“It is time,” softly spoken the words awoken
the heart that was clasped in stone,
grains of time wilted, on dry stalks stilted,
blossomed from the dark fertile loam,
the air unscented became heavenly minted
with love flowered honeysuckle cologne,
midnight gloom banished from the ancient room
as cast, Avalon’s brilliant rainbow shone,
arising in the midst of a cascading mist
the Flower of Life reclined on a golden throne,
thus having awakened the dreamers were taken
back to their far off lost celestial home,
all humankind wondered as heavens thundered
“It is done,” leaving their souls lost and alone.
My apology to those of you who view the pomegranate with religious significance, to me it is a lime in sheep skin. So here is a brief, albeit translucent, historical homily to this distasteful little Middle Eastern shrub.
There are over 700 varieties of pomegranate. The one I prefer is Cosmoplitan Martini.
There is loathing or liking
toward the humble pomegranate,
plum of the east,
globe from the desert sands.
Its refreshing juices
a tart invasion of the mouth,
muhamara slathered on pita,
aradana for the bowl of rice.
Chew and suck upon the arils
nested in the pulp creation,
adorning the crown and capital,
of Jachin and Boaz.
The righteousness Mitzvot fruit
carried in the robe of the Ephod,
rider on the rimmonim,
here the forbidden of the Garden.
The fatal fruit of Persephone
captive to Hades bidding,
you Sah the soul of Osiris,
the calyx of mighty Hera.
Let it be you in my kollyva
nurturing, succulent, life giving,
broken and bursting,
the symbol of the resurrection.
Growing in the gardens of Paradise
your blossoms bejewel the air,
the image of prosperity and fertility,
Loved by Bhoomidevi and Bijapuraphalasakta.
For thousands of years worshiped
as a treasure of beginnings and endings,
a leather skinned malum punicum,
behold, you are but a humble pomegranate.
Grasping a magical crystal talisman,
I climb the dream shrouded mountain,
Up to were the rock of truth waited,
Weathered in the drizzling dark.
I pushed through not knowing why,
Only finding temporal darkness in the mist.
The ringing pontificated prognostications,
Added to the pressure of mental confusion.
Hot air carried hollow words silently,
Whispers of falsehoods, imagination,
Incantations, pubescent nocturnal arousal.
I find myself prostrate before an alter
The stones of my desire loom as granite.
Weathered beasts smile piteously lighted
By the torch of myopic mental uncertainty.
There appearing in diaphanous threads,
Pondered I the significance of thread oneness.
Wobbling on its perturbation axis the earth turned.
Feeling the momentary shudder of Gaia beneath
I sat under a planetary tree to channel.
Gaia the primordial and chthonic deity,
Ancient Greek pantheon Mother Goddess
Spoke thus: “My child, cast off this notion.
Breathe the air of life, smell the soil,
Lay your head upon my breast, feel my warmth.”
There is a desire to return to our mother,
A desire to push aside the charlatans,
To accept the natural, the known,
The observable, the qualitative, quantitative,
That which has existed from the dawning,
That which is in us as we know it to be
Will be forever beyond our brief moment.
Dust we were and dust we become returning
To the open arms of our Mother our Goddess,
Life giver and omnipresent always beckoning Gaia.
Gaia was written in response to one of my daughter’s
insistence upon the medicinal value of mystical rocks
and the totally improbable value of the numerical
sequence 11:11 (what ever that means). P.S. – The ancient
Greeks got it right.