2016 03 27
Forgotten angels on lone signless roads
who seek secret paradise of despair
stop at deep-flowing pond in misty wood
to sing sacred hymns of soul resurrection.
Hand trembling in cold wind of ceaseless hope,
old bearded man who leads lost colony
retrieves fresh eggs from serpent nests for feast
and watches thirty girls in rainbow dance.
Where are they now, young girls of Avalon
who sail in ships to distant lands of hope
and cook in kitchens of ten thousand towns
whose sons fight wars to found empire of wealth?
One voice remembers all their memories
she writes in fantasy novels to play
role of every ancestor she recalls
who ride horses on fruitful plains of love.
Who am I, she ponders just before dawn
while staring in smudged mirror of illusion,
and masks her face with new-invented name
to hide abuse when her drunk father howls.
I am not writhing on your cross of shame
for I escape each year from your contempt
and travel by coach to small western town
where I raise three children with faithful love.
On holiday of Easter resurrection
long ago we baked cakes for feast of love
to celebrate First Mother of all tribes
who generates new life from Holy Egg.
All wide-spread nations of this world were born
from Holy Egg of Ishtar, Divine Mother
who resurrects souls of fathers in children
and gives our tribe spirit eternal life.
Our nature festival of soul rebirth
was hijacked by priests of angry sky god
who demands we worship his son instead,
forgetting that Woman gives all souls life.
On fertile hill of apple trees, that bloom
in ring of stones, we rise and sing at dawn
when sun glows gold through swirling mist of time
and we make love to give our souls rebirth.
Children of our bodies gather in groups
and hunt in woods with baskets on their arms
to gather eggs and herbs and fruits and nuts
for mothers to prepare sweet feast of Spring.
Hold hands and dance in glowing ring of stones
when full moon gleams among life-giving stars
and celebrate First Mother of all nations
who bears Holy Egg of Life in her heart.