The Interconnection of Being

At three, he’s aware of no

division, calling up the

buffleheads on my computer

for a close-up of tiny ducks

far out on the lake.  Not just black

and white, their iridescent heads

like poems to color.

He greets them, frustrated

by my inability

to establish

a FaceTime connection

with these cousins.

He has no armor,

open, empty

here to enjoy

the ride and I bail

furious and surreptitious,

dipping and throwing

discolored clouds of

beliefs as fast as they

bubble up on our way.

In the dark, we trace

the dim light

of constellations

resonating to a calling

heart songs

carrying us through

this living water.

Inspired by Empty, Armor, Division and Bail.  Photo credit: hhltmaine.org.

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Fertile Soil

Deep in the territory of despair

I find a tiny grain

of hope-seed.

I pause in my diurnal practices

directing the flow of chi

before sitting in stillness.

Even this action of folding

the map away

is a heart-sight opening.

I have been amending

this very soil

where I’m rooted.

Last year’s skeletons crackling

white reminders

to plant differently.

Seeking manure

‘cause shit’s gotta change.

I am rotating

to nourish

what feeds us all.

Pulling out the old

beliefs in the separation,

tinder for the burnpile.

Going up in flames

along with the sketches

on the papers

indicating here be dragons.

I sow treasure

invisible and minuscule

in your eyes,

yet tickling a

necessary earthquake

we create this new terrene.

Inspired by Action, Treasure, Opening and Diurnal.

This Wild Ride

I slip past the expectations

of people who knew me

before now.  Fluid as I

paddle in this iridescence

to summon my magic

at the bottom turn.  That tiger

shark, lurking, makes such

a strong case to stay on my board.

I surf through this sea

of change to catch

a wave, flying past

with an exultant cry before

my magnificent wipeout.

A rag doll in a washing machine,

so long beneath the surface

before I can rise, thrashing,

to reunite with my breath.

I’m here with death, my old

friend, finally learning

to enjoy the ride.

 

Inspired by:  Case, Iridescence, Magic and Learning.

What’s At Stake

The practical mathematics we explore

look suspiciously like witchcraft.

Silver-locked grandmothers dancing

around the family tree

measuring with diametric

precision while praising

the infinite always get a

bad rap from the likes of Big

Pharma.  Unmedicated, noncompliant

so he can learn the burning

love triangle, child and parents,

the long chains of ancestors

as visible as smoke

I teach him to see.

We both devour these moments

fully present in the is-ness

emerging

to be seen and celebrated

in the fullness we give each

other in these flames.

Inspired by:  Chain, Diametric, Infinite and Devour.

Love of My Life

If you’re wondering, who is

this auspicious star, it’s me

illuminating every puddle.

Here you are casting shadows

with that serious face

oblivious to the solar

language of my kiss.

Come, play in these gray

last winter days, shiver

anticipate that moment

when I finally pierce

your cold constellations

and you let go of your grief

to look up

praise

the listening at last.

Inspired by: Auspicious, Wondering, Puddle and Language.

Sow The Seeds

 

Today I’m playing with a new challenge!  A stream of consciousness poem written for the SOCS (stream of consciousness Saturday) prompt critic.

My inner critic has always joined in

any perceived slight

insult

and the inner defender is silent

watching as I squirm

then bend in defeat

at the pressure

of all this displeasure.

Judgment.

My mother tells me she is so grateful

for my brother without whom

she would never have known

about the kitchen utensil I have

used for years in front of her.

I sigh.

My best friend tells me that my tune-in

doesn’t land, and what once

would have stung,

I simply see what’s true

right now.

I have this packet of seeds

and I spread them

thoughtlessly,

not asking for recompense,

as if the world is my garden

and every soul I connect

is a part of me.

Sometimes I can’t hear

these songs of celebration.

The pearls are mudcaked,

perceptions are puckered.

We are galaxies

writhing in incomprehensible

beauty, shielding our eyes

and turning away

from the mystery.

I offer myself because

I must, not with any hope

that you will receive me,

opening the package

for myself,

weeping in joy

at the surprise.

Dream Bivouac

I’ve almost reached the peak

just beyond this sheer cliff.

I glimpse a dark-haired young

woman at the top, staring

intently at what must be

a stupendous view.  I’m not

pausing here to catch my breath

in this rarefied air or

because I’m itching with sweat.

I’m simply relishing the solitude

this stark space

only ancient rocks holding me

in a silent communion, so deep

and rich it seeps into my cells,

changing me.  That woman is still

rapt and in theory, she must see past

mountain ranges to blue ocean.

So I reach for handholds and hang

on this rock face, and I realize

I need help.

A thick rope dangles

near.  I test it and

a man’s head appears,

offers a brawny arm, plucks

me from my peril.

The tantalizing world

spreads like an offering.

Complete with a crowd

ascending

an easy path

steps carved into the mountain.

Mothers are chiding rapscallion

children peering over the edge.

I raise my lens to capture

the haphazard rubble, foundation

blocks discarded under an arch

of a bridge.  I find the lines

pull me.  My camera seizes.

My batteries are depleted.

I commit this view

to memory

as I begin my descent.

 

Inspired by:  Theory, Air, Rapscallion and Itching.