Saturday, March 5, 2016

Crone and Mother will laugh with the Other.

Oh maiden full of grace, a wise soul gaze
on the innocent face.

A child with a wizened face.

Look upon this landscape,
this land's scrape,
but never lose face.

You were born to soar, you cowered
at fear's disgrace. But excuse me,
Granny was there, to hear your song
and to sing a prayer. You carry the
torch of a lighthouse somewhere,
climbs the steps to a breath of thin air,

I will always be there.

Mothers come to reap some seed,
not out of malice or motherly greed,
life is a continuance of earthly bleed
and the maiden is the one who knows
she'll succeed. She has no agenda and
no worthy creed. She plays in a garden
at creativity's speed. She sows a seed.

Grandma, the knitter and weaver of brow,
came from the same purpose somehow.
She can spin a web of a fine cool thread
and cocoon intruders as ignorance dead.

What a web they have weaved
to the children deceived. Carry on
said the vultures... food for thought.

Crone speaks to a mother's cry, birds of
wisdom dare to fly and carry on... carrion.

The maiden will blossom and prune the blooms
of written words and dusty tombs. Dancing
in Springtime, a chorus of all visions of
love gone before us. She lives in hope.

Grandma in her ancient wisdom, understands
the law of the contrast schism, but will not admit.
She weaves in solitudes and grasses of grace,
admonishes the seekers of a soul-less embrace,
her basket is empty to the tireless face.

The tree deserves a hug. A cockroach is just a bug.

Together the ancient, the has been, and thee...
will together laugh throughout history,
biding the time and biting the tongue
and laughing together when the time has come.

Oh, it's here at the garden door...
we wink, high five, and we laugh some more.
Life j'adore.

The Grandma of the Popol Vuh,

laughed at the grandsons dangling thing,

it cannot give birth, bad corn is the drift,

the Crone's laugh is humanity's gift. 

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