Spiritual Wisdom From Fireblossom, Eastern Mystic*

*(more fucking haiku!)

the bubbling stream

finds peace only when it flows

cat hurls on carpet

golden sun spreads light

far beyond its horizon

oh no, fem odor

swallow builds its nest

from objects it can gather

steal lipstick, why pay?

mt. fuji erupts

all illusions burned away

wife found cell phone bill

ants communicate

all have found the same proud tree

laugh at tiny twig

zen master very wise

cares not where golden coins went

denies all charges

______

Sugar, Flour & Salt

One foot in front of the other.
Day follows night,
Seasons in a row like sugar, flour & salt.

I expect, when I close my eyes,
In the place where I close my eyes,
That I will wake up there, too,
At sunrise.

There is a hand that means more to me
Than any other hand;
Eyes which are the eyes
Of the one I love.

Steps, days,
Seasons, and accustomed ways--
All of these can and do run out.

Could I reach, or look,
And you not be there?
It had never come home to me before...

Is my love--
And is this poem--
Plain?
Then they are plain,
When I use them to tell you that you are
Essential to me, and beloved
Like sugar,
Flour,
& salt.
_____

A little somethin' to go with. I don't know the singer's name, but the song is by Gordon Lightfoot.

Fox Confessor

Once upon a time, on the coldest day of the year,
a little red fox sat on the snow.
Before him, at the edge of a grove of frozen trees,
was a black-haired woman with the darkest, most bewitching eyes
that the fox had ever seen.

"I have black tea," called the fox,
"and I have black bread.
Come share them with me,
or you will soon be dead."

The woman at the edge of the grove
of frozen trees waved her hand,
and the sun, already weak, began to melt
right into her hand.
"What good is your tea," she asked the fox,
"without company?
What good is your loaf
without butter fresh and sweet?"

"I have fur," called the fox,
"and a sable blanket on my burrow bed.
Come share them with me,
Or you will soon be dead."

"Perhaps you are right," sighed the one so dusky and fair.
"Come here and I will tell you a secret;
Be quick, for it is the coldest day of the year...
I cannot walk and can no longer move,
But I will share this butter for your bread
and tell my secret in your ear."

Very slowly, the little fox came close,
with the tiniest steps and the most hesitant tread.
The fox meant to have both butter and bread,
And tea and secret, before the lady was dead.

The woman at the edge
of the grove of frozen trees implored,
"Come faster, dear fox,
come close, let us talk,
For I have but a single breath more."
Never confess to a fox, they say,
but more important than that,
Never trust a lady whose secret desires 
are tea, a loaf,
and a new fox fur hat.
______


My little poem has as its inspirations, the top photograph by Richard Schear and the Russian folk tale of the Fox Confessor. In the tale, a fox tries to talk a rooster down from a tree by pretending to be concerned for the rooster's soul. "Come confess to me," urges the fox, who only wants to eat the rooster.
 

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In The Land Of The Blue Wolf

In The Land Of The Blue Wolf,
We were together.
It was supper time,
The street lights were on,
And the buses were lit from within like candles in glass.

Two moths, we found the store window you were looking for;
We spread our wings against the cold panes.
We spread our love around each other.
The stars wheeled slowly above our heads.

In The Land Of The Blue Wolf,
We tilted our chins up and sang as only girls can.
I loved your olive-skinned throat,
And knew that I would stay with you, then,
Even though the road is long
And the night would never fall so sweetly for us again.
_____

The Amateur Nun

In those times,
Under imprimatur of the parish and all holy things,
I was an amateur nun.
The sacrament of marriage was one I took seriously;
It permeated everything I did,
Like incense smoke from a swaying censer,
Part and parcel of my monochrome attire.

Kiss me, I would say, a little breathless,
Tilting my face up,
Doing my best to manufacture a rapture I did not feel,
As absent as my dreams.
Each Good Friday we would line up silently to kneel and kiss the cross--
In the face of such real suffering,
Such bone-deep love,
Such magnificent sacrifice,
I felt puny in my complaints, and hissed at myself to shut up and do my little part.

I was an amateur nun.
I raised a child up in the way he should go.
I went to work,
I came to bed,
I lay myself in offering as if I were the body and the blood,
But I was only wine and wafer,
Not blessed, available in any grocery store.

I wanted to be my family's Jordan,
But I was dammed,
An earnest, well-meaning trickle for thirteen years.

I needed a miracle.
My miracle came;
Seven years into my calling,
And too soon to take.

Irish women are half angel and half devil,
And have a keen race-memory about snakes.
We are as common as potatoes,
And as likely to ply the old magick as to take the veil.

Some nuns have green eyes,
Some are naturally gifted healers,
And some take male names as per the custom.
Have you heard what they say,
About nuns,
Sometimes?
What they say is true.

I found a catechism I could crave
At the tips of her fingers.
I found my One True Faith
Hip to hip with her, and I rose from my grave
For one glorious transforming day,
Then went back home
And did the laundry.

I was an amateur nun,
And I kept my calling til my calling was done;
But you know what they say about Irish women,
Some gone ginger, some gone black--
I grew my hair and unbound my heart;
I gave up my vows and will never turn back.
_______


For Fireblossom Friday--"Temptation and Confession." Join us!

Crow Against The Moon

Gypsy I was born,
And Gypsy I have always been;
Mama scrubbed the Gypsy out--
I sinned her back again.

Six claws a cat's paw,
And round the wagon wheel;
Oranges all in sections fall
When knife strips off the peel.

Red apple at your lips,
A seed lies at its core;
Sweet the fine forbidden kiss,
And sweet the needing more.

Meet me by the witch's pond,
November's coming soon;
My blood is up, my dress is gone,
A crow against the moon.

Stolen hens have seven ribs,
Now pull those ribs apart;
Fire the hen upon a spit,
How succulent the heart.
_____