Month: April 2023

Jupiter cazimi – abundance and luck!

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And all I

can think

about is

the robin

lying dead

on the grass,

its beak

gaping open,

its defiant

red breast

castigating

the sky;

the backs

of my friends

as they laugh

on their way

through the dimming city

and I say goodbye

to a time and

way of life

in the half light;

the ache in my

arms from hauling

a door

we are struggling

so hard to

hang, a threshold

trying to materialise.

In the kitchen,

I turn to

‘The Lark Ascending’

and weep as

I chop the radishes

and spring onions,

a silent howl

as my tears pour,

once again

stricken

with the frailty,

beauty, terror

and despair

of living a life

in love and in

loss.

And whilst

I chop,

I hear my love,

he’s sweetly pottering and

planning in the

next room;

I feel my

moon circle,

with gentle,

loving solidity,

picking me up

as I stand

half-collapsed

at the sink

washing cups,

their hands

in the suds

with mine;

I am with the

smile of

my sister

as she examined

my ear

and accepted my

gifts of housewarming:

bread

salt

wine.

There are blockages

already beginning

to clear.

There is so much fear.

And the spirit of adventure,

it still whispers

my name.

*

‘The mystery of life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.’

Søren Kierkegaard

The fifth season

/ eharpingon / Leave a comment

‘Three white butterflies to know you’re near…’

‘Grandfather please stand on the shoulders of my father while he’s deep-sea fishing’ – Lana Del Rey, Did you know that there’s a tunnel under Ocean Blvd (2023)

I try to

smile sweetly

at April,

but my teeth

hurt.

I force myself

to consider

the miracle

of primroses

that scatter

the churchyard

wantonly;

but I hanker

for the crows

and their inky capes.

I grab T.S Eliot

in the morning;

pick my skin;

mangle my words;

then accidently

smashed the

almond blossoms

on the floor and

cried.

A month begins

with the

interplay

of shadow and darkness

under relentless

grey; the new

Del Rey album

knows.

I asked to

see, hear and know;

all I received

was the same old puppet

show and I

feel all the

ways I don’t

live up to the sun.

Today, I keep it small:

there’s nothing

much to do

except to give thanks

that I have a plot

safe enough

soft enough

to wait this out;

let woundedness have her moment,

her head between her paws,

her sighs reverberating

off the wardrobe;

compassion whispering reminders

through the blinds,

of the hallowed blue sky

as the wheel

it turns, it turns.

*

Then,

there we were

singing

‘Under the Bridge’

in murmured

unison.

Magnolia! Magnolia!

And our laughter

recalled the

sunbeams.