Leda

From an undying swan
you come to the blush
of her flesh. The carmine throw
that spreads through dark space
is what is left of stillness.
Passion hangs open in air
winging towards white breasts
still silence struck
by mute lips

The Native American

Silent runes run
through his face,
the latitudes
and longitudes of history,

shed oblique shades
at limitations between East and West.

Opaque, guilt-ridden lines
redeem the fools and innocents
of Aztec gold,

remind the sacrifice
of ancient temples.

Old Navajo Games

Spider Woman taught string games
to keep thoughts in order, yet
only in winter, when spiders sleep,
or else will she tie your eyes shut.

You will learn about the night sky,
concentrate on star clusters, find planets
in your weaving patterns:
the earth is your mother, the sky your father.

Star pinching the pattern to follow:
Female Arrowhead,Big Snake, Lightning, Cloud.
Weave in the sacred four colours:
white for dawn, blue for the day,
yellow for twilight, black for the night.

Weave on child, weave the universe in motion,
play your string games, your sand games
in perpetual regeneration.

Breathe child, breathe
the sacred act of breathing!
The Holy Wind is in all the living,
nothing exists in isolation.
You long for he good and the evil,
the natural and supernatural in balance,
connectivity to all living things.

Followthe stars’ constellations,
Scorpio, Cassiopeia, The Pleiades,
Aldebaran, Canis Major, Ursa Major,
Sword of Orionthey all touch your body,
each one its part assigned,
filling the space of your transitory nature.

Learn them, chant them, weave them
into your memory!They will remind you
how to live your life,
not the emotionally overpowering,
the materially oriented,
the spiritually depleted.

Seek your escape
from the fast paced world!
Walk in beauty, not the outward appearance
but order, pleasantness, everything that lifts you.
Reach an old age
by livingin harmony with the universe.

Breathe, child, breathe
the holy act of breathing! On breathing,
the powerful wind will enter.
Fingerprints and toe prints are its signals.
The whorls at the tips of your toes
hold you to the Earth.
Those on your fingertips
hold you to the Sky. This wind carries thought
at conception.
When it ceases to blow inside you,
you become speechless.

Draw your string figures, child,
move and complete them
until Spider Woman will help to dissolve all.

Silly poem

I wish you were a phosphorous fish
alight for me and shining
with sparkles, slightly feverish
of reddish hue. While dining

on you, I’ll only taste the softer part
and leave the bones declining
to eat you whole, only your heart
I‘ll keep for redesigning.

I’ll use my many skills and, yup,
make sketches, stitch some lining,
create a circle, halfway up,
a face that is aligning

and when it’s ready and a whole
I call it ducky duckling.
I fluff it up and make it droll
and use it as my plaything...

Death loves his game

Death loves his game.
We play and bet with him.
When we are winning and his
chance seems dim,
he rolls the dice
and takes all in a whim.

Prelude

Sing me your own unique music
and play me the sounds
of silence,
that silence that must be deserved:
repetitive notes of intensity
in all the spheres
of being and becoming.
Change consciousness through
the inner nature of acoustics
unheard of.
Seduce my mind with your harmonies,
and I will be yours.
Easily I succumb to you
entering into the immanence
of your sound,
the touch of your spirit.
Seek out my soul just by listening
and I will be yours
forever.

Your picture

I paint you with the greenness of gardens
and the silent blue of skies,
mix in silver dew from the hedgerows,
put the sunrise in you eyes.

I keep you safe in my wardrobe
of never changing time
wrapped in white silken bedsheets
scented with lemon and lime.

I glaze you with moonlight and sparkle
from the stars above the town
and hang you up in my bedroom
for no one but me to own.