Music, Poetry, Cosmology



Great Well between the earth and sky,
give us a new myth –
one we can paint and sing about,
dance and dream about;
one to tell to children,
so that they may dream of the past
in the future.

The old ones have gone stale.
We are starved
chewing on litanies
long since emptied of their nourishment

We have named the elements
and put them to use –
abandoning wonder,
forgetting the source.

Air, Water, Earth, Fire –
How will we be remembered?
What lies under the crusty rocks
still to be turned?
What myth will be left standing?
How many have been lost forever?

Give us only the raw materials
to make life out of death;
the tools to find joy where there is fear.
The rest we may leave behind.

The ground is fresh –
up from the seas it came, with the tide,
with new life,
and new mysteries.

Life!  What else is there for us?
If we could see behind the screen of the gods,
perhaps we’d know more.  But for now –
we breathe, we love, we grieve.

Let us cherish life like a short growing season,
Notice the everyday changes.
Look for the buds.
Harvest when the moon is right.

Let us gather our stories
and spread them like the seeds of a new season.
Dance, dream, pray for water.




There is no still point.
Just when you think you are
you feel
how everything
is moving

through the watery currents.
Even the shore,
fixed and solid,
is slowly transformed
by the waters.

There is no still point—
only miracles
of movement everywhere—

Those worn out palm fronds
woven into grandmother’s basket
once waved wildly
in warm tropical storms.

That car
churns ancient liquid earth
into speed, noise, atmosphere,

One breath,
a galaxy of molecules
every three seconds.

Pollen flying, uncles dying,
that butterfly
is a dead caterpillar.

At the still point
there is grace and violence—
a fireworks display
with no grand finale.

Everything happening
is grand,
every unique moment

May 2000



When beauty lets loose in the wake of a sound
and lifts her heels into turns –
what emerges?

I heard the wind
and looked for trees.
Smelled pine,
looked for needles.
Saw the dogs sniffing the ground,
looked up,
and saw a Great Horned Owl.
Felt pain,
remembering its mate died last Spring.
Remembered Spring,
took a breath of Summer,
and gave reverence to the passing of Time.

Am I doing enough?  Am I catching all the signs?
Am I doing too much?  Am I being present?
What is happening now?  What time is it?
What is emerging?



How can space be so cold
that a comet moving hundreds of thousands
of miles per hour,
has a tail of ice?
And so hot
that stars burn white
for thousands of millions of years?

Don’t.  I’m waiting for the sky to answer.

Be patient if I forget my dreams.
My reception is filled with static.
It’s never quiet when I sleep.
Never calm once I’m awake.
I want to do all things in a sacred manner,
but I’m on a tight schedule.

Ghosts walk the streets, I’ve heard.
I can’t see them.  I’m still blind with stories
of what’s invisible.
But I sing to them anyway,
trying to coax open a portal
they can climb through
and go home.

How can a world be so crowded
and feel so desolate?
I have always taken anonymity for granted.
It startled me one day when
someone heard me, sang back
a tune they could only have heard me sing.
I ran away, not knowing what to do
with so much intimacy.
Scared of mirrors.

Someone told me the Ancestors
are not encumbered by the prejudices
they shouldered on their human journey.
To them, I am Briget’s daughter,
a healer, a poet, a tender of fire.
Sometime before I got here
I qualified for the position.

Must we wait till death to see
each other that way?
The loud mouth on the bus is Jupiter.
Take some of that with you
and the meeting you thought you were late for
won’t start on time.

Adversity cannot dwell amidst beauty.
Adorn the altar of your Self with flowers,
and it will leave
to find a more hospitable environment.
Stop taking everything so personally.
Haven’t you noticed that every smile
is bigger than the face making it?

Purple Hazel Green

Listen to Fire & Ice with original music based

on Susan Alexjander‘s “Elements of Tone” – analog tones of the basic elements of life.



I come from the forest,
from the Mother Tree,
who grew from the misty center
of this tree cathedral
who gradually became the soil.

I come from the soil—
chips of wood and mineral grains—
catching moisture
and feeding the roots
of this tree circle.

I come from the mountains
and the wind that blows over them,
the streams that cut through them,
and the rocks that tumble down

I come from the ages tumbling
from mountain to river to sea.

I come from the salty sea.

I come from a time I cannot remember.
I come from forms I cannot remember.
I come from all time and all forms—
fire and ocean, mountain and tree,
prayer and chaos and grace.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s