Wild Irish Rose


Wild Irish Rose

One, in a long lineage,
Who stumble shoeless onto sacred ground,
Forming the jagged young lines
Of zeitgeist feminism,
Abused women, slave women,
Prostitutes, saints, mothers,
Sisters, recalcitrant lovers,
Heart heroines
Coursing through my veins
Like hits of a junkie,
This is where I came from,

Like soft needles of inebriated moonglow,
Knitting the intricate mandalas of compassion
Inscribed within the atman’s indelibility,
For a song,
From a mother’s prayer,
Up Santa Monica,
Hardwired by a billion suffering ganglions,
From a primordial, forbidden lover;
In a litany of other wondrously enchanted
Baptismal fountainings,
Where souls enter to be cleansed,
Rupturing into a new dimension, barefoot,
Alive, childlike,

Into this worldwide ashram;
The broken poor,
To whoever writes the algorithms
That punish the otherwise helpless
And low in station,
Dehumanizing the unloved,
For a high five finger financial imperative,
Born of luxury
Dipped in rare gold;
And dabbed with Van Gogh almond blossoms,
Weaved illuminated
Throughout the blue indigo night,
Crammed with a quadrillion beacons
Of emblazoned sapphires,
The secret tongue of flowers,

And when I think
You must be some kind of an angel,
Above the cackle of the crows,
In the oracle of the jimsonweed,
In the pluck of the wild Irish rose,
Through the mandolins and moonbeams,
I finally realize,
You always waited for me.

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