Even the robostrobe throws smoke back at first, until you know
What questions to ask. Same with the stones, who clam up
Until you let their wisdom approach, going sunwise
From the west, until it gets to know you, says “hi,”
The stone that will hold your own frequency, the only
Reliable witness, to the shape of our rage, our will
They re-ranged into the forms of the Kronos realm
Out of the war between fire and water in our heads,
As the foundation of our solar temple, for our choice
To be material. They hold our bones, known beyond time,
In sediment archive.
The Druid bards used to
Sound them with a stick, off trees picked like cymbals
In a Zildjian shop, for the pulse, and played like Charlie
When he swung back the roll of the thundering Stones. That’s where
The poems came from, as they were given back only to song stones
Like Merlyn gave Excalibur back to Mnemosyne.
That’s why monarch crowns were assiduously combed
For symbol in crystal – the people forebore nothing less
Than the silence of the ages they possessed, to confer
God’s authority, the voice of authenticity before they took away
The bells, when we could cry through dolmen portals to acquire
What came before, like unlocked sluice gates of the land, whose wisdom
Waits inside, drawing light down from the stars.
But they do so for a price:
We had to hear heaven enough to hear the earth. Open enough to ring
Like the bells that brought on our doom once. Innocent enough
To go on. And so I put on myself the druid hoodie, in impossible quest
To recover silence, listen for once in the Anthropocene to the earth
As she cries to be freed from her stillness, like she’s been in our game
Of musical chairs too long, as the agreed-upon rules are breaking, now,
Becoming news. There’s no reason now the branches
Can’t be waves, expanding with each gustatory gesture,
For no other reason than creation is endless, and everything
Is known, who they are, what they represent.
The earth won’t wait, the age calls out,
And the dragon spiral stirs the nest and calls for more ridiculous druids
To trudge up the mountainsides like goats, to be chosen by stones and
Attune to the subtlety of how to convey peacefully the memory held
Intact in the ruin like runes, and unlock ancient permanences
Only we know what to do with. Our healing wand would blind with light
All unexamined pockets, as mirrors in a common crystal hit by sun
Echo the sound of the other world, the one beyond the cup-stone
And slate mirrors for scrying.
We are asked to walk again the sage road,
Wearing our crown lotus crystal, the one modeled for kings, inside,
To cast a magic circle in the portal between worlds. They knew
All along, the old seers, that what they would do would be gone,
But also knew the stones could be trusted, the bards
Who didn’t write anything down, sharing only with the stone kingdom.
They've come down the mountain in invisible streams, nuggets
Everywhere, of golden wisdom, with no worry of any one calling,
They all are! But few yield permission to move them, much less
Consecrate a meeting. Without proper groundwork, people get hurt
As the horse gets too reactive, so the would-be druid must be
Hollow enough, to think, as pure extension of perception,
To follow a trail without breadcrumb or motive.
The whip cracks,
The crow caws, and the blue sky glows with all I need to know,
My twitching hands that sense water, and the meadowlark's report
Of the way to the ley line. "Will you be responsible on the trail,
Are you sure?" You must ask the horse, before going up the ridge.
As his hoof kicks up pebbles, the stones start to hum in my heart.
The mythical mountain lion becomes real in this echo, one must be
Careful to put the earth before everything else, and the earth says
"There must be some spot that only you know." There the rocks
Will congregate, further up the hill, before the turning back
In hearkenings of other ranches, where the poop smells too human.
The stones kindly slough me off, but where the trails cross
There's a round one, who almost imperceptibly calls. I do the dervish
Dance in full late light, still incredulous I'd find the one
In a stone universe of suitors, but it said "there's a world I can
Show you," and in that delicate blend of trust and knowing
I grabbed it, not like a Tevis Cup, but close. And in that moment
As the black stones turned translucent, every other one was
Closed off, to help me, in my ignorance. All rocks, like all
Sentient beings, hurl towards the one.
Mine was embossed
With a universe of stars, like an unfamiliar map that turns
With jeweler's drill discernment into an all-encompassing,
Deeply personal truth that sparkles in every heavenly zone,
As its very weight of geometry makes it sing, in the ever-ravenous
Belly of the universe. It wants, turns out, the same thing as me,
To fly, it shares easily, like we were drinking Guinness Stout,
And the million times it was skimmed into the ripples of the sea
Comes back for review, first as tragedy, then laughter, then the succor
Of knowing more can be shared, at other sundowns
Where the waiting burns to be told, in the same fire
That moved it here, from some ember of eccentricity,
Some sliver of diversion from the circle.
The cactus holds its own,
As before, the flowers time their blooms as always for the birds,
Who worship the sun, who follows our cues, as the horse
Follows me to what becomes real only by moving through it.
The hills shake off their flannel. Only this moment is permanent.
It has affixed the rock to my hand, for the meditative mind
To tune the fork, and when it's silent, begin again.
