The Bone Cycle
I have a thing for bones...which perhaps goes back to my childhood...a poem from my favorite book of nonsense verse... "Hannah Bantry, in the pantry, gnawing on a mutton bone, how she gnawed it, how she clawed it, when she found herself alone." I'm still gnawing... Bone Dance You were the one who lived through your body while eye lived in mind. When you opened your mouth, your bones spoke to me. They told me of how they wanted to dance, of how they longed to be free of the skin and the flesh of the creature they framed. They wanted to dance in the sky, to dangle in the trees. They wanted to rattle in the breeze and punctuate the silence with their hollow music and all I wanted was to feel them move under my fingers.
Bone Soup today I am a bird with bones made out of air tomorrow I will be a bull with bones of stone and the day after that I will buy my bones in the market and make soup
Moon Bones I. There is a fall in to dark, felt in the bone, a loss of heat, a slow tilting away and cyclical spin into space, a shy, unnoticed turning of blue and green to grey. They say that the light goes out of it as if the light leaves of its own accord, a wan A-chord in the wood. There is a word in the dark where no moon is heard... II. There I read of the spoon-fed dead, how their zen amounted to zed, surmounted by spires built to go higher until their fires flew in the sky and spied and tried twisting their wrists in the bonds they had become so fond of, that they loved even though reviled and shoved away and held sway over the fray and stayed none the less where their sun-born lies could not see through the tresses but blessed the butcher and the barber none the more let them near with their knives and their shears while tears came and the rending of garments began the beating of chests and the mustering bluster and pounding of hearts into dust III. ...and you looked at me with your moon-bone eyes and I saw to the hearts of the stars felt solar wind in the spars and lines of age on my primal face knew the breeze with the skein of seven seas knees climbing millennia to the crow’s nest and finally resting raced to the crest of the day and rubbed galaxies from the corners of my eyes.
In The Bone Night When night falls for the bones, Nothing comes from the dark, Nothing goes into the light and the marrow burns on its own. The tunnel bends to its own demise and turns in its cold sack as the sun dies and the skies close down their colors. They drown us in the hues of someone else's nightmares while our own forgotten dreams lie down in the grass and all we can do is lie down with them and smell it coming like we smell our own sweat and wait for the rain to wash it all away. From the darkness, from the depths, a crystalline air vibrates our structured souls until they shatter into light while the bones beat and rattle within us, playing us like a single drum. Bone Rune bones poke through thinning flesh flesh wants to let go of bones it is hard to find comfort in a bag of bones hard to find anything to give but hardness it is hard to find anything but bones there is only hardness and the bag