How much more do you want of me, Mistress Moon
blinking your chimera’s eye, stirring my cells
in time to the moody lull of your barbarous beat
intent on my submission, more white
than shark’s teeth, colder than icebergs, and broody – endlessly throbbing?
I am wearing my life
like the gecko dons its skin –
ready to split at a moment’s notice
and leave all behind, in a heap.
I crossed over in the night for the very first time –
just floated serene and lonely
on coffee-brown water that lapped at my raft, unfelt.
I was not so much frightened as stricken with awe –
full of no earthly sensation
but the rushing of time, propelling me on and on.
Then at some exact moment – the slate horizon
cracked like a splintering egg-shell
and strange orange light bled through the fissures of dark.
It was not yet my time.
A return to earth
for tending and restoration
is simply another phase
on the journey of Self.
I refuse to vanish or set
when gravity tugs me to earth
in a blaze of gore or glory –
to wane to nothingness beyond
a slice of ashen promise –
And I will not slide quietly by
a masculine smothering of power –
for the damage will already be done.
Have you seen how moonlight blazes so hard
it slips beyond any brute shadow?
(Painting: Victor Florence Pollett)
This is the womb of the world
where two seas collide
at a hammock of land
and bony rocks arch
in the jet blood-black spray. Three
mythical crone stones . . .
who see what sharp lips never
tell – still watch through
their ageless snake hair for the
goings of they that
once crawled from their legs in the
primeval salt-dawn of time.