Solstice. . .
the time the soul
must run its paces,
do its tricks.

The lights,
the sun’s day heights,
the body’s workings
go more low and slow. . .

Sometimes its life
seems as if
it’s got just
one more last breath
that it’s about
straight out to hiss. . .

on this very darkest day of all
soul’s got most time
to do its thing–

to contemplate,
to face the fears,
+++++of creatures lurking
+++++in the corners,
and grasp
+++++the linger of red anger
that looms
+++++like the upright head of asp
++++++++++with hood that spreads
++++++++++to flaunt its width
++++++++++and bite or spit
++++++++++its venom in souls’ ears.

The soul
stands bravely,
also strong enough
to hold the grief
the grief of many mourners,
+++++so they contain and maintain
+++++whatever song
+++++they need to sing,

to grow soul’s own
peculiar, innate strength
to raise in every single place
where there were fearful,
angry, grieving ones,
the brave, the patient,
and the joyful,
spawned from such loss
that’s felt profoundly
and at length,

and to go deep
to sense
the keystone issues hid in tissues
to help to loose them and remove them
to free them from their status quo
so let them and soul
from each other
to fly hence. . .

So soul sees clear,
as best to find,
among the ways
from which
it has to choose,
the ones on which to place its bets
for which directions it might take
more apt to win
rather than lose.

To strum,
to hum,
to rest in silence
wait in blues,
or music of whatever cadence,
and grasp the past,
feel the essence of the presence,
and strut forth to breach what is to come.

To feel,
to heal,
to sort what’s fleeting and deceiving
from what is good and lasting,
true and real.

And learn
the proper Source
above all else
to thank and honor,
and to guide
soul’s timeless course.

Because it’s just in league with It
that the soul acts
with its own
most loving, accurate,
life-giving force.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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