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By the Light of Lost Stars


By the Light of Lost Stars

Climb fast, quiet as a moon shadow at the rise of the Bleak Tide
toes mutter secrets to the jagged stone stairs that go too high.
And at the topmost plinth, sits a fox, mourning as his stars died.

Deepest tints of the soul’s despair bleed into his pilled sock hide,
ears drooped with the weight of the weary, as sleep comes nigh—
Climb fast, poke a hole in the sky, mold it, find the Firefly Tide.

Socks fox bereft. His stars, those stories, nonsense voices chide.
Climb fast. Hold true. For he waits, listens for a flint edged sigh
to find the plinth where he keeps vigil for a star that refuses to die.

One star left, a world being consumed by torrents of injured pride.
Look to the sky as it weeps for its lost stars. Find the star. Try—
Climb fast. Feel the face of the stones, heed the thrall of the Tide.

Catch a glimpse of Turtle’s gleam, take a leap, and catch a ride.
Shut your eyes, take the light of lost stars, trace stories in the sky.
Touch the plinth, there the socks fox waits where his stars died.

In fits and starts, star by star, Lores in the constellations still hide.
Touch a tale, set the stars alight. Blow a wish on a dandelion sigh.
Those words, his stars, Star Socks Fox shine, reset the Firefly Tide.
Ride, hold tight to Turtle, rise. A constellation that will never die.

Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/layers-24...mp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=4796515">Layers</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=lin...mp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=4796515">Pixabay</a>


After two quick readings of the poem about Star Sox Fox, I sensed an integration of imagination and reality. My oldest son is a Pisces, supposedly with two fish competing for his attention and energies. Since it happened to fit, he and I talked about his “fantasy fish” and his “practical” fish. This father and son dialogue helped him own both, and try to achieve a balance between the two. Before that he and I discerned his need to get “grounded” at times when is too much of a live wire, wild man , acting out. Our dialogue seems to provide a lithium-like cognitive structure that counteracts bipolar tendencies.
Once, when I was very sad/upset from a marital argument earlier in our (now long) relationship, I ran to the top of a mountain in the gateway region of the Appalachian Mountains in Kentucky where we were in college at the time. When I reached the top, fairly exhausted, I lay on my back and looked at the sky. Then, for whatever reason (perhaps inspired by Gestalt therapy’s “shuttling” technique), I shifted my attention back and forth between the solid rock earth beneath me and the open sky above. I automatically began chanting “Wrapped in the harmony of earth and sky.” Your poem felt like that integrative effort. The “acting through” (my term for a personal psychodrama ) exercise had a significant healing effect, leaving me more grounded and whole.
I projected onto Star Fox Sox my own integrative longings and striving.
Along similar lines, the first poem I shared with you (Prayer and Praise) addressed the ultimate concern of “depth integration “ in which we integrate the deepest core of our being (sensed in prayer) with our surface realities. I think the entangled, convergent nature of deepest reality is sometimes projected out and up there into the dreamy sky. If so, then reclaiming our depth projection and integrating it with our surface “reality” helps us achieve depth integration. Perhaps there really is no in or out, up or down, when it comes to becoming “integrated”?

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