The Listening Fields - Cynthia Poten

[Larry Robinson]

The Listening Fields
 
In the end is the Word
a weaving of all the world’s tongues
folds soft as night wind, hard as jail cells
silent as sun sipping sea mist, loud as fighter jets
 
Ever becoming, ever ending
and the end that is Now, that is our doing and our undoing
is a biblical flood of torn multitudes
crowding de-spirited shores
wave upon wave, wounded, mourning,
fleeing what began
when Word left the breath
for the ledger, the royalized lie
 
Even as Now implodes, our stories ripen
in an over-bright unfolding
of Word’s fall from grace,
endgames defiling Holy writ
end flames of creed and greed
ripping primal energies asunder
engulfing the armed and the innocent
 
Spirit fruit seeded in song,
watered in courage beyond the lash on naked flesh
the chains of disdain, the rabid, feral tortures
the battlefields, the borders, the gunner pathologies
the creeping, seeping poisons
 
Spirit fruit
pressed into wine on the page
Libations for the holy ones
for children lean and staring through refugee fences
or plump and mirthless, staring at flickering screens
Libations for all the lined faces, the colonized eyes,
selves betraying self and other
 
even as Other flows on
quickening grass, rippling feathers and fur,
curving horns and thorns, pulsing into petals,
into skin and pollen and papery wings
the One and the All breathing each to each
 
As it was in the Beginning
when we entered as echoes
melodies of the Milky Way
star chords becoming the listening fields
finding Word in the listening fields

	- Cynthia Poten