The Stand

The erotic scent of wood’s decay and earth after rain

fills the primal stand of giant poplars, oaks and elms

and I know I have been coming here always.

The golden one parts the forest as a wing of light.

The dark one pushes through as a ruthless red boar.

They come without armies, without banners

though legions have bled for them, and empires died.

They meet as She who watches loves them best:

as lithe young men in their prime of manhood,

as antlered kings in the fierce season, fighting to possess.

There has never been peace between them,

only a balance that shifts and spills, never still or sure.

They battle now with the arms of the forest,

wielding uprooted trees as spears, as clubs.

The trees groan and sway, taking sides.

The golden one finds the opening for the killing blow

but stays his hand. From his hesitation, the dark king

gains boldness and vigor, and drives a rowan

deep into his brother’s side. Wounded and waning,

the light king drags himself to the mothering oak

and darkness swallows the sun. The dark one

raises a cry that calls hungry ghosts to the feast.

But something restrains him from the final act.

It can only be Her voice, walking through his mind.

If either wins, the game is over.

Without contraries, nothing is created.

It is through your unending battleand its lack of resolution

that the game goes on.

The dark one brings a gift to the wounded king.

A flock of seven black sheep. One of them gags

and vomits up a glowing blue egg.

With his last strength, the light twin palms the gift

and his body is suffused with healing light.

He rises, intact, ready to renew the battle

here, or anywhere that is world.

"The Stand" is included in my collection Here, Everything Is Dreaming: Poems and Stories published by Excelsior Editions.

Playing the hand

The other player looks like a shaggy Merlin, but seems to have forgotten his arts. He stares at the glowing blue pentacle that is the latest key, and prepares to replicate its shape in midair with magical passes. I nudge him to recall what he did "last time", when the key looked like a blue lotus. He places his hand over the pentacle, and his palm is a match. 
     I have to help him avoid losing these games decisively, while I avoid outright victory, because our contest must go, across eons of time. I recall more of the people we have been, and will be.
     But this is quite a complex pattern. So I go outside and roll in the grass with my little dog. Simple is good.

Feelings: cheerful and happy after this morning dream.
Reality: Yes.

Time and the Corn Maiden

Gore Mountain, New York

Look: you have new eyes to see.
Eyes of black owl, eyes of white owl.
Don’t be scared when they sear your soul
and clamp strong talons on your shoulders.
Let them lend you their wings,
their ability to see at many angles.
Let them take you to the place
you did not expect in this, your only, time.

Sun on your face, you part the high grass
to the field of grain on the steep hillside
where beans and squash sprout among the corn
in the old way. You feel her, the woman
whose body is the fertile earth
and gives birth ceaselessly to the three sisters
from her belly, her breasts, her blood.

Why are you here? Climb the slope
to the cabin in the woods. Don’t run away
from the shadows and husk things along the trail.
Show respect for the grandmothers
as you enter from the sunrise side.
Be patient with the girl they have sheltered here
for all these years, until you were ready for this.
She comes and goes like a cat, until drawn
to you by the brightness of your tears.

Don’t be ashamed that you forgot her.
She forgot you in her world of love and magic,
where time follows the law of eternal return,
the phases of the moon, the cycle of seasons,
not the logic of clocks. Stand tall now.
Show that you have ripened into a woman of power.
Drum for the grandmothers, and the corn maiden.
Let her follow you home on your heartbeat. 

Plant beans and squash in your garden.

Braid cornhusks, blackened and bleached,
in the code of all life. The old ones taught you
that dark and light must always contend,
in every created thing. Without contraries,
there is no creation. Black owl, white owl,
Whirlwind and Sky Holder. End their struggle
and you roll up the game of the world. So:
Every day, renew the balance of order and chaos.
Each day, with corn maiden singing in your heart,
throw your arms up to the sky and shout
Yes to life. Birds will take flight from your hands.

- Gore Mountain, November 3, 2013

This poem was inspired by a shamanic journey for soul healing that led deep into the landscape and mythic imagination of the Longhouse People of the Northeast. 

Split collusion, or the Fight Club of dreams

I am both protagonist and observer in a drama involving a contest between two men who are more than human. They fight their battles in different situations as two distinct individuals, possibly changing bodies. We are now approaching the climactic battle. They are no longer physically separate. They are warring inside one body. The stakes involved are now enormous. The final battle could result in "split collusion", which would emit a force greater than a thermonuclear explosion.

     The drama is unfolding in an area behind a busy commercial street, where a narrow road or alley leads to an area of garages, lofts and storage spaces. Special forces and SWAT teams have gathered, with snipers on the rooftops, but nobody knows how to handle this situation and any misstep could set off this human (or inhuman) bomb with devastating results.
     Watching the behavior of the subject from the outside is a bit like watching the Brad Pitt/Edward Norton character in the movie "Fight Club" when it's revealed that he has been fighting himself. I am aware of this when in observer mode. The figure clutches and pounds at his own body. But the real battle is going on inside.
      I am seeking to contain this by stepping in and out of the double mind. While "split collusion" could produce a terrible explosion, it could also - if harnessed and contained - turn this fellow into a prodigy for the good. As with the contest of the cosmic Twins, I don't think either element within him can be allowed to destroy the other.

I woke from this dream this weekend thrilled with excitement. So many possible threads to follow for self-understanding, and for understanding a larger theme, the eternal battle of the Dark and Light which cannot end unless the world is rolled up. I am intrigued by the previous unknown term "split collusion." Beyond analysis, I want to create from this.