Poem of the Day: “the inner animal”


the inner animal

the touch of something ancient,            primordial animal memory,

this shadow of instinct in dreams            and fears awakened by the unexpected

encounter, the wild eye               in the brush,

the lover turning over or around,             the heart races . . .

a thing like that, wild                              or more used to freedom,

motivated by the inner will,             of us pulls to follow its own course,

a part untamed, unbroken        the wild horse uncivilized,

like the unbridled heart           it wants what it wants,

undomesticated, it finds             windows and potions

it shape shifts and dreams          through the bars of these cages,

a jaguar made of silence,               words never spoken but known

giving the dance structure,             story, functions as to flesh, the bone

my night eyes have seen foxes run         through the heart of the city

racing the frost-light of dawn,              under these sidewalks are the sleeping

seeds of prairie grasses                 dashed through by barefooted ancestors

. . . waiting, i can feel this         part of me, this past with it’s seeds,

it’s potential                         sharing dreams with roots of trees

pushing up sidewalks                with slow solar ease

and in the forests the trees                     are falling on fences,

righteously pushing and wrenching            them down,

the weight of water and wood                 upon wicked and brown

steel crown of thorns unraveled

and stretched out across creation,             man’s manifestation

of his attempt at separation,    unnatural linear division,

year after year          the trees fall without fear

laying their rain-filled bodies down                     and squirrels apply

layers of pine needles              and cone flakes,

a hundred year hour yawns            erasing mistakes

with no human ear near to witness               or hear the slow sound that it makes

man with his multiplication                     and attempts at division

learning that the sum arrived at         is always One and will also be found

through subtraction and             through addition

remembering words                to admonish contrition

“take, eat; this is my body.”              adaptation leans toward love

to please the earth is to please the self,                  the soul, the whole,

emotional strategies of the heart             of the world,

has “it’s reasons               that reason cannot know.”

raven’s laughter whether in deep       woods or city can instantly liberate,

reawaken the animal within the moment        which seems to hibernate to

begin to contemplate,                develop strategies to compensate,

find our way through,                create a means to reconnect anew,

become whole again,                our intellect we must subdue to

start and think like a mountain, with heart

for year upon year we have struck               blind with fear

afraid of the inevitability of change,              creating a world so strange,

“The cowman who cleans             his range of wolves

does not realize                he is taking over the wolf’s job

of trimming the herd                  to fit the range.”

a circle for the mind to hold                   in the words of Aldo Leopold,

the animals within live in the moment              and are not planning their future,

the animals within celebrate the familiar scent     and shadow of the new,

one inside howls             and paws at each days events

for an opening          to dry pale yellow prairie grasses,

the mountains shrouded in shades          of blue and white, the sky is grey,

much sleeps in these seasons                 of waiting for the sun to illuminate,

lend power,           penetrate

the earthen tomb-wombed        seed germinates,

dark pinon and juniper  dot hills and

layered rock rims which           were once the ocean floor

beneath the ice of the stony bed            the creek continues it’s musical flow,

through ice, thin window, i see   green leafy plants, submerged, continue to grow

this night-walker presses his steps         into last nights snow,

again the animal within,         untamed, unbroken,

stares into me       with eyes which see into the dark,

this other me,          this wild, nameless verbiage

moving between               consonants of flesh and bone an image

of life written in the stone of mind                      by grasping hand of mine,

it’s formless form only known by the shape of it             in the dark

as it brushes past, it’s touch transforms,                fuels the fight

to take new form,                   to take to flight,

sometimes it is the song it sings,       its sound like the stars on

the surface of a night               pond,

myriad, fleeting,            wordless and lyrical,

the moments tone,               it’s machinations unknown

but resonating like bass in the bone,             familiar, unseen, but a kinship known,

the contours of vision fitting                   some curve, some void or edge unfelt

the heartland; a circle                                 without charted borders,

covers both the know and unknown,                 an unfelt shell of an invisible egg,

it’s colors exist            only in the eye of the beholder,

like mountains in the distance,                 blue of new day haze

or the reds, pinks                      lavenders of sunrises blaze

in the eye the way stars appear to exist  when we look

up into the space of this eternal now,                 we see the source and the illumination                                        through refraction               and reflection,

but the light itself cannot be detected or seen                 at any point in between,

there is the sun and there is the face           and 93 million miles of space between                                             filled with light           but unseen,

in the way that the distant bird            can be known by its song,

hidden in the heart         of it’s hovering head,

hollow and hallowed,                names are mysteries dead,

it’s there in the unconscious               rhythm of the pulse,

the next breath is not                 anticipated, yet something breathes

and pumps, grows                  un-contemplated, a life of it’s own

upon which it’s life must depend,           and when it goes, does mine end?

NOTE: This poem cannot be accurately rendered in it’s most effective form here, you will have to wait until it is in print to see how these two columns of text align in what I call a “hollow-form” poem to create not only a spirit channel through it, but it can be read as two poems side by side up and down or another poem when read linearly from left to right, it is a poem with a wild freedom.

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2 responses to “Poem of the Day: “the inner animal”

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