MY PRIMAL WOUND: MOUNT ST. HELENS’ MUSE – a poem
MY PRIMAL WOUND: MOUNT ST. HELENS’ MUSE
My primal wound,
gushes forth, like a maddened volcano.
Spilling and spewing forth, it’s red-hot, lava-like blood, down the sides of it’s own mountaintop.
From far away, what a wondrous, miraculous, sight to behold!
This awesome manifesto, of heart’s inner-core.
My life’s desire, cresting on waves, with determined healing.
Fate cries out: Freedom! Fate cries out: Hope!
Come now and birth thyself! Into flowing, glowing rivers of silver-crusted, molten rock.
Force thy yearning self, through this softened- ripened, cervix of my heart.
I am tired, torn, and beaten. I am almost, completely, worn-out.
Yet, suddenly, I am now quickened and bear down on fiery eruptions,
Of crowning heads, held high in liquid amber of golden flame.
My voice screams out, an urgent alarum, in anguished sounds, near-threshold pain.
Can a country, be brought forth, in a day?
Or a nation in a moment?
Who will welcome, this grand arrival of emergent, newborn life?
Come now, Love,
Writhe thy pulsating self, through this groundswell, birth-canal.
Vigorously perforce thyself, through this raging-hot and smoldering-rimmed, Ring of Fire.
Thrust thy meek and mighty self, into thy hallowed and presaged destiny.
Mother’s womb is gone.
Child now is born.
Breathing has begun. Angels sing their songs.
Victory swords are drawn. This battle will be won. Time now has come. For we have seen the dawn.
Please tell me this;
would we die a certain death,
If we could feel the burning spot, in God’s own, manifold soul?
Isaiah 66:8 (NIV)
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