Just Beyond My Reach

She stares around the room,
wrinkled and featherless
like a baby bird searching
the air for something--anything
to appear and give sustenance.
Black and white magpie thief
stole her shiny memories to hide
in darkened nest of her own mind.
She who held me--lost,
she who was the goddess
tossed upon his airs, now
disconnected voice and thought.
She stares with opaque liquid eyes,
fledgling spirit held from flight,
held in an ever-darkening night.
She stares somewhere
just beyond my reach,
just beyond my reach.

Man In The Moon

There, the curl of
his back in the west,
legs fold forgetfully,
one over the other.
See, he bends his head
to silver flute and
her golden face?
Oh yes,
the man in the moon
was easily led upon dreams
to serve La Bella Luna;
love and madness
in liquid night
bound both round,
thirteen times.

Sunflower Shaman

Line upon line upon line
her pen drawn to
aging sunflower,
Shaman whispering
from page to pen.

Line upon line upon line,
inky mandala flows from her pen,
Fall sunflower letting go...
but is it so? When you look again,
pen dances to Shaman's tune
while dreams are given room,
bloom with each vision.

First a kneeling boy with feathers
then faces tumble, ancient measures;
she pulls harvest from her pen
then, line upon line upon line,
her pen it pulls you in...
Shamanic experience,
there and then back again.

Sunflower bends and sends
seeds of our need to dream.

"Sunflower Shaman"
Pen and ink by Tweed Meyer

Cobwebs

If I acquiesce to
a pleaded silence,
there's cobwebs sewn
across my lips,

for my loyalty
knows only you,
not her lover.

If I speak to the pain
of thee and she,
it roils between.

If I speak to her fear
she fights us both.

I would not be false but,
I would not be unkind nor
have my words between.

I pick up the cobwebs,
threads of light, of love.
With each sticky stitch,
I sew the death of secrets
between my lips.

Music is Moonlight and Memories

Auntie Moon she sings
to her a lace shawl,
shimmering
silver and indigo
lit from within,
like intimacy.
Her songs call my tides,
rising to her,
remembering a night
in the mountains
and forgotten
cowboy songs
with an old Indian
in his pickup,
shimmering
indigo and chrome
lit from within,
like intimacy.

Don't You Wish

Don't you wish
some folk still wrote
with chisel on stone,
thereby forcing them
to carry the full weight
of their own words
in that big ol' back-pocket
of humble experience.

A Prayer With Brother Joseph

I wrote this for our fellow "In Your Neighborhood" blogger, Joseph, who is a Catholic priest of open heart and mind.

A million grains
of painted sand
could just flow
through our hands,
forgotten and unseen,
life shifting within
a drifting dream.
Let the Spirit
walk with us,
forgiveness in our face
given over to trust.
Our face in others too,
something blessed
shining through.
To work together
grains of sand,
Spirit called to action
through a human.
Let each of us practice
our gratitude this day,
let each of us be
grain of sand that way