Soul Meets Blog

At first I watch you
with the patience of a yearling deer standing 
on the edge of a wooded road, among familiar
ferns and branches, spots on my anonymous flank 
blending me with the herd 
and with the fallen leaves.
                           I'm hidden here
in a crowd of bystanders, drawn closely about me 
like autumn road-side rushes.  Fresh antlers 
are punching through my forehead's skin; I'm staring 
at this oncoming light, knowing a certain destruction 
awaits me on the road.  
                      Boldly 
wearing your wolf-claws, you draw me 
to forsake forest, to step onto the deadly asphalt, 
to seek the company of a hunter. I approach you softly 
walking through your wall of wolf-scent;
I smell the buck beneath.  
                           You and I dance, 
our pulse drums up dawn, percussive 
former solos become counterpoint. 
                                   You leave 
marks on my skin; I don't know whether 
the remaining itch is the desire to return
and be hunted again, or just reaction, 
just raspberry gashes of a close call with a predator
on my skin, in my head—
                       a spreading rash 
that brings no pain but makes me wish 
we could make a single beast of prey 
and predator, larger than either of our skins. 

A week ago, I was invited to help build a Medicine Wheel for the first time with a new friend and shamanic teacher. Now I'm building my second one, and I feel very grateful for this profound new teaching that I'm receiving, a new way of learning to listen to my intuition (deeper self, higher power, shadow aspect, etc.) and connecting with the energy of planet Earth.

In the "Hopi Ghost Dance", it's been said that "if civilization loses the old ways, there will be no hope for humanity." The old ways refers to, among other things, the understanding that humans are not the masters of the cycle of life and death, but only another species in the spiral.

Dealing with Spirit is often unlike anything we expect; my only advice is to follow your heart path, be of good intention, and to be prepared for anything. My caveat is to beware of quacks. It's easy to call oneself a shaman; being one is another matter. Fire can burn, Water drown, Earth bury, and Air choke. If you're interested in finding a shamanic teacher/practitioner, I highly recommend looking into training from Sandra Ingerman and her school. I also recommend looking at Eliot Cowan and his school. I've dealt with practitioners in both schools and am happy to report healthy, responsible experiences with them.

Photo courtesy of www.spiritualnetwork.net.

Hope you enjoy this New Year's Card. Have a great year, folks.

This is my first MP3. I've never downloaded an MP3. (Hear that RIAA? It's true, it's true. Ahem. OK. Riiiiiiight.) No, I mean that this is my first MP3...my song, that is.

Or at last, half my song. I co-wrote "Thursday's Child" with Somerville singer-songwriter Keith Hampton. Well, he did most of the work. I just had to put down a baby llama and then wrote a poem about it. :-(

Anyway, the song appears on a limited edition EP for Keith's latest album, Chance & Change. I encourage you to buy the disc, but if you don't get the limited edition, you can download our song here.

P-oz shared this wonderful article on the different full moons from Space.com. Check it out...

Eleven years ago, the Harvest Moon bestowed my first adult poem, "I've Never Been," upon me. I looked up to see a ring around the moon, and a door opened in the back of my head. Perhaps this is what they mean by "lunatic." I've been writing poetry ever since.

One year ago my book, Follow the Wolf Moon, came out. Coincidentally, the release date happened to be right around the Wolf Moon, the first full moon of January. The cover image of my book happens to be a doctored photograph of the Wolf Moon over the lake where my family lives, taken by my mother.

I owe it all to the moon.

Today's song is from Snow Patrol, off their latest disc, "Eyes Open." Enjoy.

"Set The Fire To The Third Bar"
(feat. Martha Wainwright)

I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from here to where you'd be
It's only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I'd find your face
My finger in creases of distant dark places

Remember college? Not many of us do. But yes, I do remember that first apartment. I thought I'd had freedom in the dorms; it was nothing compared to my first apartment at 8 Griggs St in Allston. The 3 bedroom basement apartment cost us 1500 per month and came equipped with bars on the windows, industrial orange linoleum tiles throughout, hand-me-down furniture. And I seem to recall cockroaches.

We also used to party there. A lot. Hence, it seemed the perfect location for my friend Mike Hinkley to shoot his student movie, "The Morning After."

I'm the kid in the bathtub and with the box on his head. Enjoy. We sure did.

My editorial friends and colleagues over at Pemmican Press, a stellar online political magazine, have decided to publish my poem "Shopper's Prayer" in their Spring issue.

You can view the poem here. Remember, you all read it first here on Soul Meets Blog. Thanks for your patronage. :)

She reads her homework assignment aloud in Spanish and cries as she does so. The homework exercise I assigned the class members last week was to imagine oneself as a non-human object and write a story, poem, or journal entry from the perspective of that object. I got this exercise from a writing teacher of mine.

A Celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

When I look into the mirror, I don't want to see white. I'm not talking about color-blindness. I don't mean to say that that white skin isn't beautiful, it is, because skin itself is beautiful, whatever shade it comes in.

Love, you have not arrived
to discover what I've become.
I prepare breakfast for myself;
I serve coffee for one.
When the day's chores are finished
and all the tasks that had to be done
are over, what opportunities will have gone by, love,
while I turned about all wrong, staring
at the shadow of love instead
of hearing its song?
Love, you still have no name,
but I keep your side of our bed made.
I see a pillow smooth and blank
where I'd rather see your rumpled face, love.

The love of a friend is moonlight,
the reflective heart of a silvered night,
bright blanket that highlights shadows, knowing
even they are worthy of light.

The love of a friend is the first flicker
of a streetlamp that turns on faithfully
with each yellow dusk, a cone of brightness,
a safe place to walk in the darkness.

The love of a friend is a meteor,
an unexpected fist of fiery light
that says "Look up, the sky wants you to fight."

The love of a friend is a candle,
a keeper of nighttime secrets,
a solitary light from which another is kindled.

The love of a friend is "thank you"
and "how are you?" sometimes "I'm sorry"
also "I understand and forgive."

The love of a friend is beyond belief,
like the way you just know--in your last unbroken
bone and only unbruised muscle--the way you just know
that if you make it through the night, dawn is coming.

I like this random poem I found on the Internet at Lost Horse Press. Click on the picture for a larger, more readable version.

No, you have me confused with another Tom in Quincy.

No, I've never been on your show before.

No, I didn't call last night. There's plenty of Toms in the book who like football.

So, we both have a raspy voice. What kinda proof is that?

Just let me on, would ya?

Listen, I don't need this hassle. Are you gonna let me on or not?

I certainly wouldn't call a sports talk show if I'd been drinking!

I tell you, you're not the only game in town.

Anyways, I don't need to call your stupid show to hear myself on TV.

Boot black, chicory black,
deeper than dilated pupil,
darker than a power outage,
blacker than the mood of Monday morning drivers
and late-night Friday office-workers.
Why do you water me down?
Whiten me up?
Pour sugar down my throat?
I'm not meant to be sweet,
Not meant to be yes ma'am or yessir
or any way you like it.
I'm vitality
squeezed, dark nectar
of roasted beans; I'm supposed to sting
and burn a bit as I go down.
I'm your cup of coffee
and I'm meant to be drunk black.