She sends luminous visions never seen but glimpsed inchoate and parallax from the edges of reality reflected in a distorting parabola but whole and detailed and viewed only askance by chance when the mind is wide open, in a vision quest or altered mental state.
She gives the gift of seeing around realities corners in order to solve problems through intuition rather than reason, in dreams she travels and leaves clues. She is the muse of the poet and the explorers of the realms of imagination, the deep miners of truth.
Light cannot see inside things.
That is what the dark is for:
Minding the interior,
Nurturing the draw of growth
Through places where death
In its own way turns into life.
In the glare of neon times,
Let our eyes not be worn
By surfaces that shine
With hunger made attractive.
That our thoughts may be true light,
Finding their way into words
Which have the weight of shadow
To hold the layers of truth.
That we never place our trust
In minds claimed by empty light,
Where one-sided certainties
Are driven by false desire.
When we look into the heart,
May our eyes have the kindness
And reverence of candlelight.
That the searching of our minds
Be equal to the oblique
Crevices and corners where
The mystery continues to dwell,
Glimmering in fugitive light.
When we are confined inside
The dark house of suffering
That moonlight might find a window.
When we become false and lost
That the severe noon-light
Would cast our shadow clear.
When we love, that dawn-light
Would lighten our feet
Upon the waters.
As we grow old, that twilight
Would illuminate treasure
In the fields of memory.
And when we come to search for God,
Let us first be robed in night,
Put on the mind of morning
To feel the rush of light
Spread slowly inside
The color and stillness
Of a found world.
Receiving Messages From Separate Individual Realities
grabbing a handful porcupine jello
the space contained in a floating soap bubble
lips vibrating, tongue clicking, throat coughing
shuffle leap into the blinding wall
How can each voice be different and call us on
into what might be oblivion?
Could it be
life is in voices speaking
not to be understood, but felt.
Feel the song of edges
Knife and saw, feather and leaf,
vibrate and tilt
until something not yet solid shakes
into the peripheral field
Don’t look! it is not for seeing.
Don’t listen! it is not a sound.
Feel it there, not in words
but whispers of grunting fetishes
ground into a powder
taken by the wind.
sticks in the eyes stinging,
muffles the ears
leaves us arms stretched out waving about
frantically for something
to hang on to