Isis
The Queen of the Nile has flooded my banks.
I am the infant Moses nurtured in the reed bed,
and the intimate lap and lullaby sway
of the waters of Isis.
I am a green palm tree in Her oasis.
Her Spirit is my shade.
The Sun God is laughing
for His Queen has lured
an other water baby into the arms of love.
She has been sewing a reed raft
with invisible incantations
while I rocked afloat in Her womb.
She has come with flowers in Her hair
and teased me into manhood
with the tickle touch of divine fingertips.
I am rewriting a bible
a living sea scroll of remembrance.
I am a lion in Her bosom,
my mane matted with desire's sweet dew.
I have no name, but am a pet in Her passion.
Fed with milky morsels of joy
that drip from Her hands as love letters.
I rip them open one by one
and mark my territory upon them.
She smiles at this
and pats me down with a lover's kiss.
Isis takes me to Her river,
washing the sweat of a thousand nights of longing,
from hank and flank.
I can only wade here and tremble.
One of Rumi's reed flutes salvaged
upon a shore of ruin.
I am a ruin waiting to fall.
A door unhinged and a lock burst asunder.
The ibis and the crocodiles are my lovers
they pull me under Her standing,
and baptize Jesus in my soul.
Mary Magdalene kisses my feet,
and I hold her nakedness to me and shudder,
growling love into her ripe belly.
I am every sweetheart's upheaval.
An invisible wave pushed into appearance
by a pulse from the fingertip of Love.
Isis has found every rendered chunk of flesh
and breathed Her life into my arteries
for her pleasure.
She has sent this soul berserk in the world
as Her divine rogue elephant
to trample down anyone
who has cast love from them.
The willow weeps no longer,
but sweeps this river
with the tresses of her graceful hair.
This man god-being, her current
and her care, sent fathering into exile
and returning, a prodigal heart of Her greening.
If the wind howls I become a wolf.
If the sun burns
I become an arctic lake
melting into a gulf stream.
If the dawn does not bring the scent of fresh roses,
I open a rose garden in the hearts of children.
I am the bear and the fox
my den is hidden from every hunter but love.
Plucked from the reed-bed
my eyes open on this world once more,
and I see all this passion seeking a channel
to run to.
And so I open my mouth as a delta and drink
all this new wine down to be your drunk.
This 'I' I speak of. This estuary of acceptance.
It has no form to hold to.
It floods the basins and the meadow-lands,
the deserts and the valleys.
It has no name on any map.
It is unexplored but explores itself
by letting it waters be any level.
It is just a flowing.
I am the 'Valley of the Kings'
washed into new pastures, and raised
up as green corn again.
Every trembling ear has a thousand seeds
that disperse upon the breath of the Friend
to fertilize the earth with spring shoots.
Isis harvests this soul and plants a new awakening
in every lover's seedbed.
These words have no one to speak them.
They arise like fireflies in a warm wind.
Isis labors and they appear from nothing
and return to Her womb as Her children.
Like this, poems blossom in the eye of eternity
flash across a mind-sky and disappear, to be you.
