The Plot
The Greatest Story Ever Told
Listen Here- Podcast Style
In the end, we’ll all become stories.
Margaret Atwood
When we make love to time. Time disappears. When we make love to this rock of existence. We disappear. It is us that will change.
The greatest story ever told. The décolleté. Between rock and time.
What stood to behold the birth of light to crown the child of presence?
The sacred convergence. A cleavage of twists and turns. Emerging into the startled screams of arrival. A soulstice. Embracing the darkness and living in to the light. There are no shadows in the darkness. Sight made clearer through the song of sound and smell. Tasting into the touch of presence. Eternity is beyond time. Extending beyond the logical man made mathematical mythology of infinity.
The mystery of eternity sings.
The trinity of a waiting poem.
The absolute.
What was. What is. What is yet to come.
The Plot
Cold whets erect the edge of skin.
The graver cuts what was.
Honing in. Etching. The infinity
of marble stands to remember
what wrinkled time will forget.
The bone below wild hold
on a little longer. Like an inscription
that slowly fades to the winnowing
and wuthering of the wind. Withering
the bevelled cant of a name
fighting to fall into the guts of forever.
Or does the flame of the fire
bring the scattered ashes of eternity?
An entity.
Bellowed in the palms of perpetuity.
Ceaselessly singing a circular song.
The mother of existence always claims
what is
to give birth to
what is yet to come.
© Jamie MillardBlessings to you all as you lean in to the soulstice. The sacred convergence of the dark and the light. May the arrival of a new year dance with the gifts and the presence of what this year continues to bring us. May you get lost in the moments of the now into the here. Step in. Cross the verge. Ingnite your soul. Spread your wings. Disappear.
May you taste what is and disappear into what is yet to come.
Enjoy your celebrations.
All the best.
Thanks for Being-Here.
Thank You,
Jamie
Sun stops, rests on the ecliptic, the wind sings in our senses: a poem came to me 70 years ago among the whistling withered bents. The wind has a past, is here and goes hence. The hills we see here, our horizon has many old names. There is a pair, Yarnspath Law and Cushat Law, named for the wings of the Eagle and the Dove.
Thanks enormously for your poetry and wishing you and yours a restful pause on the sun's path and the moon high in your sky.
Beautiful. Your words have brought a stillness to me that feels different, fuller, deeper, like Winter Solstice. What a gift you have for weaving word-spells, expressing energy in word form. Thank you.