Somewhere
Between the dark in me
and the dark in another
is a bridge

We
cannot see this
for
our eyes are not
adjusted

We canot feel it
for we are afraid of stumbling
falling

We do not search for we
are afraid of
failing.

So we sit alone in the dark
waiting
and shivering
never really believing
but hoping.

Cast the leaves of dead trees about
hear the rustle as your feet shift through
Map the night
by touch
braille of the heart
and mind.
Walk the journey slowly
Hearing the echoes, of the edge.
Feel the touch of another
The bridge a hand in the darkness.

I find

All the little parts of me
strung out on a necklace like death

Hand prints and foot impressions, in tracks around
her hips.

She is the black.

I have cried at her feet,
and she gently swooped down
and bit my neck,
freeing me of body.

I have lost my soul and wandered
ages and cultures
until she reeled me back in by my
umbilical cord, my intestines
and pulled me to earth again.

And here I stand, in
chains I have made of unbreakable
Parts of me,
and she offers to cut my body
to pieces.

I have died many deaths at the gentle hands
of this Goddess.

I die another to be
reborn, to me.

Bless Thee
Black Goddess

There is a discourse within, of all the valuations of life.

Trees and ice cream and cars.
People, places, politics.

The self, my actions, their consequences.

Sometimes, this myself needs review.
And this is good.
Very good.

But the process is stressful. It taxes me.
Wears on me.
Not that it fails.
It succeeds.
But where success takes you, when you evaluate yourself,
is a breaking down of the parts,
a letting go of things you’ve clutched to you,
an awareness of attitudes you didn’t know you had.

Good.

But dismembering is tiring.
The complaint, is not, a reason to not do.
I do.

I write not about the day or week tiredness.
But about the tiredness as the self starts to feel worn out.
When the edges are worn so that the world is hard to deal with
in its little problems.
When the need for a sidewise step, is more than can be cogitated.

And the still the process remains.

This writing is healing.
It renews refreshes.

It is a good way to return the energy to myself.

It is creative.
Alive.