At Joanna’s Workshop
2015
We sat in pairs, ever shifting
gazing into each other, the heart behind the eyes
the eyes pooling waterfalls of the cleanest salt water on the planet
my hands sweating, clasped in yours’
grasping Life in our sweating hands
beating blood towards deep time, reaching for companions
in this maybe-final battle against the war that hacks at the roots of life
The solution—time travel
ancestors and future-unborn beings
speak to them. listen to them, the practice
baffling to me
grasping, clasped at green taproots
like straws that can save us
as we believe we can save the world
abunch of bleeding hearts on a sinking ship
a love-addled troupe of clowns
hopping across the world’s hot deserts, barefoot
a many-petalled flower pollinating ever further
with dreams like stars that died a million years ago
that light still fooling us
with celestial temptation to believe
in the existence of those stars in this lifetime
This lifetime, a lifeline
suspended above beauty, steeped in beauty
calling out to Beauty—
we’re coming as fast as we can run—
don’t let the train of life leave the station, Beauty!
witnesses, late and short of breath, facing the daily deaths
the unribboning of plutonium’s promise
and we stare open-eyed
Guardians—
enfolding past present future
into one paper airplane we toss
this throbbing pulse
thin red thread we swing from
trapeze clowns and high wire artists defying death
holding on when we can to sacred company such as this
hoping that community is more real than the light of those stars
songs, myths and unicorns sustain us
ancestors and ancient archetypes call us
to stop the war, fight industrial civilization
and the poison fire, our childhood traumas
the dramas pull us in, fight and win
real soap operas unfolding—
Chernobyl, Fukushima, Rocky Flats
invisible to most as we slam our lives against that huge gong
Wake up! Wake up!
A meeting of Cassandras—Martyr means Witness
fire in our witness hearts, water in our hands
weeping with it all
conversation with unborn beings seemed impossible
until I get that we are already in conversation
the smooth tube of radiation moves us through time
like a subway tunnel
magic carpet of plutonium connects us
the train stations catch us and release
there is real as here is hard
we come down from separate heights to this circle
saying This Willingness to this struggle
is the point
The weapon of non-violence starts here
to act as if with all our hearts
as if this is so
on we go
making it so.
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