Masks

From the notebooks, May 22, 1991, revised December 28, 2009:


Masks

When the moon is ripe, and the earth rides my veins,
I dream of masks: faces, twisting with colors,
cavorting with shape, swimming open-mouthed
through the ether of my space, naming the old gods,
invoking their power in the world.

Up through the chasm between mind and spirit,
out of blackness and suppressed imagination,
seeking a place in consciousness and form,
I have no choice but to give them shape.
I must let them see the world, and be seen again;

To be seen again, to possess eyes, mouth, ears,
nose, tongue, my heart, my hands, my feet,
to dance again around the fire, to taste life’s pulse.
My hands mold them and when their mouths
emerge from the clay, they whisper desires and secrets
I never quite catch, a tingling in the essence of my soul.