There are no door prizes in this grand falling away.

There are no choice seats on a sinking ship.

Everything in the shadows will be revealed.

All disharmonants, exposed.

Any and every ‘thing’

we never wanted to look at

will be vomited up.

We’ll have to sit in it until we ‘get’ it.

It is the nature of decay and renewal.


McMansions, white picket fences

white picket wickedness

gated “communities”

gates erected between us

gates erected within —

none will be fortress enough.

There is no erecting walls or building fences in high wind.


There is only one woman.

At first, she points gently — her first respectful offering.

Then, she cuts deeply — her second.

She’ll do it with words, and wind —

the Blade of Time

the Scythe of the Seasons

losses.

She’ll wait you out until you frighten yourself;

until your childish, timeborne fantasies evaporate.

She’ll feed you and dine with you; drink you under the table.

She’ll scare and tenderize you with a single glance.

The litmus test of actual wakefulness

is whether or not we still cling to old conditioning —

the one caught up in possession, possessions, possessiveness.

There is only one woman, ever.

She cannot be possessed in her many forms and shapes.

She moves through the bazaar, gently.

She moves across the land, fiercely.

She will call you out; hollow you out.

She is your final embrace

and the one that receives you at the end.

The whole world is being turned

into a hollow bone to make way for Her.

It starts in the souls of women and men.


(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Triple Gem of Wisdom / All Our Ancestors / Tuu

image: NASA

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