Scent Of An Oak

The scent of an oak
can heal you.
It’s presence is now and forever.
The time of a tree
stops and continues.
Ways that we mostly cannot be
though the universe curls its mystery
all around and all around us.
Weep, weep, weep,
eternally child-like human.
Kiss the hard, tight bark with
soft lips and
touch the trunk with
tender hands fated to age.
Outliving the creatures of
the forest,
she breathes so much slower
but deeply gives her respirations
to all those kinds of Earthlings,
the kind and the despots,
taking their spirits
up to her tops
and lifting them to the winds
of the sun,
whether in hope, metaphysics,
or death,
sail them on to white-light and
never-ending kingdoms.

The scent of an oak
can heal you.

So breathe, breathe, breathe,
kiss her hard, tight bark.

Azure Dionysian

It is through buoyant sexual azure
that I’ve changed the world,
known it, navigated it,
been changed by it.

Vibrant berry azure
on the edge of my dark brown eyes,
lustful in all those moments
when someone speaks to me,
them to me,
me to them,
feeling and knowing
this ripe berry energy.

Azure Dionysian,
as your days turn into
something closer to heaven,
lead all those to their sexuality of spirit,
their freedom.

The White Druidess

The brown druid
went into the green oak forest
and came out the white druidess.

The brown druid
spent time listening to the slow
beats of the trees,
kissing their mossen bark
to his lips,
and talking out loud to them
in the clear language of the
common tongue
until enough of the miracles the
trees did do came true
and that endless ancient light
cracked through
into the brown druid,
turning the he into she…

and thus walked out
the white druidess from the
good and ageless woods.

This was in the 7th year before
the Great Rightening of Civilization.

Krixba Star

Fruit in the night
by my solitary self
is freedom
the nationed ones cannot know

the nationed ones look to windows
to know
counting through filters
what one is to be told

revive the baptisms of the satellites

the nationless does know
the fruit in the night
and
what love can spell

how love knows to hold bones
or tell them
the truth of
what home is

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin