Love and Words


the dreams of bees


Is this then,

what love is?

A strong cold fire

that burns through my soul

reducing to ash

the things I have used

to build my walls?


I have searched and searched.

I have been

to books

and fires

and circles

and roads

and at least I learned,

or so I thought,

that love begins

far above us all.


I thought that,

the worship of things

we can never know,

the rituals and romance,

would bring with it


that I could hold.


So I set about

to build a life

that begged for the right

to be happy and whole.

So that, 

when I bent my head and prayed,

someone else would decide

that I deserved

for all that I cried.


And the gods,


and made fun 

of my small attempts

to worship them.

For what were my offerings,

my sacrifices,

my words and prayers,

when offered to the ones

who had created those very things?


What use is it to offer to a God

that which they made?


And what was I really offering?

I was so lost and bleeding

in the puzzle of my own world,

wanting God to fix things

that I hadn't a thought as

to what a God might need.


God does not want songs,

and prayers,

and incense,

and pretty things.


God doesn't want

my complaints and needs

all in a few minutes of my day

God wants everything.


And so,

the gods laughed at me.

In my robes and beads

trying so hard

to ignore

what they were trying

to give to me.


I was like the woman

who hides in the dark

in a city made of light,

clinging to a twisted

image of a god in death

when all around me,

on every street corner,

for anyone to see,

there were statues of a God

laughing and free of pity.

And the people would come out

and pour water over the stone

when the heat had grown

and threatened to burn the day.


That was the god of life and love.

That was a life of worship.

For they asked not

of the God

but took care of it.


And I watched them,

from the dank coolness

of my moss covered grave.


I watched them,

and wondered why it was

I never had a cause

to celebrate.

My god,

my lord,

my savior,

my saint,

how long would you have left me

there in that tomb?


How long would you have left me?


And I am angry,

although I understand,

that it is not for a God

to reach out a hand.

I started with the means

to be

and it is my own fault,

my own fault,

if I have chosen

not to be free.



I choose it now.


I choose it.

I demand it.

I deserve it.


And look,

this is what happened.


For the first time,

I did not

bow my head and kneel.

I threw myself down on the ground

knocking aside the bells and candles,

crushing all those pretty words.


For the first time,

I threw myself down on the ground.

I rent my clothes in two.

I pounded the earth

and shook my fist at the sky

and I demanded

of the things

I have no name

that I be given

the life

of which I dream.

And look,

what happened.

You appeared,

from out of nowhere,

with no guile

or guise,

or reasoned desire

on my part,

trying to talk myself into believing

that you were something

that you were not.

As I have done


time and time again.

Neither of us were looking,

yet both of us had received,


to a feast.


Yet instead of food,

instead of wine,

I have filled my cup with you,

and ever so slowly,

I drink.

But you pour over the rim

laughing to think

I would try to sip

what must be consumed

drowning the pulse of my heart

with the flood

of my need for you.


Drowning me,

flooding the well of my being

lifting my soul

on the tide of your joy


and higher

shattering my mind

and setting it free.


It is crying,

I love you,

when all reason


there can be no way,

no how,

too soon.



I do.


I love you.

And I will always love you,

because I have loved you

before you came.

And even if you left again,

this love

would be what remained.



are a part of something 

so much larger,

a gift,

a blessing,

an answer.

How can I deny you,

when you are what I dreamed?

How can I deny you

when my body

thunders your name?


And I feel,

I feel the smile of the Gods above,

as for once,

for once,

they see me accept

a gift they have given.


For once,

they have spoken,

and I have listened.


And life changes,

I know life changes

and nothing remains the same.

Forever sometimes

may only mean

a year and a day.

Life exists

not in our memories,

our safety

and security,

but in 

ever changing moments.

Forever is built

not on a promise,

not on words,

but on moments -



And God above,

let me

have this dream.

So human.

So small.

Just for now,

let me dream

the dreams of forever.

Let me drink and be full,

of something

that is 

so - 



decagon          poetry



c.2011 Cassandra TribeAll Rights Reserved