Wild Prayer
Lying under indigo sky
in Garden of the Gods,
unmediated by wood beams,
canvas, fear or hope,
we felt star breath,
molten cores pulsating light.
All around, night’s sacred sounds--
the clicking of beetles
busy with their burdens,
the quiet step of mule deer
through the mesquite,
the slither of bull snakes
seeking warmth,
the call of coyotes
in wild prayer.
Cradled in a sanctuary
of porous red rock,
unbound by tomorrow’s demands,
we dwelt in liminal time--
luminous,
believing with all our young hearts
that the gods would come.
Master Archer
For my son
The archer’s litany--
Eyes on the target,
turn sideways,
legs apart,
head tilted slightly back.
Notch your arrow,
hold it lightly
against the string.
Pull the bowstring taut,
elbow down.
Wait for the signal--
steady,
steady,
deep breath--
release.
It’s summer and you are 10.
On misty Sunday mornings
in a quiet park in the hills,
we absorb the smell of eucalyptus,
hear the call of warblers and mockingbirds,
and practice archery.
The Master Archer reveals
the mysteries of this ancient art,
his philosophy of nonviolence,
training the mind to master
impulse and pride.
You dream
of besieged castles,
marauding dragons,
chivalry and heroic deeds.
Imagine, the Archer says,
You are the bowstring, taut,
ready to release,
seeking the right moment.
You are the arrow, light and strong,
in love with flight,
sure of your destiny.
Rapt, you find your stance
and stretch tall, ready to vanquish
every obstacle in your path.
Your eyes, aimed at the future,
shine like meteors.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
Lying under indigo sky
in Garden of the Gods,
unmediated by wood beams,
canvas, fear or hope,
we felt star breath,
molten cores pulsating light.
All around, night’s sacred sounds--
the clicking of beetles
busy with their burdens,
the quiet step of mule deer
through the mesquite,
the slither of bull snakes
seeking warmth,
the call of coyotes
in wild prayer.
Cradled in a sanctuary
of porous red rock,
unbound by tomorrow’s demands,
we dwelt in liminal time--
luminous,
believing with all our young hearts
that the gods would come.
Master Archer
For my son
The archer’s litany--
Eyes on the target,
turn sideways,
legs apart,
head tilted slightly back.
Notch your arrow,
hold it lightly
against the string.
Pull the bowstring taut,
elbow down.
Wait for the signal--
steady,
steady,
deep breath--
release.
It’s summer and you are 10.
On misty Sunday mornings
in a quiet park in the hills,
we absorb the smell of eucalyptus,
hear the call of warblers and mockingbirds,
and practice archery.
The Master Archer reveals
the mysteries of this ancient art,
his philosophy of nonviolence,
training the mind to master
impulse and pride.
You dream
of besieged castles,
marauding dragons,
chivalry and heroic deeds.
Imagine, the Archer says,
You are the bowstring, taut,
ready to release,
seeking the right moment.
You are the arrow, light and strong,
in love with flight,
sure of your destiny.
Rapt, you find your stance
and stretch tall, ready to vanquish
every obstacle in your path.
Your eyes, aimed at the future,
shine like meteors.
MJ Moore lives in Richmond, California, a few blocks from San Francisco Bay. Her poetry book, Topography of Dreams, was published by Blue Light Press in 2020.
