In the Cave of Our Ancestors

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Upon our broken land, Ancestors,
we ask for your return
that we may be the hollow bones
to bear and tender your healing.
May we walk in beauty upon our land.
May we walk in beauty upon our land.
May we walk, again, in beauty.

 

 

 

In the Cave of Our Ancestors, collage, by Lex Leonard

Amalgamation

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And Old Rock Man
titling to sleep, slack jawed,
eyes hallow, blue lichen
dotting rims and ridges,
I hear him laugh while years
speed as he attends, baked
under sun, iced with snow,
quenched in spring drizzle

Open palmed, eyes closed,
I feel the patter of your elfin
droplets yield their kisses,
then race to become more than I
can grasp, finally a watercourse
running through my fingers
unable to bear your presence

While braggarts and buffoons
hold court on stages
dealing fear to anyone
who will take the draw

But you and I ask,
seek and find the open door
where you and I and Old Rock Man
dance under skies harboring
moon’s extravagance and
stars’ wildness as rain
washes us away

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.
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Author’s Note:

 

These weeks roll on.

And I wonder what the outcome of this political season of fear will produce.

But there is always hope, tenderness in the smallest of gestures.

In the madness of this week I was presented with a gift. There was a sweet and gentle apology that maybe it should have been more colorful and soft, maybe sparkly. But what was given is rough and worn, aged with wisdom.

It holds ancient stories.

It’s been a while since I’ve regularly visited Sunday scripture readings. For this Sunday I again find that the words surround me with pain and fear, all of that which I chose to leave behind. But as I dig through, I find the much needed balm. Maybe the simple voice that needs to be heard through all the words, the words that declare we are sinners. Within peaks out the real nugget. From Sodom and Gomorrah to transgressions and uncircumcised flesh all the way to the final test and selfishness, somewhere within all that hurtful dressing, I find the wisdom of our ancient but ever present shaman, Jesus.

I must open my heart enough to set my agenda aside and simply ask for what I need. When I ask, I surrender myself. I depend on Someone else. I wash my hands of trying to do it all, to be perfect. I let down my guard, release ego from its post, relax into Spirit’s arms. And once I am there, with a great deep inhale filling my lungs to capacity and then blowing out my designs, I make room for truth. I clear the smoke to be able to see.

I am loved, always have been, always will be.

I don’t need the facade of dressing up. I don’t need the filling of my ego’s bottomless cup from other sources or even with my own deeds.

I am simply enough.

Rough and worn and a bit ragged, but wiser for the wear. And stories to tell, ancient and wonderful.

May you reach to the ancients
for our Wisdom, digging
through the trappings
to find our Beautiful Mystery.

May you reach into your heart
for there is our Light shining
to illuminate our way together.

May you reach to another’s hand,
join the dance with those
who have gone before on a path
well worn but resplendent and
wide enough for all.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Happy Full Moon Blessings,

Lexanne

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Amalgamation Choir | Live at the Library – Ksenitia tou Erota

Ancestors

Day Ten
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Ancestors

Her voice trickles through heavy roar
of traffic, not like marigolds who hold their

petal memories above forgotten graves behind
concrete walls where ancestors drift in trembling

light that makes its way through cloud grey skies.
And lovers dance over bones of those remaining

under sidewalk gardens and marble columns,
turning up the volume of white space between

beats as figures trace two, now one in embrace,
and bow and turn between the jugglers’ trance.

And our ancestors smile.

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.

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Author’s Note:

This weekend I was delighted!

Three of us trotted into Capitol Hill to write poetry. Through the sponsorship of The Lighthouse Writers Workshop and Write Denver, we joined about twenty others who walked the town to write poetry. Check out Denver Poetry Map where you can read the city.

Bullhorn in hand, our leader took us to the Denver Botanic Gardens, Cheeseman Park, houses in the Cheeseman area, and a coffee house. We stopped, listened to a local poet’s poem through the bullhorn and wrote for fives minutes, then we moved on.

It rained. First big rain of the season.

And then there was Ice Cream Riot. What better way to end the day with “milk stout” scoop?  Yes. Stout. In vanilla ice cream. Oh!

Cheeseman Park and the Denver Botanic Gardens are built on top of a graveyard. Attempts were made to remove all who rested there, but as ground is turned for new projects, more ancestors are found.

One can remove bones, but spirit will be where spirit will be. We mustn’t forget.

DNA of Snow

I am of a land of snowIMG_3474

Grey sky clouded, a silken mantle
penumbra of summer’s fireball,
my rooted winter seduction.

Here I rest.

My body loosens heavy with DNA
bonded to white earth, a lineal marrow
from ancestors long past.

I know this spell.

A postulation on a spiral staircase,
each rung fashioned in every cell of my being,
passed from one generation unknown
to the next. My lungs inhale
chill laden breath and I am at ease.

I am native to this acclimation.

Somewhere my alphabet of four letters,
my twisted ladder of encoded knowledge
begins where flakes mass, light is vague,
and sound is pillowed into nullity.

I am of a sanctuary of snow,
my tribe’s nucleus bequeathed to me.

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Author’s Note:

Unlike any other time, when the first snow falls, well, at least four of five inches, I feel my body relax. I am not one who thrives in bright sun, hot breezes, and sunglasses.

Today we had such a snow.

As I reached the crest of Smoky Hill, the vast sky was grey, flakes were falling, and snow covered the front range of the Rocky Mountains filled my view. I breathed more deeply, my grip on the steering wheel loosened, and a small voice inside my head whispered, “Finally.”

I’ve been reading about how scientists are finding that trauma from the past of those who were tortured or abused, that those events actually change their DNA. It is then passed on to future generations who can experience the trauma themselves years and years later. If this is true, then it must partially explain my deep connection to snow and soft grey skies and cold chilly air.

I thank my tribe, whoever and wherever they were, for bringing me home today.