Y

I came to this place
to express my youth.
That’s the truth.
But I’ve watched it all
with a very old head.
All I see is the quick and the dead.

I look back to a path
that’s paved with regret.
I don’t forget.
But I hide in a world
of positive thinking.
I might be mistaken.
I believe it’s not over yet.

If my soul doesn’t die
and fade to oblivion
(which might be welcome and sweet)
on the next path I take,
when I fall through a vortex
and chromosomes gather again,
let me land on my feet with assurance.
I don’t care when or where.
Bone, sinew and tissue are not the main issue.
I already know who I am.
I seek only one vital key
that opens the door to why.

Contemplating the end

Alice sits still

Contemplating her knees

Fiddling about with her toes

While the birds in the trees

Sing what they please

To the words that only she knows.

 

Buttercups, daisies, all stand in line

And circle around her grass seat

From her head to her feet

She is very complete

In her sparkle of youth

And delight.

 

As she grows old she blooms like a rose

But only the Hatter knows

How lovely she is

And he’s mad.

She wouldn’t believe him

Whatever he said .

 

She thought the road lead

To the vale of the dead

Where all the daffodils die.

”Look at the bulbs”, he said.

”There’s a wink in the cuckoos eye.

The secret is – never ask why.”

The Sacrificial Rite

naked and bound at the foot of a tree

hands lashed to feet and kneeling

an embryo, a seed curled in submission

without resistance, i saw,

in the sacrificial rite

as time released me

 

in the woods the oak grows tall

the acorn falls to dark earth, maternal

stripped from the shell, the sapling springs

in the labyrinth of time, the wheel eternal,

in the vernal equinox, the turn,

up from the seed, limbs stretching

reaching to light, no death is here

take heart in the strength of oak

 

daffodils, toadstools, the bluebell

nothing of worth is ever lost

time gives life to the tender seed

to be reborn

you first must die