Bedtime Story

 

“Bedtime Story”

by Christa Sperry

 

A renegade New Moon

Whispers to a valley.

This Dark-Skinned Mystic

Reminds clay

That no mountain can dictate

The way

Mother Earthworm

Squirms within it’s breast,

For she is shy

Yet immense

Birthing mountains herself.

Perhaps forgotten

Is that Time is a hobby

Of night-crawlers:

They bulldoze earth’s past

To grow grass of future,

Knit with needles

Made of moment

And yarn spun of eon.

Their quilt of illusion

Comforts villagers

On deep nights

When New Moon

Feeds choke cherry

And magpie to youth.

This Charcoal Orb

Tells secrets to a valley.

 

There is speak of Alabados

Being bodies of God

In unison with juniper.

Solid Spanish hymns

That move man from within

Inviting rhythm to spit

Venom at voyeurs;

Coyote Women who plant word

So as to cultivate herbs

That reek of poetry.

This is not a voice that speaks

Of dust mesa,

Or forgot how to breathe

Without metaphor.

This voice lingers

In trout throat

And first bloom

Like shade,

Sings lullabies

In the key of my beloved’s last breath

And masquerades as a canyon.

A canyon that impregnates

Apple skin with flesh,

Beehives with royal jelly,

Fire in winter,

First fetus of summer.

 

This fugitive New Moon

Tells the story of a valley:

A place gorges crack crust

Like Jesus broke bread,

Whilst hot springs

Feed dreams primordial soup.

Where mud bricks are ribs

That protect hearts of generations.

Where acequias of mind are cleansed

By children

To allow growth atwixt households,

And Sangre pulsates

Through memory

Like lightning through nimbus.

The air is thick now

Like hair of native youth,

New Moon braids yucca in wind

As it wakes villagers

With gossip of Sun.

A yawn of gold

And stretch of crimson

Expose a nude day,

Caressing itself –

Wet with dew.

Christa Sperry- Copyright 2005

 

I grew up in the shadow of the Sangre de Christo mountains in northern New Mexico. Even though I moved to Maryland back in 2007, I still find myself getting homesick regularly. New Mexico is, and always will be, my home. Until I moved to the East Coast, I had never known any other way than the ‘natural’ way when approaching health and wellness issues. I mean, obviously when one had a broken leg, they saw a doctor or surgeon because no amount of pink Himalayan salt or tea tree oil was going to cure it (c’mon now). But one would see Grandma (yours, mine, theirs...any Grandma would do) before going to the doctor if they were sick or unwell in other ways (physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally). There were usually some herbs, chilé, rest, fresh air, and water prescribed. Homemade food made with love and care using ingredients that came from straight from the earth was the norm, not the exception. Stopping in the middle of the road to talk to friends and family while holding up traffic was not something you honked at people for. Building your living space to be an ever-evolving, breathing work of art because it is good for the soul was just a part of everyday life.

  The land and the people of New Mexico have instilled in me a great sense of pride and satisfaction from working with my heart and hands, and that is why I do what I do. I believe that massage, yoga, meditation, food so fresh you have to wash the dirt off of it, and art can go a long way in facilitating healing for the whole human being. In that spirit, I would like to share a poem I wrote about my home. I hope it imparts a bit of what is important to me and causes you to think of what is important to you about your home, wherever that may be.

 

Christa Sperry RMP, RYT-200

Registered Massage Therapist and Yoga Teacher specializing in:

Thai Yoga Massage, Deep Tissue, Swedish

(240)848-0068