Pulse (Poem)

Drumming
wheels of time unravel
lengthening
the chapters woven.
In the wood
thoughts peer through,
wisps of green,
our instincts wrapping
in a perfume now seducing
us into our next condition,
yielding to magnetic tethers
pulling toward the next edge.
Always searching
but home in searching–
pulsing, turning,
dancing, waiting.

 

Beat the rhythms,
each phrase an age
cloaked in capsules,
tears and droplets,
blood in death and new creation.
Wise ones looking like us,
maybe over on that mountain,
maybe here but ‘tween our blinking–
some bearded, hardened, retching, reaching,
some glowing, giving, nurture-making.

 

I prayed not for a thing
but to be, and ring
my call to sound
through each new something,
proceeding from me,
my time, earthly–
steely, steady,
blast through being.

 

Flux and twinkle
off and on,
from eye’s eye
yet a constant march remaining,
within, above,
the changing–
rooting, breathing,
striving, living.

 

Complete archive can be found on the Poems page.

This poem was originally published in Issue # 1 of The White People’s Quarterly, Summer 2019

Painting: Ludwig Fahrengrong, The Holy Fire (Das Heilige Feuer)