a life made sacred for wayfaring,

a chance for knowing and unknowing.

Ancient callings rise to the present,

on blessings of rain and bright wind:

May there be a vast undoing

of these maladies which grip us in

this time and circumstance where

reckless want devours need and the needy

and power blasphemes humanity, numinosity,

and mind and spirit shrink back

though God-in-all abhors all ways of hate,

and yet– waits, waits for us

to kneel, to speak and sing out, stand up

rekindle the fine cosmic order,

as you and you and I do become

braver. Truer. Ever good.

We are just this far from the All Divine,

closer than dared believe,

we are star filament, souls afire.

May we remember, our Mother/Father,

as we labor. Seek. Transform.