Living the Dream

Ricochet of evening sounds
against the nipple deep shadows
of the lacy Boston fern and tall Pasture Pines
bending over our home like a natural tipi
and I am drawn to the circle of wonder
if they love as we love?

Do they know the throb of the heart
at the sight of us stepping out
into the crumble down branches of their youth
to find a lover’s promise, fulfilled,
in green writhe of a new shoot?

We are ageing, and the passion has changed
to a complacent comfort of the maple
tucked between the taller trees
leaning the tip of a branch against one older,
one wiser and more able to see heaven
and guide it there.  You are older than I.

Love is the Oak and the German Ivy,
working our way up together.  We know each knot,
each scar, on each other well in this soulful climb,
so different, such different paces, and yet
there is nothing else that we can do
but rub together in the call upwards.

Does the forest know that Spring and Summer
haul it forward into Fall and Winter,
but climbs nonetheless, together,
as if they could somehow be missed
in the swath and shatter of overuse and brittle
days are more easily stood, together?

Which one of us will forget to return, come renewal?
Is it the love of climbing or the simple need
to leave our mark on each other, to memorize
each touched and tender place, to see together
that is love?  Or is it simply the sharing of seasons;
the whip of wind, the bite of late frost, the proud climb,
the success in seeing light together that is love?

Come evening, when night wraps its shroud around us
and the fern nods and the pines stand guard,
I am drawn to the circle of wonder
if they love as we love.

Tags: Poems by Shewolf
1 Comment »

I can not make you believe
anything you do not want to.

But know, you signed your name
across my heart.  I felt every stroke,
true and clear.

You tapped lightly until the beat
matched the pulse of my heart
and yours.

You  are a part of my definition
of all that is good and glorious,
grateful and generous.

If I never touched your skin,
nor felt you touch mine,
if ever I felt your breath
upon my cheek or you, mine,
you have become a part
of my sweetest existence.

In places too sacred to mention
we share thoughts, words, wants.

Our paths have crossed
and in the heart of it
lies love.

I can not define it for you,
nor make you feel it, taste it.
It is skin and soul-knowing
and holy, yes holy communion
between two who tug
at each other like a baby from breast.

There is no rhyme or reason
to love.  You can pretend
it has not touched you and protest,
but in the end, it will have
its way with you
and you shall know ecstatic pain
in your acceptance, or loss, of it.

Tags: Poems by Shewolf
No Comments »

Remember, sister, the evenings under the heavy popular trees,
nights sitting out on the deck beneath the ferny cedars
when nothing was between us but the lazy curl of coffee?

We saw clouds part and stars whip across the dark
as if moved by magic wand from some Great hand,
and wished upon each sip of rich dark nectar of God
that might be the elixir of dreams come true.

Black, traveling in silence, unraveling the sleep,
traveled to the cells of caution
for we were brown and beleaguered with life;
drowned, almost, one moment and cracked
like thirsting earth the next.  There was no common area
where cream and sugar could sweeten some talking.

Our witch’s brew, gulped against trickery,
kept us boneless, perhaps spineless,
and able to take the blows by simply curving
inward and setting our lips against the rim
as if we were partaking of Holy Grail.

Our words must have traveled up
on the swirling steam to be drawn
into  the palm of the Great Magician,
or gotten caught in the folds of a goddess
where they were given form.

We meant them to only keep the good words
breathed on the cooling coffee, sister, didn’t we?
Such truths are shared in such holy places
over a cup, a saucer, a take out container
of latte that tends to color life cream
and hide the bitter bean of it.

Did you know the bean is poison until it has met fire?
That’s us, sister, we have met our pyre,
been ground, and were simply waiting to be brewed
and partaken of.  We have made a fine blend,
you and I, the kind that, when shared over soul talk,
make even the poplar and cedar quiver in delight.

Tags: A Cup of Coffee and Care, Poems by Shewolf
No Comments »

For what am I being forgiven this morning
that the moon would appear fed-faced on the horizon?
Was my dream too desperate during the night,
too dear, too full of deep dark deeds
that she should see evidence of it
and blood seep to her cheeks, even
to her hairline?

Perhaps it is a hot flash that has flushed her,
crept up on her the moment she is ready to retire,
and she is showing me that every woman is she and Me
and that the hormones run rampant upon earth and sky
to remind us that we are Women; less fertile, perhaps,
but still creative courses through our bodies
so that we might be stirred to make more of ourselves.

What has she seen of the night that scalds her?
I should know. I should be aware of what we’ve done,
or thought, or dreamt upon the cold sheets of sweated cotton.
Has she shared her deepest secret to me and I did not listen
and now have missed the opportunity for intimacy?

Come, mother, I have need to know, not just that you forgive,
but for what reason so I do not repeat that which makes you
hide your face from me in pink preparation for repose.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
1 Comment »

This is the truth of it.  We return to our nests
like a necessary nest-builder, making way
to give birth to that new generation
of those who will sit on high cliffs
and tell all who choose to hear
how very angry we are at this arrival.
This is the truth of me: I can no more abandon
this likely nest, than I could continue to fly
when the weather bends me too roost
and rest.  It is not my choice.  It is Destiny.
It is a guiding hand that leads me to this place
that will cup my dearest desires and promises
I make while meditating and giving birth
to new ways to conquer what needs conquering:
Myself.  It is the whisper of His voice
in the wind over my aerie, that tells
what part of flight is left up to me.
As I am drawn to find the place closest
to Him, so does he find a closest place to me.
He guides me where to build
and I build where He is most likely to notice.

Tags: Poems, Truthsayers: Luc and I by Shewolf
No Comments »