Harken, Listen, Pay Attention

Do you think you hear birds singing?
What if you’re hearing faeries?
What if they sing like skylarks,
like blackbirds or wrens?
What if they fly like eagles and owls
or cheeky sparrows or spotted towhees?

What if they are singing
for the caged and tear-gassed children?
What if they are singing
for the mothers who weep for their children?
What if they are singing
for the  fathers, helpless in the hands of the wicked?

Earth’s fae spirits know this is so wrong —
We are Earth’s children also —
why don’t we get it?

I mustn’t read the news before I try to sleep.
I mustn’t read the news before I try to eat.
If I must read the news (and really I must)
there must be a time to mourn after
and then strength to fight the battles.
Evil seems never to stop, never to give up.

What is it about humans
that so many of us must be
watched every moment?

Are we listening? Are we hearing
the faeries singing like birds —
like blackbirds and mournful owls
like wrens and eagles?
Do we harken at all?
Are we learning anything?


Photo: Kim Kyung-Hoon/Reuters

Apparently not.

© 2018 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.

What If…

What if
the Rapture came
in the middle of the night
and in the morning
we rejects went out to find
tinfoil hats
old zoot suits
straitjackets
worn red spike-heeled shoes
with one spike broken halfway?
Or a pair of red silk thongs
slung across
tinfoil underpants —
all scattered on the pavements?
Would we realize
from this strange detritus
that we are the crazy ones,
the lazy ones,
the ones that didn’t make it,
and that
what god/dess really wanted,
what s/he was growing in this world,
were the trippers, the daily
roller-coaster riders,
the wild-eyed ones
who wear their clothes backward,
the oddities, the ones who
can’t stop laughing,
the ones who walk
through the park, shouting,
“The locusts have stolen my honey!” —
the ones who never say, “Be safe!”
the ones who live
on the very edge of glory?

© 2018 Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.

81 — Birthday Cake Bonfire

I cannot hear the gentle rain any more —
it has to come down hard on the roof
for me to hear it well,
but I can see it bouncing on the leaves
of the honeysuckle and the salal.

My world is quiet.

I’m slow — really slow —
and stumble on the forest paths.
There are bruises and scars
inside and out from mishaps —
sometimes I fall.

So far, I always get back up.

I don’t know if “over the hill
is better than under it.”
How could I know that?
But I do know I’m not finished yet.
I still have work to do.

Joy is in the doing.

Someone asked, would you live forever
if you could? How could I know that?
Eighty isn’t even a fraction of forever.
I’m still learning new things, and
I shall know when it’s time to go

dancing Home.

© 2018 by Jessica Macbeth 2018

Meeting God/dess Unexpectedly

Sometimes we have Encounters with the numinous and ineffable. In the woods. On the hills. Under the stars. We meet SomeOne bigger than we expected. We may have had an image in our mind of god/dess, known and sweetly familiar, but suddenly we encounter SomeOne much larger, someone far more overwhelming than anyOne we thought we knew. SomeOne very different than anyOne we may have expected.

God/dess is essentially unknowable — too vast, too old, too simple/complex, too present for us to comprehend or relate to in ordinary consciousness. We have a direct connection through the mystical experience, which strikes — like lightning — where there is the least resistance. When we surrender far enough (and that is usually much further than we can surrender intentionally), we are touched by god/dess so deeply that we lose our sense of self and find Self instead. The experience of this connection fries our nervous system and brain cells if we stay in it too long, so we bounce back out pretty quickly.

Therefore, in order for us to directly connect with the divine (without turning into a little grease spot on the ground, a few ashes drifting around, and a spirit shrieking “Wheeeeeee!!!” as it expands out into the limitless unknown at translight speeds), Something happens/exists (call it a god or goddess or archetype or archangel or whatever) between human self and Infinite Being. That something is an aspect, one facet of that Infinite Being — a face that we as humans can relate to. It is a one that stretches us a few notches. That is, the face we’ve been dealing with did stretch us and now that we are more or less comfortable with it, we are introduced to an aspect of god/dess that stretches us further. Growth seems to be the name of the game.

Perhaps, instead of alternate faces, we are seeing the face behind the face and then the one behind that… and behind that a still greater face, too big to recognize as a face, even from a distance. I have often felt this to be true, because they meld into each other in a way. Layers, perhaps, to be found as we move into expanded consciousness and into more real realities. But as we grow and become big enough, we begin to see through the face we know, looking beyond it to larger faces.

I saw a puppy meeting its first horse once. The horse was one of those big Clydesdales with hooves the size of platters. The pup found the back feet first and got all excited about them. All eight inches of the pup wriggled and squirmed and leaped up against the horse’s back legs, looking for the human he expected to be there to stoop down and pick him up.

Then he found the front legs. The dance was repeated, oh, what happiness — another two-legs to dispense caresses and tidbits!

Then the horse bent down his head to get a closer look at this tiny, manic creature, and the pup went berserk. GODS!!! GIANTS!!! MONSTERS!!! O, JOY!!! O, HELP!!! Fall down, roll over. Expose tender, fat tummy while peeing on horse’s foot.

The horse gave the pup a gentle, juicy lick, like a paternal slurp for a wobbly colt, rolling him over and over in the dirt. He came to his feet again, covered with mud and horse spit, and filled with totally overwhelming ecstasy.

The horse was very patient, very quiet, and didn’t move his feet lest the pup get under them and get squished flat. I don’t remember how long it took for the pup to realize that the back legs, the front legs and the head were all connected — all one being.

All one being. That’s something to think about.

Perhaps, dear heart, you also need to know that this bigger god/dess gives larger (and different) lessons and initiations?

A Squeek At God/dess’ Foot

I keep getting caught in too many words
(and none of them right)
when I try to talk about You.

All of my images fail, are less than You,
all of the faces I can see are not
Your True Face —
even though they show me truth.
You are too bright, too big for my eyes.
Your song is too deep and too high, too wild,
and far, far too sweet for my ears.

The only thing I can do
is keep growing — like the sunflower, the lilac,
the sequoia — until I am big enough to see
that I am You and You are me and We
don’t stop anywhere,
any time,
in any reality.

© Copyright 2001 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.
This may not be reproduced without the author’s written permission.

Wild Waters, Unsteady Ground

I would have said I was too sensible for love at first sight,
but you arrived, so closely followed by a tsunami and a quake,
that we both went tumbling headlong into that bright abyss.
After that first moment, my feet never touched the ground.
For an endless time we talked with words and light, quick touches,
and we never once acknowledged what was really happening.

So, the question is, what’s happening and why is it happening
to us? In the geology of life is there never a stable site?
Can I be so easily thrown by your voice, your laugh, your touch?
I thought I’d reached an age when these unanticipated quakes
are expected to have died down. I believed that my inner ground
of being had stabilized, and I couldn’t be thrown into that abyss.

A finger smooths my windblown hair. A quick kiss opens the abyss
landing on the edge of my smile instead of my cheek. What’s happened?
Nothing! Oh, no? Your hand steadies me as we walk on rough ground.
A casual arm round my shoulder shelters me from sea winds. Insight
is dizzying; insight is banned. This land was made by volcanic quakes.
I can feel them still deep in my bones — an eons-old echoing touch.

There is peril here for human hearts, no matter how sweet the touch.
Between stars or lurking beneath an unwary heart, wide is the abyss
where invisible Powers move like tsunamis sent by undersea quakes.
Unseen, the Powers rock balances. Something subtle is happening.
Why had I no warning of this? Not even the slightest foresight?
The earth is a sphere – we may fall off this tree-covered ground

and rise up in the endless void, while the Gaia beneath us is ground
between Helios and Selene by light. We are transformed by the touch
of Blind Eros, absurd with his tiny bow, who draws back, takes sight –
fires a dart meant only for gods, but hitting human hearts. The abyss
is the only place vast enough for his victims. His dart just happens
to hit like a comet. I feel like Gaia — roughly shattered by quakes,

pressured, and turned to diamond where radiance shivers and quakes.
No light fancy this – something deeper is running under the ground,
potent and perilous as wine of the gods. This didn’t just happen
but was planned long ago. Ecstasy moves closer in these touches
as we fall, scintillating and burning in the center of the abyss.
Closing eyes doesn’t help; there are no eyes here — only clear sight.

Is this then what is called love at first sight? The Earth quaking,
the opening abyss, and something perilous moving under the ground?
In the most fleeting of touches, ecstasy rises. Love is happening.

A sestina. Copyright © 2000 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.

If I Were A Witch…

If I were a witch, I might be good
and do the things that I think I should —
because love grows only from loving.

I’d keep my wand clean and fully charged
and see that each kindness got enlarged —
because love only grows from loving.

I’d help the homeless shelter themselves —
this just takes work, not magic or elves —
and they’d learn love does grow from loving.

I’d teach the children myths and the arts
and feed them all fresh strawberry tarts —
so they’d learn we grow best from loving.

I’d refrain from the careless sowing
of hard words and yet harder throwing
of anger that keeps love from growing.

I’m not a witch, but I am trying
to do my best, and not just crying,
because I know I can only grow

from loving.

Copyright © 2000 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved. This poem originally appeared in my newsletter, An Lios

The Three AM Poet

Sometimes when I have had a very busy day, thinking hard and taking things seriously, I can’t sleep. The windmill fronds in my mind are still turning, even with no wind to impel them. Then the faeries take a hand. They think it is very odd that I continue to take things so seriously even when there is nothing left to take. (Truth to tell, they think I take things too seriously, period. They think I should be called Jessica Sirius Macbeth so I could take my black dog with me everywhere — seriously mixed mythical metaphors.) So I sit up, switch the computer on, and write. I do not claim responsibility for what comes out, but I don’t deny it either. Here are some small poems (of sorts) written while the windmill unwinds…

Be Safe

Often in this land I hear
the parting words resound,
“Be safe!”
But what if I don’t want a life
of safety, what if I’d rather have
a life lived somewhere
near the edge —
a life where I can
walk out
take a deep breath
lean out into the incoming air.

What if
being safe is not
what life is about?
What if
there is no safe place, safe path,
safe journey?
What if
we are our own worst hazards
and we are born to danger
like a fish is born to water?
What if
O Universe is only truly happy
when it gets us out there
somewhere
in our underwear
or nothing left at all?

What if…

What if
the Rapture came
in the middle of the night
and in the morning
we rejects went out to find
tinfoil hats
zoot suits
strait jackets
worn red spike-heeled shoes
with one spike broken halfway?
Or a pair of red silk thongs
slung across
tinfoil underpants —
all scattered on the pavements?
Would we realize
from this strange detritus
that we were the crazy ones
and
that what god/dess really wanted,
what she was growing on this world
was the trippers, the daily
roller-coaster riders,
the wild-eyed ones
who wear their clothes backwards,
the oddities, the ones who can’t stop laughing,
the ones who walk through the park, shouting,
“The locusts have stolen my honey!” —
the ones living
on the very edge of glory?

Got It

The other day
I wrote some pagan stuff
and a friend (who sometimes thinks
he is not a pagan) said,
“I didn’t understand what you said —
but I think I got it anyway.”

It has taken me two days to realize
that this is a quintessentially
pagan statement.

I remember one time
the goddess told me
that she wanted me to
give up all of my defenses.
“It’s the only way,” she said,
“To become invulnerable.”

NonoNO, shrieked Logic
YES! O YES! shouted Intuition

It all makes sense
if you turn the kaleidoscope around
and look in its mirrors
upside down
and around the corners.

Corners are
another kind of reality.

Conclusion

Sometimes, when life gets especially absurd,
I look at O Universe and say,
“Hmmm. I see that You are very silly too.”
And I hear,
faint in the distance,
cosmic giggles.

I just wanted you to know that we have a lot of silliness and fun here…

© Copyright 2016 by Jessica Macbeth. All rights reserved.
P.S. I guess I should also say that this was written in the middle of the night, but when the windmill finally stopped, there wasn’t even enough silliness left to push “send” and therefore I am pushing it now.