The White Birds of the Bone-house

The White Birds of the Bone-House

I want to light a spark

in the darkened

bone-house of being

I want to look around

with golden eyes

that see in the dark

To see what is here

that I haven't seen

inside the cave of me

there is story

waiting to take wing

I hear that there is a cage in us

with a thousand

white star-birds flapping

against their constraints

waiting for us to open the door

My ancestors keep

pointing, their long fingers

extending

past the gossamer garments

they wear now

"look here, now here

CHILD! There it is

Can't you see it - ?"

But....But...I complain

Sometimes I don't want

to be spoken to

in grey-misted mystery

Sometimes cage and bird talk

don't make me feel good

I want plain speak that shows

a clear path and guidelines

of how to stay on track

I want you to be with me

I want to feel you near

I want some tea time

with you near enough

for me to smell you

I want to complain

and have you listen

as If I was laying on your

softened lap with heaps

of embroidered pillows

under my sleepy head

Why didn't you tell us -

You can choose

consciousness

and open the greening portal

to the inside world

where the red poppies grow wild

I don't remember you tellng me:

You can design your identity,

just open the treasure box

with the broken lock

Why didn't you teach us

to summon the self

and change our identity

by showing up for the

festival of colored lights

and that broken down nights

will only last so long?

Did you tell me

and I missed it?

Must we discover

everyting ourselves?

Inside of here...

if we can ever figure out

where 'here' is:

There are

many women dancing

and soft pink beds to rest upon

for as long as we need

But the path is washed away

from that last hard rain

You know,

the one that washed away

the two rocking chairs

I didn't sign up for a race

I don't know what this is

but I don't remember

being invited to a competition

to get ahead, be more, do more

There has to be another way

There has to be

something more here

We must be more

than we appear?

You mean,

the instruction manual

is encoded within me

and to read it

I have to learn a new language

made of soil and fur and sun?

You mean the path only reveals

as each foot falls into wet earth?

But wait...you told me all you could

and you love me even if I am

complaining with the tears soaking

your between-world fabrics

I lay with you so long

even the stitches from your

invisible garment imprint

my face

when I wake

When I awake

What I see

amazes me

So today I wrote this

to tell you about it

How each person, opens

the portal through

releasing their

own trapped birds...

sometimes they get caught

in your throat on the way out

sometimes they don't

Look up!

The white birds of

the darkened

the bone-house

are setting themselves free...

with or without me I give thanks

I give thanks

I give thanks

Now to learn how to live

consistent with what is known

while being aware that most of it

will remain unknown

not because it is withheld

but beacuse

we weren't ready yet

Let us ready ourselves!

Let us ready ourselves!

Let us ready ourselves...

the time for expanding our

capacity to love is here

if you write poetry with a firey pen

if you pray with paint-stained hands

the birds will begin to fly

Pray for me! Pray for me!

I too, I will

I will pray for you!

Shiloh Sophia

(painting layer from Tempo painted yesterday - with graphics added)

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