Holy Mountain

With each step
Onto the holy mountain
I am slain.

By each fresh encounter
With a reality that overwhelms
My precious,
Worldview, I am broken.

Broken, broken again
By the love
Of which the mountain is made.

Skin from skin
By the claws of the eagle
Who knows
It’s impossible
To step
Without carrying your whole world with you
Unless that step
Is a death
And a transformation.



Like honey from a jar,
Each moment adhering to the next
In primal resonance,
Light flows into me
Towards the root of things.

I sometimes open deep enough
To breathe down to my toes,
Or let the singing stream
Remember me to the sea.

I sometimes clothe the mountain of my mind
In thunder
Loud enough to loosen rock
From rock,
And send them falling
Down through the abyss.

I sometimes sit with the dying embers
As one by one they crumble and fade,
Pursuing them into the blackening darkness
Where name cannot follow.

From the quiet root of things
The day is born
And, circling like the sun,
A lover to his lover’s arms

Where time and light dissolve
Like honey into wine
Or breath into bone.

If I open,
Light flows into me
To its home.

Blessed Darkness

All is well.
It’s only normality that is dying.

The matrix is broken,
Its stories are bankrupt,
The ink of all contracts runs off the page.

Never mind.
The rivers will clear.
The land will recover.
And the stars that we fold inside our mountain songs
Will guide our way through the blessed darkness.