THE ONE WHO IS MEANT


THE ONE WHO IS MEANT


Still I must keep silent

Still I dare not whisper
Your name aloud
must recite my evening
prayers with hands
folded over my mouth

lest I end up falling prey
to the Hell's Gate fears
of those who shadow-box
their own souls

the would-be Mafiosi who
pay my would-be wages
to keep a set of books
so small that not even
the cops bother to
shake them down

the unknown street poets
and rag bag folk singers
with whom I share
borrowed drinks and
the same soiled coins
we keep dropping into
one another's hats

the fleeting lovers
showing up at my door
lost wills-o-the-wisp
swirling across my bed
but leaving their dreams
hidden under their own

Now I hold little fear
of a modern witch hunt

Far too many of
my associates are
far too busy avoiding
the tag in their own
games of hide and seek 

But one can never be
too careful

for if any of them should
chance to hear Your name
they might hear my own
and run from me into
the night they can
never quite leave

Yet we say that one who is
meant to become a Witch
will someday find a Witch
to teach the spells that
give warmth without fire
love without shame

So once in a tangled up
moment I may share some
little corner table in
some little corner bar

barely mutter to an ear
barely cocked my way that
some of us still listen to
the beats of hidden hearts

women in search of a God
made in their own image
as seen through the eyes
of feral cats

who gives birth to
earth and green fields
rather than hammering nails
into the dirt of Creation

who preaches against
the sin of loneliness
rather than the loneliness
of sin

or men in search of a God
who demands no crusades
no smiting of sinners
no maypoles to burn

who floods only gardens
with sweet tears and
gentle seeds

who lusts only for wine
and sweet kisses and song
among mortals encountering
immortal joy

or who gives his hunters
sharp-edged blades to
cut a hot path through
the bitter winter winds
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