Summon
Black angel came to do his bidding, to a soul he didn’t know, a kind he’d never tried. He took the gamble, with not a thing to lose in the vacuum of his chest: the poor creature had shut off the light and summoned amnesia. An alien of this planet, he pretended to understand, unsure of what to do, so I shone a light for him to make it all believable, until I had to point elsewhere. He spasmed, shook, unable to stand alone in his peculiar nature. He began compulsive calculations, came up with all sorts of numbers, descriptions, and reasons; could not comprehend his part in our world, as he came from one where mirrors didn’t exist. He’d ever seen himself in other eyes, in love’s open countenance. He pleaded for others to urge the shadows away, but no one’s help would do. I explained to him that my flashlight points to what can reflect even more, for all our sakes, but he cannot grasp that. He’ll have to live the inversion he summoned, where vacuum consumes all light. Now, I let him wander the void and maybe choose to remember… or not. I let him search for the faintest echo in the dead of silence, let him understand there is one path back to grace. A wide path, but one only, where you summon the light in.
Sleepwalkers
They’ve been noticed, now defined outside this room, the same he took the liberty of stripping of anything that didn’t make sense. He points to the sleepwalkers, dead energy that keeps running a program, and I wonder if they have an inkling, the here I go again voice in the back of their head. ¿Or do they live the scene fully, each and every time? It was the smugness in their eyes when they told the story; overcast skies in the iris, dark circles under the eye, waning crescents. Not to fear, the door is closed, shut secure -he assures. Yet they walk on my property; I didn´t mind so much before, but now it´s beginning to be unacceptable, almost unbearable, since Pluto whispers ever so intimately. He shows me forms of energy in reverse, cold electricity, when life discards fragments, cells, and membranes it won’t need to continue. He shows me the mysteries of charisma in reverse: a facade on the dark side of the Sun; a masking of light from darkened characters, gripped by misfortune, while an audience delights, basking in the cool charm of a sleepwalker who pretends to be fully awake and vigorous. I must ask now, ¿is our greatest virtue as humans the mastery of enactment, the art of delivering lines? -I utter And he says yes, we are grand at it, so much, we forgot we made it all up to cover the fact. What fact? The fact of pain and suffering. And if they do wake for moments, when the gifts of random inspiration penetrate the shell by surprise, those jupitarian rays of elation, the venusian comforts of beauty, I can see the basic child left behind, until the tissue closes off again and is back to the program, back to circling the yard, telling the story, repeating the lines. And then he says it, -time for complete removal.
Chatter on the Moon
Short form prose; Moon conjunct Mercury; getting lost in a sea of information; losing oneself to the noise of the world or the inner chatter; as above so below.
Fringe
Creative short prose, women in the family, being unusual, living in two worlds, dealing with society.
Stripping Down
Writing prose, the new role of a middle aged woman, going back to simplicity, realness, back to herself.
Vulture
Vulture as a totem, a powerful sign, reminder of an alternative view of the world today, a way of releasing, of finding peace; the art of personal power and detachment.
Slither
Year of the wooden snake, preparation, clearing up the old, finishing up, witnessing change, what has is not yet manifest, still not formed.
Prayer to go
Help my impulse, let only the purest emerge, don’t allow me to think, enough pondering has been done here. Rush me toward my truest reality, that sudden drive to your designed road, that which is my true node, the vector of my mission. Whisper it to me in sleep, the ending words ever so loud, definite phrases to broaden my glance, to see the path set forth, and faith awaiting those first steps. Appease this mind and its lunar phases, its flippant nature, steady me into the ground indicated, all its grain. Allow me to merge with the observant mountains, the steadfast trees, the pounding headaches of the city, even its decay. Train my instinct, prop it up with your breath, make it your most faithful servant, even wiser than my thoughts. Gift me the beat of thunder in my footsteps, a sense of safety for the unchartered land. Leave my mind vacant of choice, hold her down under your gaze, contained. Give us the great halt. Tame our horses into the next level of freedom, steady our anxious needs, the aimless roaming, delusion. Make us sturdy again, fit for the job of carrying forth only what is truly yours.
Autumn shades
Short piece, written prose. Autumn season, witnessing father’s diminishing body, slowing down of faculties, acknowledging a life lived, senior slowly shedding his body.
Things that Fly
When noticing things that fly, vision strives upward, blackbirds shriek, common gray ones flutter on branches, loaded with nutlets. Beyond the trees, up above, a huge bird of prey, some hawk or eagle, scans the city by air. He passes over the buildings, gliding with patience, unhurriedly, up where time is different, and mountains mock man made towers. A vision wants to take off bad, again and again, to see it all from the heights, because eyes have wings. Things that fly say freedom is the answer to grief, grasping. It is lightness much missed, unworried mentality of space, romance with those things that point to the sky, isolation from unrest and strife. Time ages in the city structures, darkness settles in the limits of property, survival mode seeps under front doors. We’ll have no more of that. Better to have wings caressed, shaped by air velocity, riding the invisible. A bird like heart, fast to pump on a given second, at the first glance of a mountainous chain, stretching beyond imagination. Things that fly, our faith is coming of age. A dragonfly in September’s clear blue, determined chopper of the currents, advisor to my ascension, proud, primitive and poised, sat on the clothesline of your huge yard. The lawn was already dry, the wind content, slightly warm, and by bare feet connected to the pricks of toasted grass. She landed and balanced as a seasoned acrobat, stoic and powerful, her eyes domes of fractals. She saw all the pieces, my fragments connected to this moment. I walked around her carefully, while the morning sun healed my chilled bones. The broken fence you haven’t been able to repair cracked a bit more, and the tool shack I noticed, is sealed shut from oxide. Memories live in the museum of your back yard, and here today, the dragonfly acknowledges that your long process and my disconsolate joints wish to heal, to swish over it all, as she would. Why, your garden is a sunroom, where our day star tells of fires still alive in us both. Meanwhile she stares and bathes too. Her wings fizz, she energizes in stillness, charging her body with sacred rays. I came to your house last September , when the first of the dragon flies saw me decide for good. I walked across, under the clothesline, in the newborn autumn, considering flight my next truth. Moths stuck to my car, as soon as the weather mellowed to humidity. Neptune had just receded back to its house, and cuddled up to good old Saturn. The pale season came with moths, fresh out of chrysalids and all that happened inside. Baby bodies gone, retreated and dissolved, reconfigured to fly. Their new wings reminded me of grandma’s curtains, somehow they’re new but still old. They sought refuge in the cavern of my SUV, in the early work morning, when light has the cadmium filter of the end of year. A minute one settled beside me, under the rearview control. Seers say moths are the bearers of transformation, and these day they stick to me, as I change lanes. In the afternoon another landed on my window sill and stayed. At night they upholstered the panes to the back of our house, drawn to a sliver of inside light. It’s the beginning of it, the timeline I can see already from this side of the livingroom. Moths like dry leaves, analogies of the elemental kingdom, flighty daughters of autumn, November’s promise of tomorrow’s stable glow.