The Moon Expels Seeds of White Pomegranate

 

because she is full up with so much whiteness. Scarce water,

she cannot fertilize every shadow that springs from earth to sky.

Darker shrubs are a constant source for the brown pod she loves,

the tint of a loverÕs thigh, deep inside, where the flesh begins

to emit the fragrance of wild mushroom. I wonder at the moonÕs soul

—gossamer as it must be to give the fox pause, to guard the way

for the sticky snail moving toward the bearded Iris. Dawn.

Catapults of tiny seeds scatter to earth, narrow pearls sewn

               deep into the hem of a wedding dress.

 

                           

                               Silver dew in Spring

                            Face glowing earthshine

                                 Fireflies at rest

 

 

 

 

Hypothetical Sun                                               

                                                                                               

1.

 

The midshipman watches the forest-glade

                                                break up.

ThursdayÕs crown echoes off the easy.

 

Somnolence on stiff fabric leaves him dreary.

Foolish to wonder the personÕs

                        identity and what he stole.

 

Foolish to rummage around in the cellulose-blistered

                                                stare.

The wide moorland is one dialect too many.

 

 

2.

 

Landslide never was a denial, tectonics,

a methane of meat and drink

                                                a fish for stringing.

 

I stole its silhouette; I stepped to its crystalline.

Tongue-shapes, always a denomination,

                                    the idea of Goddess.

 

The giant hovered over my little wide world;

I made my move for the hypothetical sun

                                    my broadside and seed.

 

 

                                    ~in the style of Charles Wright

 

 

 

Lust   

If only I could rub against syllables

written on ancient tablets,

etched with rage of spring rain.

 

I long to show him the creamy lilacÕs

underside,

whisper easy as a new willow

grazing his neck.

 

I would do penance, swim the canal

thrice over, supplicate my most irritating muse,

 

sink into throats of desert blooms,

embrace the nude.

 

Watch how he fingers his laces,

holds the opening, caresses in-step,

secures arch for support

 

eases the muscular foot in so gently,

lashed and taut.

 

If only desire could be this simple,

tightness here,

minute adjustment there.

 

IÕm driven to shameful action.

Reduced to this,

 

I want to bronze his NikeÕs

all thatÕs left of bliss!

 

 

 

 

Ley Lines                                                                                                                                 

How melodious the sound, places without windows,

guideposts to pilgrimage, ancient trackways

aligned along ridge tops,

stone protrusions and hillforts like sentinels, 

linked by mystical, magnetic forces.

 

Follow a fieldstone wall;

walk to a small village!

In clumps of trees,

find old crockery hidden in pine branches.

            Place an amulet there.

 

Amid banks of glittering chicory and cress,

icy streams cascade over the North Downs

 

Walk northwest. Take a boat to Iona,

Iona in its solitude, old light and stone crosses.

Notice the soft colors of worn books

in the simply hewn library.

 

Make your own line-of-sight navigation,

your own map of the world

as when KrishnaÕs mother opened

            his mouth full of sand

and discovered the sparkling universe inside.

 

Why do we admire the ancients so,

their begging bowls, their broth?

 

When you come to an end,

graph your journey, consult plot plans,

                                                begin again.

Ask a red hawk to come with you.

 

 

 

 

Origin of Wells

            ~a personal mythology

 

A summer day in old Scotland, yellow algae like cake bread, thrived along the shore.  Then, everything changed when UncleÕs net slipped under the flatboat, the master net, the one to catch fish for an entire season. We were just playing, scooping wild raspberries that hung down into greenest water. Men searched through the white pearlized night, torches illuminating birch trunks, a candlelit forest. By morning, shoreline receded; oars turned to dibbles (digging sticks), to poke holes in russet earth. Worms began to grow under fish scales, shaping flesh like sickles. Women, in wild rye gardens wept for lack of water—tears gushing in circles like acidic craters creating new springs, burning depressions, marking private plots, gouging enough earth to construct wells. Water said, ÒNow you must stay in one land, create barriers, learn to disturb sleeping stones. No more following reindeer spoor and salmon runs. No more winterÕs store of dried fish and venison. For eternity, you have left deepest oceans."

 

When the air is cobalt, feel hidden fistulas

 

 

WinterÕs swollen glands

Old sea water in your eye

The hint, salt stinging

 

© Jeanine Stevens