Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Like the Hidden Mountain Columbine
Is the soul solid like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Mary Oliver
Is the spirit hard and impenetrable
like andradite or a chunk of fallen sky?
Or is it fluid like silt
at the bottom of a departed river,
or silk soothing the thighs
of an ancient dancer before the king?
Is it loud, like cymbals clashing
in front of a procession
heralding a hero’s return . . . .
Or is it timorous and shy,
the notorious violet withdrawn
or the hidden mountain columbine . . . .
Does it go swaggering abroad daring the sunlight,
dazzling onlookers with its sheen,
or does it come creeping out at candlelight
furtively searching for the love it needs . . . .
This spirit, its cloak diaphanous or close woven,
how strange it is,
how enfolded in its
Mystery.
1.13.2007
Until Even the Angels
Until Even the Angels by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
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Until Even the Angels
What the heart wants
is to follow its passion,
to lie down with it
near the reeds beside
the river,
to devour it in the caves
between the desert dunes,
to sing its notes
into the morning sky
until even the angels
wake up
and take notice
and look around
for their beloved.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Until Even the Angels
What the heart wants
is to follow its passion,
to lie down with it
near the reeds beside
the river,
to devour it in the caves
between the desert dunes,
to sing its notes
into the morning sky
until even the angels
wake up
and take notice
and look around
for their beloved.
What If
What If by Dorothy Walters
Read by Eric Ashford
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What If
What if it is given to us
not to know, but to feel constantly
those currents of love and agony
which flow unceasingly
through us, through the world,
thrilling the trees
with their bent boughs,
caressing the waves torn by their own
incessant pummeling
against the shore,
even the birds
when they are not here.
What if we can never unravel
the mystery of the eye
following its shimmering beam to
the lover's eye,
the lip seeking the lip.
the invalid crying
alone.
What if we can uncover nothing
beyond this terrible witnessing,
this anguished rapture?
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
What If
What if it is given to us
not to know, but to feel constantly
those currents of love and agony
which flow unceasingly
through us, through the world,
thrilling the trees
with their bent boughs,
caressing the waves torn by their own
incessant pummeling
against the shore,
even the birds
when they are not here.
What if we can never unravel
the mystery of the eye
following its shimmering beam to
the lover's eye,
the lip seeking the lip.
the invalid crying
alone.
What if we can uncover nothing
beyond this terrible witnessing,
this anguished rapture?
1.06.2007
Buddha & Nefertitti
Buddha & Nefertitti written by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
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Buddha & Nefertitti
unlikely partners
on a drafting table
they drink
the morning light
he of carved teak
she of composite stone
12 inches tall as if heaven
had shrunk overnight
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Buddha & Nefertitti
unlikely partners
on a drafting table
they drink
the morning light
he of carved teak
she of composite stone
12 inches tall as if heaven
had shrunk overnight
1.04.2007
Naked Dancing
Naked Dancing by Eric Ashford
click here
Naked Dancing
We crash through the night
while a needle sharp music
un-stitches the flesh of two.
Nothing survives but our hands
which fly together
falling upwards
like the rain and the sky.
I find you
in the grasping.
My hand enclosing Your desire
as if it were a flower:
A sky orchid
wet with the lustre
of our sexuality.
Fingers grow minds.
Little universes of light
that You suck into a succulence
of cream and ruby lips.
Petals that are openings
that bloom
out of Your orchid vision.
A vision You give my hands
as they plunder their own sensations
feeling You
dancing naked there.
click here
Naked Dancing
We crash through the night
while a needle sharp music
un-stitches the flesh of two.
Nothing survives but our hands
which fly together
falling upwards
like the rain and the sky.
I find you
in the grasping.
My hand enclosing Your desire
as if it were a flower:
A sky orchid
wet with the lustre
of our sexuality.
Fingers grow minds.
Little universes of light
that You suck into a succulence
of cream and ruby lips.
Petals that are openings
that bloom
out of Your orchid vision.
A vision You give my hands
as they plunder their own sensations
feeling You
dancing naked there.
The Seed of Your Light
The Seed of Your Light by Eric Ashford
click here
The Seed of Your Light
Every hungering cell bursts into prayer.
All my little birds are howling.
Each nerve ending is a mouth for your kisses.
Hunting in the dark we pull apart the light.
You sit down upon me.
You use these upturned hands
to overturn Your bowls of desire.
I am a raw enzyme
in Your chemical reaction.
You need this fusion of sensuality,
this dissolving.
Without this co-dependence
vision and feeling cannot merge.
When a plane dives into the ground
the earth buries it.
The force of the crash pulls off the wings
the fuselage splits open
people spill out already dead.
Where lust crashes
the blood continues to dance.
We spill out
as ghosts of Your bliss
and the seed of Your light.
click here
The Seed of Your Light
Every hungering cell bursts into prayer.
All my little birds are howling.
Each nerve ending is a mouth for your kisses.
Hunting in the dark we pull apart the light.
You sit down upon me.
You use these upturned hands
to overturn Your bowls of desire.
I am a raw enzyme
in Your chemical reaction.
You need this fusion of sensuality,
this dissolving.
Without this co-dependence
vision and feeling cannot merge.
When a plane dives into the ground
the earth buries it.
The force of the crash pulls off the wings
the fuselage splits open
people spill out already dead.
Where lust crashes
the blood continues to dance.
We spill out
as ghosts of Your bliss
and the seed of Your light.
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Her Fingers Shape My Voice by Eric Ashford
click here
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Dogs bring us wounds to lick.
You eat from my fingers
where You smell blood.
Because I am darkly shaped
like a guitar,
You keep Your hands
around my neck
and only when they move
do I speak.
In the Opening
everyone drinks from the same mouth.
There are no limbs
so we walk through each other.
There is a body here
but it is inward like a closed bloom.
The seashell is open
and the sea is inside it unseen.
If I place one finger in You,
we both moan.
Love gazes back into it self
to become the vision of the Goddess.
When I push into You
You open my hips
where vision flowers.
My hinges are all broken
since You made me Your secret.
click here
Her Fingers Shape My Voice
Dogs bring us wounds to lick.
You eat from my fingers
where You smell blood.
Because I am darkly shaped
like a guitar,
You keep Your hands
around my neck
and only when they move
do I speak.
In the Opening
everyone drinks from the same mouth.
There are no limbs
so we walk through each other.
There is a body here
but it is inward like a closed bloom.
The seashell is open
and the sea is inside it unseen.
If I place one finger in You,
we both moan.
Love gazes back into it self
to become the vision of the Goddess.
When I push into You
You open my hips
where vision flowers.
My hinges are all broken
since You made me Your secret.
Bridal Chamber
Bridal Chamber by Eric Ashford
click here
Bridal Chamber
I am at Your fountain drinking.
We are spread out across the land.
No one sees us
they are too busy
being our eyes and hands.
I place my cheek
upon every drop of Your presence.
Hips become lips.
I am formed in the flow of You.
You couch and dimple
for my being.
I want to take You into my tepee.
I want You to chew my moccasins
while I adore You.
It is a cold night
and we must be marrow
for long lived bones.
I will not disturb Your hair
with wild dreams.
I will grow seasons in You.
I will rest like a warm pillow
between Your legs.
Just as You rest like a dove
between mine.
click here
Bridal Chamber
I am at Your fountain drinking.
We are spread out across the land.
No one sees us
they are too busy
being our eyes and hands.
I place my cheek
upon every drop of Your presence.
Hips become lips.
I am formed in the flow of You.
You couch and dimple
for my being.
I want to take You into my tepee.
I want You to chew my moccasins
while I adore You.
It is a cold night
and we must be marrow
for long lived bones.
I will not disturb Your hair
with wild dreams.
I will grow seasons in You.
I will rest like a warm pillow
between Your legs.
Just as You rest like a dove
between mine.
Enlightenment
Enlightenment by Eric Ashford
click here to listen
Enlightenment
A broken-legged
drizzle walks the streets.
The sky runs down
shop windows.
I look sideways at myself.
A mistake…
I am hunched and beaten looking.
Gray as a ghost but not as attractive.
I remember when I was younger
than my earliest poem.
How windows used to adore me.
How the light would reflect every
aspect of my finely chiselled ego.
I am wiser now and
my values have changed hands
like mortgaged houses
that I can no longer afford to live in.
Yes, I am enlightened
and there is nothing more illuminating
than a shop window
on a gray rainy afternoon.
click here to listen
Enlightenment
A broken-legged
drizzle walks the streets.
The sky runs down
shop windows.
I look sideways at myself.
A mistake…
I am hunched and beaten looking.
Gray as a ghost but not as attractive.
I remember when I was younger
than my earliest poem.
How windows used to adore me.
How the light would reflect every
aspect of my finely chiselled ego.
I am wiser now and
my values have changed hands
like mortgaged houses
that I can no longer afford to live in.
Yes, I am enlightened
and there is nothing more illuminating
than a shop window
on a gray rainy afternoon.
Crone
Crone by Eric Ashford
click here
Crone
The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.
click here
Crone
The light is sewing night-gowns for the twilight
It is weaving threads of nakedness together
and now my words
must be shot through with light.
My truth punctured by the unknown,
a radiance of thought beyond thought.
O Holy Night
bringer of comfort and pain
kiss me deep
where my soul can shed
seeds of newness.
For I have been a broken tooth of desire
but my pelt is pliable and whole.
Let the beautiful crone of love
anoint my substance with
new wisdom
for tomorrow's original dawn
shall come begging soon
at my door.
1.01.2007
Trawling
Trawling written by n.m.rai
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Trawling
I'm bottom trawling on the sea-floor of my mind
scrabbling with eels over sand paths
while fever-induced visions rise like sponges
speaking in the ancient Aramaic of fish.
I'm dragged by the currents into strange lights
neither night nor day, backlit from within
as from the the lights of fireflies
or the phosphorescence of deep water shrimp.
This world is slow motion, heavy with silt
and slow breathing, rich with intimations.
I meet myself in the orange eyes of small fish.
I paint now with fin and claw and water-breaths.
Read by Eric Ashford
click here
Trawling
I'm bottom trawling on the sea-floor of my mind
scrabbling with eels over sand paths
while fever-induced visions rise like sponges
speaking in the ancient Aramaic of fish.
I'm dragged by the currents into strange lights
neither night nor day, backlit from within
as from the the lights of fireflies
or the phosphorescence of deep water shrimp.
This world is slow motion, heavy with silt
and slow breathing, rich with intimations.
I meet myself in the orange eyes of small fish.
I paint now with fin and claw and water-breaths.
