She has a delicate voice, redolent
secret inspiration, not often used.
There is high-pitched panic drone
like angry bees, chaotic, insistent.
That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling
knives flown from ghostly furies. She doesn’t notice.
It is done as pyrotechnic effect while consciousness
bathes in cool restraint, senses tuned to calm,
to cleanse, safe inside.
There is another voice, sure as ocean rain,
forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear it tone, we listen.
Pure bell that sings only Truth;
it is in our sacred core to attend.
A voice rare and wonderful,
the essence of beauty. The more we listen,
in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold,
we become attuned. We become the voice of welcome,
of familiar kind regard.
We become complicit encouragement.
She is stronger more able, vibrant in song.
We are all learning to chime, cantillate, play,
evoke harmonic world, build in conversation,
turning conceptions from experience into
private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.
Mobs of ignorant, irate people.
Too loud to heed anything like peace.
Nothing to be done. Leave them alone.
Find a free meadow under open sky.
Clamor out the cheer that carries blithe spirit.
Suns far from Sol call deeper context, wider sight.
We’ve made our vocation a matter of energy.
Chant of rising surf, open crest to mystery.
Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, brilliant as starlight.
Watery imagery —
the ocean that meant to keep me
so many years ago. I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm. I don’t know why.
It wasn’t my idea to be strong. I didn’t think,
just let my body work along from one plane to the next.