I Used To Visit Riversleigh

by a.m. moscoso

I used to visit Riversleigh

 when it rained and the Shadows crawled down from the trees

for me

and together we would travel with my pens and journals and thoughts

to the Dark House.

When I came back I would hide from Riversleigh

and

for a little while it would leave me alone

but then

Riversleigh would start to whisper to me

over the quiet that comes up from my basement, from under my bed, from the cemetery near my house

” Anita, when are you coming back “

 And I would light some candles, or say some prayers and wish I wasn’t alone

when Riversleigh Calls To Me

to come back

to her

in the dark and with the Shadows

to haunt it’s Dark Halls

again

alone.

Temptress of the Blue Sea

Temptress of the Blue Sea
take hold my fevered dream
with bubbles somehow akin to flight
intense and so extreme

As liquid rapture fills my soul
the depths of heart-felt ocean
in velocity and unknown spaces
liberate the dream as motion

My enchanting fertile Temptress
teasing in untamed foaming play
of tranquil wonder and formation
lapsing oddly into chilled blue bay

Aqueous eyes of frothy love
washed over by vital fantasies
the rhythms of a blue muse echo
that raps as mystical ecstasies

Alluring waves of sensual cadence
satiated by her rise and fall of tides
echoes me when tomorrow comes
when our suspended heart coincides

– Genece Hamby, poem and digital montage/painting

A welcome to adventure

THREE QUESTIONS

Who will walk with me in the high meadow where the waving lupine caresses lavender on our bare feet and hides the rabbit tracks of yesterday? Who will hold my hand to jump-step the stream that flickers clouded fingers of light into our laughing eyes? Who will tumble with me down the grassy, tender slope of childhood memories where the game was more important than the goal?
Perhaps who is not the question or the answer here -
but I listen intensely just the same.

Where is the crystal pool with the mossy stones beneath the earth blessed spring of winter’s tears where we can wash our dusty feet? Where can we shed our false pride and imagined slights that gather like mold upon our skin, hidden beneath society’s brash garments? Where can we stand naked in warm cleansing rays of friendship and eternal love without the curse of shame cast in the name of faith?
Perhaps where is not the question or the answer here -
but I look deeply just the same.

When will I know that you have heard my silent, stifled cry for courage to conquer selfish, foolish right? When will the extraction of tortured self-inflicted spikes draw breaths of joy rather than sighs of fear? When will I hear the siren song that I know blends with the chiming star stuck bells of eternity? When will I cease to question that which my soul should already know from simple shaped internal bliss?
Perhaps when is not the question or the answer here -
but I wait patiently, just the same.

papa faucon

Acting on Joy

Life’s Tune - papafaucon

If you should find yourself alone
and perhaps a little out of sorts,
or just touched by season’s doldrums;
then here’s a spirit quest to try.

Fix self up sorta’ medium fine;
just scrubbed look falls into line,
then skip o’er to the local grocery
or other mix of humanity.

Place a smile on your beaming mug
and a sense of awe ‘round your eyes.
Walk right up to any strange soul,
and with pure voice assured do ask.

“What is that tune they are playing?”
The looks may be strange or bemused,
but you will find n’er short or rude,
as they explain they hear nothing…

“Oh, then it must be me, I guess!”
you will explain with secret smile.
Then they will share amazing things,
and chatter ‘way like an old friend.

You will learn of the nephew born,
and the exciting job long sought,
and the sunset seen and favorite
recipe’ soon made for returning son.

Spend an hour or two, or maybe a life
in joyful bliss with your neighbors.
For everyone hears the eversong,
and just needs an inviting heart.

Finding what you seek

Many seem to want a guide.
or experienced friend perhaps,
to assist on the quest. Perhaps, instead,
you should look in the right places –
the Enchanteur’s agenta is only an opinion,
you know.

I posted this on another blog somewhere - time,
but it seenms appropriate here.

faucon
………………………………………………….

BASKET of TEARS

I had wandered medium far to find her,
following ragged maps and antipodal advice.
Upon the seeing I was even less believing;
for she was too young to be a crone,
too tall to be an elf,
and too nice to be witch…
still –
flowers grew out of the rocks nearby,
and a spider was spinning webs between her hands
which were busy conducting a chorus of frogs …
so I guessed she be the one!

“I’ve get a problem,’ says I in practiced voice.

The frogs changed to three part harmony, but she doesn’t stop.

“It’s about this balance thing. I keep dreaming of this crooked stick with my spirit shining bright on one end, and my mind ajumble on the other, and it’s teeterin’ on this quivering point that appears to be my soul.”

She looks at me with eyes ‘bout a thousand years old, and puts on this scarf the spider finished and sits down on a stool that wasn’t there before. The frogs have all turned into a couple dozen baskets – each a different make and shape, but with gaping mouths the same.

“Tell me your story, quick and clear,” a tiny bird chirped overhead.

As I rambled about in mem’ry – more lost than found, she wrote strange symbols on selected stones and tossed them into baskets – no plan that I could see – no pattern nor rhythm nor chant – never missed though.

I recon some held more stones at the end than others even empty. I could have kept on except for fear of overflowing some, so I kinda wound down to telling a joke or two. More pebbles.

“Tell me now what you believe is important,” whispered she in a voice too rough for this smallish maid – and held up five finger plus one. I thought a bit and called three right off, as I had been taught by dad. The others were tougher as I had dozens from which to choose and only three fingers left to guide. I sorted through thoughts and teachings and promises from priests and shop keepers, knights and stable boys, tavern stories and what Amy told me last Thursday. She smiled a little to help me some, I think – least wise I forgot to be afraid. There! It is done.

She didn’t write any of these down, but the baskets skuddled about into a new pattern and an acorn dropped on my head. I was thirsty and noticed a little waterfall nearby where there had been a bush before.

Her voice was most musical now. “Now tell sir, what do you know that is true? Her other voice boomed, “What true things do you know?”

Well, no amount of head scratching and lip pluckin’ got me a very long list. Perhaps that is an easy question for you, my friend; but then you were not standing there with baskets a shaking time like rattle snakes. What I told her must have been all right since she didn’t disappear or lightning strike, but I felt as though both things had happened once or twice.

She pranced around the baskets like she had extra feet – or maybe her slippers kept changing color. Then she tipped over all of the baskets, each by each, and let the contents dribble out. Many held water that seeped into the ground. Others held ashes the fluttered away on a sudden breeze. A couple held leaves that spread a blanket on the gravel path. Onto this fell four stone – no more!

“The answer to these are all you need,’ she sighed, while describing the symbols on each – the focus of a problem segment self defined. “Now you may choose two of these, and I will give you solutions guaranteed for eternity.”

I left of course, with four stones in my pocket – and they lay softly now in my garden pool. The solutions I selected were better by far, methinks –
once I learned the complexity of my life was of my choosing …
and but a breath away from knowing,
once false beliefs drifted away.

There is only one thing I really know –
I mean with finality …

that someday another will come to me,
and I will set out some baskets,
and together we will be free.