Anchorpoint

wonders

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The oaks are shedding visionary poems again; this one has an ambitious aim.

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Pearls & the Golden Ring

In our August days, the afternoon Cicada buzz––the sound of southern heat––fades into twilight enchantments of the Katydid rattle. Rattles rattling through late summer nights cooling, then break into the wake of the silence––the dew heavy webs strewn across meadow’s morning explain everything.  You ought to see the spiraling arrow scatter these otherworldly pearls of dawn. And speaking of pearls, the Moon, as you know, swells toward another crisis, ahead of its fateful encounter with the sun.

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Mother of Bows

A new student recently brought us a fine expression of traditional East African archery; its a bow crafted by a man of the Hadza people.  The elegance of its effective simplicity, along with the deep cultural traditions which these people carry, favor a view that the Hadza bow bears a ‘source design.’  If so, its not off-mark to call it a Mother Bow.  Such regard the bow inspires, that I carried it the other day on a walk around the Shire, introducing places of significance here.  Its clear that the bow is made for travel, and certainly expresses a lifeway shaped by the simple freedom of movement which can be difficult for the “modern westerner” to appreciate, restricted as we are by our mechanical modes and narrow (safe?) channels of travel.  hadzabow3To us the craftsman remains nameless, but the bow traveled a long distance in reaching our hands from his own; its a blessing on this place in accepting the grip.  Tonight I’ll carry it beneath a Winter starfield, confident that Orion––that old hunter––will be duly impressed.

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New Earth

In the lore of America’s First Nations is the story of Earth Diver, a mythic precursor of our local Crayfish.  Narrations tell of an age when the need arose for new land to appear above the primeval sea, but where such treasure could be procured was lost to the deliberating assembly.  Crayfish raised the hopes of the clueless, speaking of a place where such mass could be found; reaching it, however, required the special talent of divers such as himself.  The assembly consented to the project and Crayfish descended beneath the trembling surface of the sea.  For long days he was missed, and as patience gave way to despair, a color change in the water heralded his return.  earthdiver1Lifting heavy claws above the water’s surface, Earth Diver brought forth the mass for new land; he did so by gathering and then piling clay from the deep-sea bed into a great mount which finally rose above the water’s surface.  His service rendered, twas left to other mythic engineers to make the earth suitable for the beings & events to come.  Today, Earth Diver’s Crayfish progeny demonstrate the talent of their illustrious Ancestor in the closing moon of winter, reminding us of all that’s gone before to make possible all that is still to come.

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Winter Solstice

Leaning into Winter’s gate, night overcomes our day.  The intimacies of light which we huddle around, can burn in three degrees, but in crossing the threshold we turn inside out and lift the Capricorn sun back home to our zenith.  Before you go, dear traveler, turn North, and in the luminous night use winter eyes to glimpse the supernal light emanating from the dark gate of your empty mirror…  Winter’s midnight sun is all yours.

chalicebw

Note to Hermes:

“Seize hold of the cable of

The ray of light and

Rise to the battlements of

The Throne.”

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Jeremy’s Garden

Tended by a devotional heart              DSCN5688
Your tender-strong hands
Wrestle beauty from
The blistered earth
A Joseph lifted from
The deep well of knowing
Set dancing as leaf and pedal
Pollen-drift and broken stone
Hear the spectral banners snap
In the wind
Merciful green to the gold ‘n red
Your fierce eye keen
To the indivisible moment
Of openings.

Generous hands provoke
Fragrance and fruit
But in the deep harvest
At your alchemical touch
Abundant wonders
And our quicksilver is found.

Leaving shoes behind, dervish-like
You step through the hidden gate
Of your garden
Into the secret one, nearer still
Where everything is
And everyone will be…
Hear the tattered banners snap
In the autumn wind
Hear the birdsong you alone
Comprehend
There–in–Love
You will entirely know yourself
As lover and beloved.

S.Scurry

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Chosen Arrow

realWhile losses to our orbits of family and friends seem to shrink our world of known relations, sometimes it can open us to the creative universe of the unknown.  Our town bears the recent loss of a beloved friend, a son of Hermes, who nurtured a heart-full practice of and regard for the arts, and especially for those who bore them in trouble and in joy.  Although he never let arrows fly across our range, he intended to do so, and his sincerity in this regard left it simply to be a matter of good timing.  Along with others, I share a notion that he’s not done with us yet; that this sudden departure allows him to work and love in a more comprehensive orbit.  Godspeed and thanks for the rain, dear friend; we’ll let an arrow fly here for you.

 

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Burning Leaf Moon

Twilight fell into night and a full moon rose with an amber-red glow, like firelight from a wood stove.  Our mountains are burning ‘neath a sky that’s forgotten how to rain.  A spring-killing drought leaves a deadly thirst among the highland natives.  At the Shire, our smoke reddened eyes and nasal stings are brought by ashen winds from the Cohutta Mountains northwest of us.  We all know what it means, and all the more so, when we lack for words.  Midnight, and high in the sky vault, an indifferent moon glows cold ‘n white; its fullness, a cruel parody of our emptiness.

realIn the Archer’s Lore rainmakers would cast a skyward arrow to breech the high-hidden river, reluctant to share its life-giving wealth.  The art may be lost on our modern frame of mind, but we’ll craft suitable arrows just in case, and pray for rain.

 

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Archer’s Moon

dsc05869_2Orion stalks a chestnut fattened moon; his bow is tuned, his arrow knocked, he watches for the wide angle that invites the shaft of Ash home to the Mark––the One which only he knows.  Shire deer drag their heavy shadows from the Autumn thinned woods, into the moon flooded meadow.  Their obsidian eyes wordlessly comprehend the alabaster orb, as they breathe the intoxicating night air, scented with blended fragrances of musk and rust.

Bitter sweet October, you’re a melancholy artist, who stuck with a fit of madness, slung a bright harvest of color across the land.  We’ll stroll through your galleries, remark on your genius, then misapprehend the blood price of your hand.

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Autumn’s Crossing

chestnutSummer’s spell is nearly broken, as the northern earth gives up another sun. Golden Rod bids a silent farewell, while our overturned shadows trace the polar paths of winter. The Horned Owl is already making plans with the full moon, disturbing the sleep of Hummingbirds that still linger. The treasury of green is sealed in wooden attic vaults, and stored in cooling root cellars, and opened only with hunger’s master key.

Capricorn will greet the sun in Madagascar, they’ll swim together in Shark Bay then dance in Rio, before tiring of each other’s company. Till then, we’ll fix an arrow on the string of the waning moons, and bust the seals of chestnuts where winter’s sun hides.

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