Bridges An art and poetry series
by Terra Currie
Mother was buried beneath the temples he built and he put on her robes and twisted her symbols into dissonance he called the one only truth.
Tempt, hypnotize, look closer.
I circle me with light,
She Held Me
The ancients knew.
Death and birth are not so different at the threshold.
now clean and pure,
the white structure within made visible without-
become white Goddess, nourishing new life
forming in the black womb.
Think not in facts.
They are an illusion.
Remember the metaphor coded in you.
She holds this space...
nothing is in fact as it seems
and everything is the same one organism being.
She breathes you and you, her,
and death and birth are one.
There is a portal between worlds,
and she perches there-
a metaphor embracing what is felt and sensed.
Bend your mind and bend my tongue,
that their parallels may finally meet.
Rigid perspectives are brittle.
As we fold to the fragrance of the rose by another name,
the sweetness of Her metaphor fills our senses.
She was not feared but revered.
those who feared failure to control.
She enfolds us on the edge of our perception,
deep within Her,
wrapped in wings we fail to notice.
She is embodiment
of the metaphor that is All.
Birthing, life and dying-
that comes to every being.
She'll pick you clean and birth you too.
The energy of each, you, me,
transforms into a reborn we, through She.
Birth, death, birth, death, re-birthing.