What We Call The World

We take a handful of sand from the endless landscape of awareness around us and call that handful of sand the world. ~Robert M. Pirsig

I open to this new experience
though I feel fear. That’s just an artifact
from ruins. The sun’s intense, convinces
me to stay in love despite your intractable

stance, your clamoring–I project
this all so I can see you’re mirroring
what I once named toxic. Now I respect
what’s real when our triggers commence roaring.

Isn’t this life wild? Riding our passions
leads us to flow. We sing in joy and praise
the true foundation of our compassion
when we cease fighting and enjoy our days.

Nights we spend pondering constellations.
Planets hang low, the waxing moon unites
focused love. Put down the sky app. Listen
to harmony above.  Allow delights.

It’s Turtles All The Way

In yesterday’s imbalanced waking
parch overwhelmed me. Today
I determine to soothe

water and grounding these indignant
filaments writhing and buzzing
from the past’s unintegrated

barrage. I sit and extract
my personal fear, empowered
to heal myself, my family,

my lineage, society, the planet
the universe and more.
Time and distance constructs

—the illusion of separation—
dissolve, tumble like a child’s
castle made of blocks.

We build beliefs in our jangled
misperception of danger,
forget to knock them down

laughing and certain
of our power to create anew.
I tune in to what is

as all the ripples of my intention
create balance
here in the present

where I, a self-healing miracle
of love, resonate
a heartbeat, breath

infused in everything that matters
which is all, which is one,
awakening and taking the step now.

 

What’s Coming

At the top of my list, of course,
is breath, but my next best friend

is death. They walk me, teasing,
loyal life wants to live

escorted in the arms of lovers
dancing in the flavors love

layers. Naming every birth
we create separation illusions

with our powerful beliefs
that sweep us past and future

rocketing by the song-now.
Birds chittering through oldgrowth

forests sound the alarm as we
play foreigners, our roots forgotten

we emerge from trees
and soil, composted

through uncountable millenia.
We chirp until named, we spread

our wings in arrogant denial
a flurry of greed to clothe ourselves

with what we buy in fear of
our imminent demise. Missing

the call to shine, eminent
moment of this particular voice

in this astral alignment.
When we walk in peace with our death

unafraid, we open up the stranglehold
past, let go of the predetermined

future at last, the patterns blown
in our explosive joy.

Death isn’t lurking, looming, it’s coming
for you now in deep orgasmic waves thrumming:

Our only prerogative, let’s be clear,
is to be alive right now, right here.

Inspired by Prerogative, Explosive, Foreigner and Eminent.

 

The Leading Edge

Our vibration goes up when we serve.~Thomas Huebl

A baby won’t ask for anything
you can’t give. All you have

requested by life that wants
to live. And I’m not trash talkin’

your mama, so caught in tight
ancestral trauma that a cry

in that wailing treble lands
like a devil in those spaces

genetically disheveled.
There is no blame, the centuries

laid out clearly but we can’t see
the hidden sculpture. Life

is not as it seems. We think the
pain may become our mainstay

if we don’t struggle. Make way.
We find ourselves while running

from what’s wronging
flee the leading edge, our

most farfetched longing
arms we hold outstretched.

We’re cautious, sniff the aromatic
clues, scents enigmatic and so

problematic and yet
a child knows when it’s time

to snuggle, surrender to the
fear. So often trouble

is the gift. When we accept
unwrap, perplexed, but willing

to be still upon the lap
we’ve cried for, all that rises

in connection–the winds,
the seas, the branches bending

low to feel our wailing cease.
Finally heard, we acquiesce and be.

A Thousand Miles Begins

Only when I walk forever, I have time for now and for you.~Thomas Huebl.

Like a curious time traveller
I arrive into the tribal
village, shaking my rain-
laden hair, blurring the ink
on these cryptic pages.

What is precise is
beyond words. Still, we
chant by campfire. Now
is true love peering
a surprised town crier.

Swimming an electric river
every atom buzzing, aquiver.
Forget the clock claiming
it’s time to scream, 3 a.m.
and nothing to do, only

to be aware of the false lonely.
Attempts to demarcate are made
afraid. This journey, a cascade,
is our masterpiece, ringing,
each essential voice singing

in our own key, a symphony
with all that should be
swirling through the fear
sometimes welcome here.
Allowing what is essential

to burn in this ancestral
fire’s focused laser weaving
lessons of millennia believing
us like chained sleepwalking bells
pulling sounds of now into our cells.

Inspired by Matchbox Twenty since my poem emerged when the clock showed 3. And Lao Tzu’s, “the journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one’s feet.”

Someday I’ll Wish

When man up is extinct
and we escape the patriarchal
clinch, embrace instead
what’s rarely said in macho
bravos–lunatic fringe
simply a piece of our
extended tapestry–in short,
when we appear just as we
are, with deep respect
(the long neglect of hope
suspect when we must always
correct some fault that’s deep
within our ancestry) when
that day is here
I declare
the evolutionary leap
the shift is in the air
we breathe and suddenly
we see the edgy intricacy
of our imperfect beauty
simplicity when we
bowing, stunned, aware
there is no better you
the one that we receive
and care, unplumbed
perfection when we dare
admit the hidden pieces
the critic sighs,
looses and releases.

Inspired by: Rarely, Extinct, Hope, Clinch and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Man Up, the last movie I saw.  Once again, the demand to create a stream of consciousness post stretched me beyond my comfort zone.  And I’m glad!

 

It’s All Relative

To my Grandaunt Perdita, photo taken on her 98th birthday.

No one points out the bruises
puce under translucent skin
still we all picture the leap
during sleep.  A gap between
dreams, her body calls.  Pulled
across the floor, barely
in when she falls, slams into
tables and walls. In our impulse
to accommodate her reckless
drive, we push aside the traps,
all clear for her next dive.
It’s just the cost, she sighs,
of being old–well into her
tenth decade–colors bold
and fading. A map of every
mishap, the body’s upbraiding
layered pain. Even now,
she gasps, oh, I’ll remember
this! holding an aching thigh.
No longer limber, more and more
half-dozing in a chair, all the live
parts dancing disconnected
in the air. Rejected pain
both old and new. The only
thing loved ones can do
is offer space to come back
down, recall the sacred place
where we at birth are found.
Death is just a step away.
The clear choice to sing today,
with harmony just out of reach
the song itself is under siege.

Inspired by: Accommodate, Puce, Leap and Impulse and the indomitable will and cheer of an amazing Capricorn woman.

Hidden Karma

I plan to extricate myself
from this poisonous family
yet my immersion is total,
I’m accountable for all.
Like an unhappy city dweller
eyes fixed on the stars
certain that on Mars, there
is happy. I look around
unseeing eyes tell lies.
Earthbound earthling like
an eyelash longing to be free
of the source of all ills
apparently. I grab the axe
and chop so desperately
at surface roots. Ah,
will I never see
I am the tree?

Inspired by: Total, KarmaAccountable and Extricate.

Pulled By The Past

He’s bursting to play in this brisk
autumn, so soon after we both succumbed

to the nasty bug from preschool.
Something inside cries, no! Seemingly stray,

a thought, how did they manage in olden
times? And just like that, I catch

the epigenetic trauma alert interlaced
and concealed. Keeping us alive.

The whole damn town reeling two
hundred years ago, this child’s

fifth great grandmother losing four
loved ones in the fall, weather

so similar it stirs our guts and
makes us jittery. We’ll bundle up,

declare this trauma broken up,
a new ruler of integration and

consciousness, choosing fresh air
and being present for ancestral warnings.
Inspired by: Jittery, Brisk, Broken and Ruler and the tragic life of Mary Glaze, my third great grandmother and the traumatic fall of 1838. First Solomon, her 43-year-old husband, died on September 26, followed four days later by her five-year-old daughter Sarah, and three days later her three-year-old daughter Elizabeth.  Did I mention Mary was in her last trimester of pregnancy?  On 28 October she gave birth to a son, Joseph, who died several weeks later.

The Way Through

We’re tuning in together across
the planet, deliberate, setting

aside our jaded lies. We’ve treaded
water, gasping and choking, trying

to heal ourselves in the poisoned
system, rising and falling alone.

Throbbing wounds from unexpected
splinters: we do not rush to kill

the pain. Instead we witness the
longing for death, trace its descent

through our lineage, the millennia
a tangled knot we cannot integrate.

Setting aside our individual triggered
drama to illuminate our collective

trauma. Each of us a fractal symptom.
Summon our skilled weavers. Illuminate

the net which binds us, blindly grasping
until we let go. The tapestry emerges

familiar and strange: our wounded
ancestors’ intricate scenes of carnage,

victim and perpetrator dances too horrifying
to love. Release the story. See the spin.

What breathes through us, what moves our
passionate living? Opening our vulnerable

hearts now, we sing what is. Resistance
chorus urges us to act. The future

clamors: repeat the unexamined past
fast. And still we sit, allowing

the tightly held terrors. Safe now
in our warm regard. In this relational

space we create entirely new
breathing what is in the way.

Inspired by: Descent, Jaded, Death and Splinter. and the Collective Trauma Summit going on this week (it’s free and it’s liberating!)