The Moon Expels Seeds of White Pomegranate
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
The midshipman watches the forest-glade
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
The wide moorland is one dialect too many.
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
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
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,
minute adjustment there.
IÕm driven to shameful action.
Reduced to this,
I want to bronze his NikeÕs
all thatÕs left of bliss!
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,
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