Sanctuary

doves whispering/ as they rest their wings/ in the rafters your silent sanctuary
― Kate Mullane Robertson

A song waning through old trees,
The length of eternity in her eyes,
Dreaming the world into existence.

We sat with broken wings,
Licking our wounds,
And watching the ancient sun rise.

We sat with mending hearts,
Finding strength in the wind,
And learning to fly again.

In dream-
The uterus of the universe
Unfolds its flower to us.

Nimble and scarred,
We drink from its nectar,
And place our hearts here.

Moments are where we hide,
Where we grow,
Where we die,
And where we learn to live.

The shadows of limbs,
Broken and dropping the leaves of fall
Drip on the peripheral landscapes of our inner worlds.

A sanctuary of rebirth.

© Si Matta

The Mask Maker

“behind the mask of ice that people wear, there beats a heart of fire.”
— Paulo Coelho

He peels the bark
slowly from around
the knots.

And dreams of the all
the eyes that will
peer through.

Shape shifted
and dreaming.

The dance continues.

© Si Matta

The Birds Whispered My Name

Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all.- Stephen King

The birds whispered my name,
As I fidgeted on a cold chair,
Learning of a god dressed in thorns.

As they talked in righteous dictation,
I would pull thorny brambles from dirty hands-
Finding god in the splinters.

I remember how the rain tasted-
Dry in safe beds made from synthetic fibers.

Yet I could hear the birds whisper my name,
Telling me stories,

We forgot to tell ourselves.

© Si Matta

Fire

Each of us is born with a box of matches inside us but we can’t strike them all by ourselves― Laura Esquivel

I use to dream,
but my well
has ran dry.

Like cottonmouth.

I often cough
on words and
pass the torch.

A flame.

© Si Matta

Sinew

Never lost/ Fading slowly to Silence/ By infinite degrees”
― Ashim Shanker

The sinew of
the moment led
us to this
leather of silence.

Sometimes I forget
your name, but remember
the taste.

A distant drum-

Your heart.

© Si Matta

Indigo

“His eyes were that colour you can’t see in the rainbow. Indigo.”
― Rainbow Rowell

I remember turquoise,
it tasted blue
in my mouth

as he shoved
it down my
throat.

He gushed in
my hands, unaware
of the water

I held.

© Si Matta

death sinks uneasy in the appetites of the lost

“Sleep apnea is a plague in the western world.”
― Steven Magee

She passed out in
a cacophony of memories.
All the pretty dreams,
Dissected and worn.

She fell asleep to
the sound of old records.
All the pretty covers,
Creased and torn.

She curls her lips
to the worlds she dreams.
All the murmured words,
Bathed with scorn.

She walks unaware of
the stilts of gravity.
All the heavy faces,
Draped and creased.

A mask now covers
her mouth, as her
eyes attempt the
words
of sleep.

Sometimes death sinks uneasy
in the appetite of the lost,
A ritual with
no rite.

It has been since time
that plagues feel the
urge to breath,
eyes blink uneasy
behind
concealed ironies.

© Si Matta

Landscape of Visions

This is a photo of my hometown of Carson, Washington taken in the year 1925. The domed mountain in the right hand side is Wind Mountain. 10473063_1117725894905723_815477723240662057_oGrowing up, I could see Wind Mountain directly from my bedroom window. I would get lost in daydream, which is a pretty common occurrence for me, and wonder how my ancestors revered and interacted with this landscape. What was it about this mountain that made it holy or sacred? Was it because of it’s stand alone features in the middle of the Cascade Mountain range? Was is it because of the sacred mineral waters that bubbled and boiled in her shadows? Or, was it because it could have been where the actual land bridge, known as the Bridge of the Gods, could have crossed the mighty river? – And Who had the first Vision on her lofty peak? Was it Coyote?

Mornings

The Stellar Jays raise up their chorus through the mists, beckoning the sun in the breaks of rain. Ravens rise with the Eagles as I sip my tea from the edge of the world, longing to dance. The slow hum of the wind winding up the canyons and valleys, washing the fresh rain upon the thirsty ground.

© H a v e n

© H a v e n

Where I come from, this is called church.

Where Courage Lives

In the corners of the garden, I can see words caught in the geometry of webs that bob and dance in the breeze. I feel the sunflowers ushering poems through the labored

Humming Bird keeping time to the biology of existence.

Humming Bird keeping time to the biology of existence.

bow of growing as they stretch towards the sun. It seems I have forgotten this language, perhaps the taste of regret is to bitter for the tongue. Or perhaps the words were never mine to begin with, all dressed in others hopes and wishes. Who am I without these wayward tricksters? Who am I without these invasive fears? Who am I without these walls of identity?

“Invasive plants were like all evil things; the only way to ensure that they wouldn’t return was to face them head-on, battle it out, and win. Anything else was only a temporary fix. I sighed, thinking of my own life. I was letting the weeds grow all over me. They were threatening my happiness and, in some ways, my life. So why couldn’t I face them?”
― Sarah Jio

I seem to keep courage in a box, only reaching for it when life is set a blaze. My day to day has been ran over by fear, a crippling fear that eats and gnaws at my insides. Like brambles who bribe me with their berries, I allow this fear to grow until I am unable to move at all. I lose relationships to this. I lose myself to this. The garden is teaching me courage of everyday life. And in these times, everyday life is getting increasingly darker, so the practice is appreciated.

Be well Comrades.