Being

In silence we travel;

through the lava beds we wind

wrapped in thought and acid

sweet melody.

Notes play upon my solar plexus,

ripple upward from groin to throat, subtle

waves of energy

keyed to my body like a lover’s hand.

It is my birthday, but we don’t speak of it

yet.

My attention drifts through fog,

seeks threads of blue between stone.

Momentarily I consider breaking

the solitude though it’s not heavy.

It’s the passenger’s obligation to fill the air, isn’t it,

With words?

Amidst the lava a shadow stirs,

shifts into Other shape –

Owl – Woman – Grandmother.

I should not gaze into those dark eyes, or

so I’m told. I cannot fear her still serenity,

or the gathering of life shadows beneath her wings.

Pinioned by love, forgiven for my life’s transgressions

of deeds undone, I

can only hope she will last a lifetime

even as she returns to stone

and mist.

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2 thoughts on “Being

  1. Joan Conway says:

    This poem captures the surreal quality of the powerful landscape in which you live and the intimate relationship you have with it on so many levels. I just love it Martha.

  2. Thank you, Joan. I hold onto my writing and art for so long then suddenly get a bursting need to share, I’m not sure which is better -the act of creation or the satisfaction of letting it go. Owl Woman has such a strong grandmother connection for me that it took quite a bit of courage to share this one.

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