Monday, November 23, 2009

SEA CHANGES

SEA CHANGES

I
By the sea the wind
blowing from green white froth
onto a small cache
of live embers in sun warmed sand
whispers old secrets,
restoring old hopes.
So we come back to the sea
for a gift of vision
and we believe…
as the wind turns gray embers
into living fire.

II
And you,
I hold you with my hands
and I sit with you
on the windward shore
the wind carries our words
and twists them chocking
as we gasp for air
we turn and lean into the wind
and glaciers move…
the wind in us and around us
etches lines
forming our faces,
(we must have faces!)
and glaciers move…

III
Tonight there are only cold rocks
and dry brittle bones
upon this beach. The wind
spews out little child cries
and old men’s moans. I cradle
myself against this wind
which gives me no peace—
rises to a shriek, roars and mocks.
The roots are torn.
I crouch with my back to the wind
and feel in my bones
the pain of coming birth…
Will be, Is, is now, is born now
wailing and keening,
the roots…the roots…
Form draws itself up
and walks into the wild beauty,
knowing pain,
knowing the wind.

IV
Sandy beach…
little waves washing
washing pains past hurts
the woundtide recedes
and comes less often…
sunny sandy beach
solitude sun and warm sand
I am
I am warm here
I hear singing.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

Thursday, November 19, 2009

THE SOUL TO KEEP

THE SOUL TO KEEP

In a green glade
wherein the deepest pool,
I have carved a cedar box
and lined it well with pearl.
I have cast it all around
with silver fleur de lys
and made a latch from finest gold,
then laced it through with dream.
In it I have kept
the song of the meadowlark,
the call of the nightingale,
and crystal mirrored tears
from the breast of the mourning dove.
All the jewels of heaven
on tufts of velvet green...
the starflung wonder
of red satin summer,
the whisper of autumn leaves
in the splendid melon sun,
the silken petal saved
through silent sifting snow...
And the sweet chalice of spring.
Whoever shall find this store,
I have hidden the key
in the roots of the willow tree
that bends to trace the door.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

BURNING BUSH

BURNING BUSH

Desert Hexagram...
fire over wish
prayer enkindled
from long thoughts in long valleys
and yea we walk through them
the heart falls dead before
moonset. If dawn, a promise:
mothwing...silver...ashpure.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

THAT FIFTH CUP

THAT FIFTH CUP

Be reverent
with the shards
that remain
of that perfection
which was childness.
Turn them carefully
against your callouses,
or listen, as with a shell
to the ear, for secrets saved
toward wholeness.
All these years...
kept in the keep of the heart,
the secret stirs, and Elijah
begins again to whisper.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

ORACLE

ORACLE

Eye, shielded by twin mirrors,
sees anyway, great slabs tremble,
crack and crumble,
gold splintering on iron, hard rock
street rock blaring on glinting gore--
blind entrails spread out, surrendered.
Eye, having once known mercy,
call down blessing.
Machine, grind bone
for sifting in softer wind,
twentieth century afoot in great cities,
this hollowed shard cups the sky and waits.
Green Heart, go silent,
new rains drumming.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

ARIES

ARIES

I am a wick
in the Godlamp
needing only
a gentle hand
and air.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

SILENCE

SILENCE

Like pebbles in water
the words settle
through layers of selves
to deep center...
and silence...
then Self says:
Love is the ground of being.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

FOR WINTER

FOR WINTER

September wind blows
toward the ripening melon,
cultured there in lush green shadows,
such golden globing rounding rounding
truth into beauty...
like a lantern beckoning
in the hand of the Hermit
lighting the path to Ithaca.
You have been gone long enough,
Young Bard of the Modern Altar.
Now is the time for returning.
It is now that winter lamps
will illumine the page
where the heart can write
the Fool's wisdom, as gift
for the coming age.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

ELEVEN NOVEMBER

ELEVEN NOVEMBER

Oak limbs, bare and dark,
reach across clouds of red maples.
Below...yellow lilies
begin their blooming for another season.
Eleven Eleven...

--Barbara Smith Stoff

Monday, November 2, 2009

PERSEPHONE

After the Great Fall,
it is that the warrior has danced upon the bones
of our dismembered illusions
Isis, come now.
Re-member us with new forms, new ideas.
Life must survive.
After the Grail seeking and the Persephone tasks,
tell us what can we envision together.

--Barbara Smith Stoff