Author: Little Shepherd Girl

some voices are thin
some voices ring
in my head
like imposed cacophony
but my voices
are not like hers
so I remain
in the sheets
my head singing
my heart longing
for the ones
that remove
all assumptions
perhaps if I stay
in that place
that delicious place
built
between heaven and earth
I can figure it out
perhaps apologize
for not
incarnating today
but as I roll over to hit
the snooze alarm
unambiguous says
get up now

“For what is it that kills, if not for old habits, that die hard?” ~ Anonymous

let’s build in matter’s image
said man
construct forms,
byways,
strategies,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
wombman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept offer
of plea bargain
she had not
contributed
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
them
for theirs
worse
it was rumored
she had conceived
without them
did away with genders
or reflected
them both
inside of herself
and they held meeting
to determine
if they could
still call her
a her anymore
because
a song had been born
from her tears
perhaps
The Song
had been born
like
a burbling brook,
of crystal clear water,
a river
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the
materialists
perhaps
it’s the wind
this background noise
so persistent
but elusive
some freak
deja vu of
human nature
the men couldn’t put
their finger on it
what they feared
about this sound
that wasn’t a sound
and this woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
seemed to spring
so effortlessly
and without
strategy
they feared it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
unplanned
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
and they asked
isn’t this
sort of thing
illegal,
heretical,
contagious?
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no resemblance
and she seemed sad
but happy
at the same time
while the song
seemed to grow
and expand
within her
yet echo back
at them
from inside out
of their own heads
perhaps
they feared it
and hated it
because they couldn’t hold it,
touch it,
make it definable,
containable,
or give it a label
form,
package
or box
to make it safe
for human consumption
hell
it was too unpredictable,
vulnerable,
wild,
free and rapid
for thought
or human logistics
like she had already shed
her own shell
without authorization
or permission
from higher command
who did she think
she was?
and though
they knew
it must be stupid,
this song,
what wombman
had birthed
they feared
it must be swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
prodigy
as if this spirit
this spirit
of hers
this non material
thing
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
worse
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
free
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the wombman
know
they were all
in danger?
but in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
she
inviting them
to dine
on invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
like a beautiful,
tinkling,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
wearing
a white wedding veil
hadn’t they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
around?
I know
said one
how to fix this
let’s burn her house down
set fire
to her trees
that hide
the new child
from us
that way he’ll have to
come out
show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
contain
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
they came at her
then
with weapons
of mass destruction
but their fire
would not catch,
light,
or burn those living trees
that she’d nurtured
with her own hands
only their suits
and their instruments
of death
caught fire
and their own hands
matched their clothing
dirty now
and marked
with inky black soot
she calmly reproving them
saying hurry,
wash up for dinner
you’re like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this one last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we’re not celebrating
the death of my son,
we’re celebrating his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what’s
no longer useful
an empty chalice,
rusted metal vessel
all along

Birds,
they come in various flocks
to sing
triumphant journeys
over me

while I stay still
imagining them
the heralds of movement
of my soul

What
journeys do you speak
oh quiet one
who sings your song at night
that watchful, weary eyes
can’t see?

Who whispers stories
just out of reach
like feathers of birds
or angel’s wings

that disappear
upon human touch
when the dark of daylight
shadows me?

Yearning
without reason or cause
but Remembrance

that I know
from somewhere beyond
the conscious state

Like an instinct
to fly up,
up through the skies
like a bird

Because I hear you
calling me
saying come fly
come dance
nay
 come soar with me

For if not
for short statured
perspective
see
my little soul

That
you are bigger than
the world

oh Lady of Wisdom
of the desert
of the woods
this is your castle.
library,
refuge
and home
send torrents of angels
like rain
upon us
adept in your science
and mathematics
of grace
and sacred geometry
so that in the
morning light
we might find ourselves
like our true labor
and true
rendered garments
complete
and combat ready
not with weapons
of mass destruction
men use
in their killing fields
but with Love
for it is only
She
who realizes
her own Revelation
who gives birth to
the one power
mightier than
the sword.
Amen

my mother has mirrors
like those intricately carved
and gilded in gold
what a queen
might have used
or film stars
of the 1940’s
who
without their mirrors
and stories of old
the scrubbing never ended
the scrubbing of dishes,
and pots and plates
it could never be finished
what I mean is
one was always
Cinderella’s
jealous step sister
with too big feet
or the second one in line
for the throne
the third runner up
for some kind of
film star award
no matter what one’s
royal lineage
until one took off
one’s apron
to relax for a bit
perhaps mom took off
a pink one
the one with green stitching
and pointed and starched
black lace
that she had sewn
all by herself
from scraps
she had retrieved from
the rag bin
and found herself
content to cast image
onto something
or someone
else for awhile
and that’s how it all
got started
so long ago
the spell casting
of images
Mom’s magic mirrors
the mistaking
of her own reflection
for a daughter
in the silverware
or the dinner plates
Mom still holds things up
for inspection
wherever she finds
her magic mirrors
and sees reflections
and hears voices
that seem to make life
not shiny enough
or make the neighbors
gossip and point
and now
all I have to remember
remember her by
Mom’s true self
is my own grief
when she casts with
such impunity
and purpose
like a professional
to make me the object
of all that she despises
in her imagination
inside of herself

I left her
in Southgate
a rose dahlia
she had something
on her mind
something
to keep
the Missouri moon
rose o’er me
a lantern
in the sky
telling me secrets
that she
couldn’t speak
isn’t it ironic
mortal men
find her brilliant
as reflection
of the sun
but just as
morning beckons
she weeps
like Mara
whose waters
we cannot drink
Missouri moon
caress my face
mediatrix
to mitigate
a divide
Missouri moon
I beg you
guide me home
for I still sense
paradox
only you
can guide me
to a journey
without grief


https://youtu.be/iEDusVxVKbA

candlelight
lend me your mystery
draw me into the night
that I might discover
something more

more than the shadows
that vague and opaque
that hunt and haunt
my loose-latched
front door

and make my footing
unsure
as I step out
in a fog-like cloak
of non disclosure

instead of transparency
the wraith wants to
mark my death
and make sure
my stories aren’t told

like a cold, old lady
who sweeps puzzle pieces
under the rug
without me asking
from my kitchen floor

candlelight
oh beautiful,
magical candlelight

that’s not the cleansing
that I’m looking for
but it’s getting simpler
now

for I sense you’re a portal
my knowing,
my door,
my non material
that’s nonetheless more secure

as you lend me your flame
and close tightly behind me
to make my heart pulsate
like you

in discovering that more
in what you illumine
that clear and that brilliant
beyond mask, doors and floors

the sharp white and black
that’s not stale or despondent
it’s like an outline of tree limbs
cutting up through to the sky

and beyond time as if
we could reach heaven’s height
in humble candlelight
and reverse alchemy

I know you can take me there
with outstretched arms
and the face in whose eyes
I look upon

as they reflect my own
that I’ve never seen before
oh candlelight,
that contains all mysteries

wake me up with kind smile
and words from that mystery
that lies right before me
tonight

At ninety
the wicked stepmother
returns
bringing with her delusions
fueled on Fox News,
white bread
and mayonnaise
I can see it in her eyes
right before
the shift
unable to manage
her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing
to choke
on the color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my glass
for what else is there
to hold onto
when you want to wash
something other
than color
off of your skin
like a virus
she’d like to pass down
through generational channels
does she really imagine
peace is made
chewing with mouths open
excusing ourselves
in the Lord?
she says it’s not just the skin
don’t you know
it’s their culture
and they should be used
to uncharitable remarks
by now,
anyhow
she adds that his mother
must be rolling over
in her grave
I say perhaps
perhaps that’s true
Mother
because after all
I don’t think racists
get to go
to heaven
she tries to fling
her dinner plate at me
of chicken salad
on baby spinach
with those little, tiny
mandarin oranges
that came in the can
with the pull-back ring
though I try to stop her
it’s too late
and like her virus of words
the food I served to her
comes flying back at me
across my kitchen table

her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing to choke
on the skin color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
tightly
for what else is there
to hold onto
and clutch
when  you want to scream
and wash something
other than color
from your skin
like a virus
passed unwittingly
from one generation
to the next
did she really think
we would eat
with our mouths open
our unkindness

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good food
of good words
of sunshine
and rain

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good laughter
of good song
of activity
and repose

none of this
is charity measured
but abundance itself
and sweet gratitude
for the self
and the other

for in the end
we are all the parent
we are all the voice
much like the God
who brought us here

and in the end
we are all the love
much like the joy
and potent wisdom
that keeps the world kind