Poem: There Are Times

There are times

I want so much to touch her,

feel her next to me,

see her.

Devote every sense to exploring her.

Taste her lips, her skin,

feel my hands caressing her,

feel her hands caressng me.

Sometimes it seems that

there are more of those times

than hours in the day,

shells in the sea.

But when it is real

and we are together,

those times are so precious

nothing else exists.

We are alone in space and time,

lost in each other.

Other times

I am alone.

I awake,

still feeling her kiss on my lips,

my hands tingle,

feeling themselves stroke her back

even though she is far away.

It is so clear,

very clear, 

so vivid in my mind,

my heart,

that I hope somehow

she feels it in her dreams

and smiles.

copyright 2007 William Seward 

Sidhe Space

Walk around this tree,   
and there it is.
This is their place.
Well, they are everywhere
but here especially.

Look over there
no, wait.
Don’t look with your eyes
not directly
You see them best
from the corners of your eyes
And your eyes only look,
it is your heart that sees.

Feel where they are
with the edges of your soul.
Use the tactile edges of your being
They are dancing there
just beyond your waking mind.

Trust the believing mind
not the analytical one.
Cast the net of your spirit
and allow them to be there.
You can’t force them to come
to your bidding
You can only let them be.
They are their own selves,
not ruled by any.
But they will come
and be your guide
if you let them.

Poem copyright William Seward, 2007
Art copyright Cat Dancing, 2010

Poem for Beltane (from 2007)

Here’s to the ladies who dance the Maypole

Here’s to the men who enjoy it.

Here’s to the passion they raise in their spell

Here’s to the ones who employ it.

So let’s raise a glass to the Ladies of May

Let’s raise a glass to their lovers.

Raise the glass high to jumping the fire

Drink and jump under the covers!

copyright 2007 William RainCrow Seward

 

Cat Dancing's Tarot

Cat Dancing’s Tarot

The cards are shuffled

and turned

face up,

one by one.

Hierophant here, Lovers there

and the Tower over here.

Cat examines each

and tells what she sees

as she unfolds

the road map

of my soul.

And points out

for me

the detours

that

may lead me astray.

Or the path

that may lead to

my heart’s desire.

Some of the signs

are there

for all travelers to see

others

are hidden

and require

illumination!

by William RainCrow, 2007
(p.s. Read Cat's own blog at  http://tarotbycatdancing.blogspot.com/ )

Knowledge

They stretch behind like 
lemmings
marching to a hungry sea
All the identical rooms
identical hotels
identical offices
in identical cities
on his orderly planet.
He looks around
he knows them all
the places he's been.
Traveled the world.
He's seen it all
except
around the corner
on his own street
in his hometown.
He sees the greed
in other eyes.
Deaf to the secrets
his own heart whispers.
"Nothing left to know"
he says
at his feet a surprising world
in a handful of soil.

copyright William Seward, 2011

A Poem from way back.

CONCORD

There is a mesa over there,

see, to the east?

Oh, I know, the locals,

of which I'm one,

call it Pilot Knob.

It's Gabriel Peak

on the map.

It's a mesa to me.

In my youth I heard

the tales of my

great-great grandpa

William R. Seward.

He worked on the fabled

Smithwick Mill

on the Colorado,

not THAT one.

The one in Texas.

On moonlit nights

he'd get his horse

and ride to Pilot Knob

courting lovely Jenny.

The ride was far,

at night on horse.

I think he loved her.

We had Indians, they say.

Comanches,

both deadly and mischievous.

They knew the man

and the horse.

They wanted the horse.

In shadowed darkness

they'd lie in wait.

For horse and man to come.

They'd whoop and yell

and whip their ponies.

The race was on.

How many times

did they run that race?

How many times

did he win?

I know that he won.

Lucky for me.

That's almost all I know

about William R.

Perhaps that's all

I'll ever know,

or need to know.

It's enough.

On moonlit nights

I stand out here,

watch that mesa

over there.

I swear I can hear

pounding hooves,

a whoop and then

just the wind.

I know he's made it

once again.

I tip my hat

to memories

of old stories

and go inside

to my own Jenny.

Bill Seward

Jan. 26, 1998