Becoming the Listening Fields - Cynthia Poten

[Larry Robinson]

Becoming the Listening Fields
 
In the end is the Word and the Word is story – our story, soft as the womb, 
silent as sun rays sipping sea mist, loud as sonic booms and atom bombs.
 
Our story, sacred and profane, ever beginning, ever ending
and the ending that is Now, that is our doing and our undoing,
 
a post-biblical flood of torn multitudes seeking refuge on dispirited shores,
history's catastrophes, seeded when Word left the breath to grow cold on the page.
 
Yet even as Now explodes, smoke fumes consuming the air, our story grows:
 Plums ripening in the over-bright aftermath of alphabets' fall from grace 
 
Endgames defiling holy writ, end flames of creed and greed, energies blasted from 
primal bonds, forged into pawns of godless purpose -- weapons, poison, junk. 
 
Still our stories ripen.  Spirit fruit.  Courage beyond the lash on naked flesh, beyond 
the ropes of scar, the chains of disdain, the rabid feral tortures, the drone infernos.
 
Stories pour from us now, wine pressed into the page, libations for the goddess 
gods within, for the children lean and staring through refugee fences, hungry   
 
or over-plump and mirthless, staring at flickering screens.  Libations for all the lined 
faces, the colonized eyes, jailed and enslaved in thoughts so perverse they blind Self
 
and devour Other, the ever-fertile over-flowing Other,  weaving scented air with
whisper leaves, with rippling feathers and fur,  flashing horns and thorns, pulsing in 
 
in petals and pollen, in glimmer vein wings, the One and the All, breathing each to 
each, as it was in The Beginning, vibrations intertwining, forming harmony's web.
 
We entered as echoes, melodies from the Milky Way, star chords ebbing and 
flowing, finding words in the listening fields,  becoming the listening fields.

	- Cynthia Poten

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