Triptych

Tags

boundaries, confluence of elements, correspondences of time/space, creative process, disintegration, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, I Ching, Kabbalah, Law of Attraction, nagual, self-importance, self-reflection, Spenserian stanza, The Corporate Storyteller, the Mysteries, triptych, vibrational reality

I

Unplucked, the highest fruit must fall, the Book
of Changes says of you and me, this day
of twenty-three, disintegrating hook
by crook and other piracies that slay
your notions of lukewarm egalité.
All blood is royal blue until it’s spilled,
all secrets that once shocked us fade to gray.
The fleurs de lis you wore upon your cloak
now decorate the oxen’s humble yoke.

II

Thunder, it is said, in winter months hides
deep in mountain passes, where no one can
penetrate; a solitary force bides
she, till heated whispers of lightning’s plan
arouses her. She creeps across the land
sharp-focused, rumbling through the fertile minds
that have no fear of mysteries, she’ll dam
the rest, their wayward tongues she’ll scorch & bind
and leave you chasing shadows till you’re blind.

III

The purple ash outside my house stands tall.
Descendant of Armada’s fleet, he knows
the names and faces of the ones who call,
regardless of the hour, and he throws
the stubborn profligate as food to crows.
Our moments of past symmetry may shine—
don’t know—but polished copper pots don’t grow
a garden or a book, so leave what’s mine
for me to blend until it turns to wine.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of Victorian French Dore Bronze Triptych
mirror from http://www.rubylane.com

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Sass

Tags

Dionysian mysteries, Elaine Stirling, Judeo-Christian mysteries, Kabbalah, Law of Attraction, manifestation, narrative poetry, Passover, poetry, Presence, resurrection, return, sensuality, Shekhinah, the power of humor, tolerance, vibrational reality

Sass, she done
come back to the music
thank God! No more
cracking of the spine
no chiropractic twists
to read the print I read
before I signed and
then forgot, so busy
aren’t we now, all
waiting for a sign.

There’s lots of talk
these days about
remembering, as if
a horror hung in front
of us will somehow
keep the dread from
happening again
solemnity, our bed
deprivation of what’s
good and fun become
our newest sexy. Please!

Have you ever
worked backstage
of a preacher man?
Ever listened to a prophet
on a bad day when he
thinks nobody’s looking,
felt the bite of an injured
thrashing pride? Leo knew
best when he sent us that
press release from the
Peaceable Kingdom where
he’s already hanging with
the forever Lamb; they’re
feasting, not weeping, have
been for aeons on cornpone
and ham, pinching hot
sweet buns who are only
pretending to be cross.
Those blood-stained doors
they are always passed
over. It’s Law!

Lordy child, we’ve been
given so many clues and still
we resist a good Mystery. Hung
up on temptation, we pay too
much lip service to serial tragedians
with their pre-written scripts
of betrayal and doubt who are
looking to cast you in roles
you are bound—can you hear?—
you are bound to hate.

Unless your game is
cuffs and whips, you never
have to cry, let me out, let
me out! We are frequencies,
my dear, vibrating contributors
tuneable to everything, joyful
spanners of an ever-growing
Universe, if we’d just stop
throwing wrenches
into the mix.

Now, you don’t have
to like my lip or the cut
of my jib, your furrowed
brow does nothing for me
either. It’s in the rub, dear
friend, what grates and thrills,
what chills and spills our
drinks, these are the sacred
goads, our means and proof
we are alive. We are alive!

The sass, she done
come back for me is all
that matters, now she’s
here and mattering, make
way for she and I don’t
ever look behind. Alleluia!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013