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(this is a poem i wrote when i was close to the age that all these events happened. i don't think it's all that great. but i thought someone might want to see a glimpse of the authentic thoughts running through my head, back then, instead of the filtered version of those thoughts as i remember them now.)


Standing. Night, on beyond
the dead-end dirt road running
east, into the hills.
The tiers of trees press round.
And there the night air
stirs with the breeze,
the promise
the advent.

Standing. Here we have the merest
hint, the holding in expectant
potential of that presence.
My feet founded four square, their roots
locked into the damp dirt, their rootlets
in turn twisted
in the grit and grain of the earth.

Standing. The bright begins
now, a tiny slow humming
within my thighs.
Around in the roundabout
the trees, tall and dark against the larger dark
encircle me in solid circumscription.
Barely now (flicker-instant)
a second circle around and above
and a musing of multi-mouthed music
sweet as silver.

Standing. The water wells within me
now, the well-water is willed within
the shaft. Spark starts hard by my heart
pale opalescent light buds and stirs.
Then the bell sounds, deep, muffled,
drifting through the distant wood
cool as copper.
Turn, stretch, awake; focus. Realize.
Call. Reply.

Standing. Fire flames out
now, flowing forward, flying outward,
touching with tender tongues
the shadows shuddering
at the corners of the clearing.
My head, my shoulders
still earthbound level
straight and square.
The very air
now looms liquid, slowly whirling
shaft turning in torque with
potential of that power.
The cylinder about me solidifies.

Standing. It reaches my heart
now. I look out, my gaze level
to the grove grown green in grace.
Light widens within the wood,
flickering, flowing smooth as sheet
lightning in laminar flow
as level as my look;
a lens of light level
in the heart of the wood.
Hidden structure shines into solidity,
humming high green and sweet.
Circuit coming closed
now, and my body
arcs and sparks with the power
let loose within the world.

Standing. The gate opens.
The song swells from my throat
now, new as it was
when the world was made.
How it soars sweet
the thin high melody meeting
the cold night air above.
All about the notes cascade low
raining as real as the power of the presence
now newly standing in sharp relief round;
the structure of the song
providing the platform.

Standing. It reaches my forehead
now, and the fire
burning in bitter bright blaze
runs out my reaching fingers
and hurtles the clearing
high-lining the fields
miles and miles behind
miles and miles ahead.
With me now the trees,
shining with the reflected echo of
this blue and gold mystery
(this new and old mystery)
bearing forth into the world
what it now can scarce contain.
High above the sky
edges into evidence:
darkly passive, deeply pensive
swallowing all
yielding to the call, the power down here.
Wind whistles down from infinity
to observe, to listen,
then to carry away shouting,
its deep holy voice swallowed and shuttered
with the sheer force of its passage.
The land itself
now lives -- leaps and sparkles
in the mirrored fire on high.

Standing. The corona at the crown
of my head bursts forth
now, leaping,
fists full of lightning,
arrowing between the trees
very light of very light
(begotten not made.)
Shock waves of that passage
rolling out over the round hills
over the square blocks
over the curve of the earth.
It bears in its bow wave
that unforgettable radiance.
Going, going forth,
whirling out of the dark heart of the wood
hurling into the void heart of the world
going forth, going.

Standing. Suddenly the circle is with me
now. Illumined in limitless light we link
voices in a chorus, our song
a high pure cone whose apex
gleams and sparkles sure,
the silver chord chorus
vertical and true.
Below, one low voice chants its
counter-cyclical rhythm,
thrumming its deep note of purpose.
Our song cycle complete,
the circle closes.

And there
NOW at last
the doorway is open
the pathway is illuminated straightaway
and the One Traveller of all
space and time approaches,
those velvet on steel footsteps
hammering down the valley of the sky,
drawing nigh.


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