The Way of the Fool

Ah, yes. Here on the first day of April, I spent the day with eight-year-olds, and am soon off to another birthday celebration with Grandma. Ah, the life of the Fool–planning it ALL in there, even if it seems impossible.

Begin your road at the ending,
as the last pathway rounds the bend.
Dance to the lip of the chasm–
place your foot upon a bridge of rainbow.
Keep your eyes upon the distant wood,
your ears tuned to the song of undine and dryad.

Remember, your road is a circle,
and everywhere you are is the start of your journey.
Your road is of water, of vision, of air,
of heartbeat, illusion, and wisdom
a pathway of fire and smoke.

Feel how the sky under your feet holds you up,
how the earth at your back is made only of dreams,
how the only way forward is light and color,
how a distant harping draws you onward.

Tomorrow’s Prompt: Let’s just keep going down the Fool’s Road, shall we? After she embarks on her Rainbow Road, the Fool enters the Enchanted Wood, where she meets a complex cast of characters, meets a variety of challenges, and develops her skills and knowledge. Today, let’s take her Into The Woods. Take a fairy tale turn or a psychological turn. Be whimsical or wise–or both: that’s the Fool for you.  My April 2 poem goes Into The Woods.

Gratitude List:
1. The world of the Fool. Stepping off the edge of the chasm into the void. Trusting the bridge.
2. The energy of eight-year-olds. Fun, playful, eager.
3. Moss and ferns in the woods. Green, green moss.
4. The play of sun through clouds.
5. Pink trees

May we walk in Beauty!

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4 thoughts on “The Way of the Fool

  1. Woods

    When I enter,
    the grain of years
    spreads over seasons.

    I am maple, escalating slick sap
    up sticky limbs to lift dripping
    wisdom into a thicket
    of sweet.

    I am sycamore, rivered into riveted,
    spotted synchrony, shades
    of shadow before shadow
    exists at noon, stark disparity
    with parity, no absolute
    intelligence telling
    any sense of sanity.

    I am oak, oh lone holder
    of the root, cuddled
    up to the cap of last year’s
    acorn, slipping down
    the frozen hood
    to allow for
    sprout.

    I am sassafras, lending
    limbs to tonic, crisp
    resilience rendered
    gentle into sips
    of frisk.

    I am apple, star-seed
    scattered in perpetual
    pardon, blistered
    blossom twisting
    myth into mad
    wishing.

    I am locust, burning,
    burning, holding the heat
    of the thorn in the pierce
    of the ash
    and the aggregate.

    What will ring my rage
    when I am within
    the wood
    and without
    the bark or the battle
    of bite? What will chew
    my renewal till another story
    thickens my trunk
    and threatens my circles
    of trust? Trust this:
    I am seasoned.

    Each ring reaches deep
    into flesh upon flesh,
    my own, mine to give
    mine to freely reason
    with shattered
    sensibilities
    shedding choice as if it will fall
    and spring forth, as if summering
    will snow, as if these circles,
    wider or slimmer,
    will essentially story,
    will actually
    remember.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Into the Forest

    It’s a new forest for me now
    Because
    We moved
    My god have you stood in your home

    Have you emptied your home,
    The last hints in ribbons
    Everything tattered. Dust,
    And the books are
    Everywhere.

    It’s heavy to move

    My new house is stone and it’s old and
    Even venerable, charming
    The walls in the kitchen are yellow

    And I live in the edge of a small wood
    On the side of a great hill. The well
    Is stained red with iron
    And the water is sulphurous
    And unfamiliar
    I do not mourn
    Because my attention has been
    Caught up in in the forest

    Liked by 1 person

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