Dawn On Me

 

Furious at delays, things in my way,

people slowing me down,

I would still change pace

with pets, mostly dogs

who hiked with me through

the wild places I visited.

On my trajectory of change,

the representative of a simmering

lineage, homeless, stepping always

on alien lands with the unacknowledged

guilt of colonists.  Uneasy but focused,

striding through “on your left”

the airport walkways with my cross-

country skier pace or

driving with my foot down

racing to the beat.

A list of goals

and things to do,

eyes on the prize.

Until a cough grew worse.

Finally forced

down into darkness,

breakdown and loss,

contemplating death in the devastation.

Stripped of everything, my innate

joy surfaced. And now

I celebrate

my unique

steps, pausing to see

what is

and always

coming back to my breath.

Inspired by:  Unique, Cough, Pet and Representative.

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The Clearing

~ Dedicated to Cristina Bevir and SETM.

I’m tuning in to this high intelligence

like a tool, a formula,

a magic wand to integrate

all the misinterpretations

cooking in my stew

of yearning.  I listen

to the longing for love

pushing the envelope,

painting the calumny.

“Bad boy,” my grandson says

with a fierce scowl.

I release the heartache

triggered by his tone.

There is an opening in so-called

reality, a way

to mitigate this ancestral

storm by bending before

its force with curiosity.

Allowing every image,

every buried memory,

my faultless intuition

guides me through darkness.

It is constant, holding

mild and humble

as I witness the great

power of healing.

I sit

and offer my expansive

lap: come snuggle.

As our heartbeats connect

we align to the deeper

places of pure possibility.

Inspired by:  intelligence, calumny, cook and mitigate.

Out of Order

This morning I am mourning

what is lost

that I never missed,

am glad to see the last of,

lucky to lose,

what was shattered

by the blunderbuss of my

triggered fight and

flight before the air is clear.

Sometimes I move too quickly

to the place of understanding,

admiring the silver lining

with a type of inane psychobabble,

a lightworker’s energetic

healing before even stanching

the blood, sterilizing

and careful stitches,

the timely response.

Not even a simple

damn, that hurt  

before seeking someone

to kiss the booboo.

Lost, too, in that futile

longing 

to be 

heard

and seen

in all my exquisite pain.

I bring to you these jagged scars

like a box of photographs

I’ll show and tell

before I feed them

to the hungry flames

of this funeral pyre.

Shall I list my tinder

offerings?  Here is love,

a dream, trust,

a child, a chance.

Here what was owed, never paid.

Anger.  A friend,

faith, songs,

so many poems.

They catch and spark

symbolic kindling

to reach the logs

stuck in the dark places

where the lost things smolder

when finally, I bring them

into the necessary heat.

Inspired by Lost, Inane, Timely, Blunderbuss and Exquisite.

Marie’s True-Dream-Power

Philosophers are people who know less and less about more and more, until they know nothing about everything.  Scientists are people who know more and more about less and less, until they know everything about nothing. ~ Konrad Lorenz

Because if there’s something I know

nothing about, it’s

everything

and the way words

erase experience 

like the First Nations languages

brutally ripped

from throats.

We are caged so precisely

that when Marie dreams 

her long-dead dad is laughing,

patting her burgeoning belly,

ah, how he’s longed for this 

grandchild,

she wakes confused —

so vivid,

but it can’t be real,

right, because he’s dead,

right, and she must be crazy

even though her hidden lineage

pulses with altered-states-words

for alternate realities which exist

alongside this waking 

we insist

is the one and only 

narrative for our lives.  

Turning away from the powerful

appetite for messages from our dead

because it can’t be real —

it’s not allowed to be real —

caught in the web of deceit

of the waking dream

that closes our options

like firmly locked gates

and boarded-up portals.

Today in the clarity of my wild

ambition, I create new

lovelight emanating from

me clearing

what I’ve held for the planet.

Relaxing fully.

The ebullient-belly rising

in the liminal spaces

where patriarchal-chasms open

the uttering-uterus-undulating

child-inside the intuitions

men dismiss.

Standing on the dream-threshold

with messages from a long-

dead father and which is the

real-state, our child-murmuring

in the pool of ancestral-fluid

that carries us

deep in our center, where

dreams are surely closer

to the sacred spaces,

more tangible

than this table or the curtains

fluttering in our attentive breeze

until they are not.

Because what is reality

but a shaky-card-house

resting on allowed perceptions

doled out by people

intent on control?

Dealing the narrative-cards,

keep the king, jettison the joker,

no value in pure fantasy.

Still, my ancestors send me living 

messages; I burp four times

as I write this line. 

Inspired by: Clarity, Ambition, Ebullient, and Appetite.

Begone, Foul Demon

Is this guy 72 or 12?

And I immediately offer an apology

to all the wise preteens.

This immature dog lumbers

in resentment, caught in a trap

of his own devise. We’re watching

in horror and a certain glee

sure he will chew off

his leg in spite.  How can we expect

his metamorphosis, ensconced as he is

in a reality TV show, where the art

of the deal is saying, You’re Fired?

The ridiculous pantomime frayed

holes gaping and fixers

scrambling for a foothold

in our belief — because once

we awaken, this will scatter

like long-forgotten leaves scuttled

by the fierce winter wind

stirred into a final frenzy.

The eye-opening storm of common

sense a catalyst for

our own transformation

in heartspace as at long last

we seize our power.

Inspired by: a government shutdown, and the prompts Resentment, Immature, Metamorphosis and Lumber.

We Need To Talk

There is no stress.  There are unconscious buttons I allow to be pushed. ~ Thomas Huebl

 

with this newly revealed

response-ability,

intelligent kindliness counter-

balancing the temptation to over-

give, that insidious disempowerment

informing my comfortable codependence.

In the spirit of the new year —

my own starts at the solstice, though

I prefer to slip

out of time, promising

abstract paths

to a new way

steps in constellation spotlight.

Tuning in

past the constructs of space

to this abstruse message

hope, impossible to touch

or hear or see,

available through other senses.

Still I reach out with word-ship sails

beckoning in the beyond.

When we meet, I’ll ask

to sit

each sinking into

first our own bodies.

See the thoughts circling

like wasps, defending

invisible barriers constructed

during infantile wailing,

essential for survival

at one time.

Here now, we feel

into the bonds that entangle

giving space to their innate

elasticity, unraveling under

our compassion.  Now here

heart-opening ears and tongues

we have messages to share.

Inspired by the Echoes of Light toning recording and the word prompts: Responsibility, Temptation, Promising and Abstract

Dilating Time

For Cristina

Like the pupil of an eye,

elongated, dilating

just in the second of the solstice.

And in that perfect

clearing, all the locks unlatch,

doors open, gates melt.

We approach what had seemed

an impossible sliver, an idea, really,

an almond or a teardrop,

enlarging peripherally

to an opening

any old fool could slip through

dancing

leaf on the wind,

feather on a breeze,

carried like the lightest sailing craft

streaming through the liquid 

love light.  

Learn

the only task now:

relax into the support

of the universe.  

All of the old entanglements tease up,

one by one.  Watch

unravelling, all the knots

disentangling in the perfect

allowance of what is.

 

Resistance feeds friction

and disease and I’ve loved

the polished white-

wash of narrative.  Literature

constructs word-boats floating

on the stream being revealed,

festive, bedecked in lights

to shine

back through the black waters.

Poem-breadcrumbs cast

on a forest trail:

follow quickly before

they are consumed by hungry

searchers far too desperate

to look

up. It will appear

like an almond,

a teardrop, something small

and irrelevant, 

hidden power 

only accessible on the darkest night

with the clearest intent

to serve.

Give up the struggle.

Please.

This is clear sailing.

This is allowing.

The universe supports you

completely.  You don’t have to believe.

You might take a few moments

to close your eyes,

listen with heart-ears,

mind your gut.

But mostly, relax.

Relax into the support.

It’s here for you,

for us,

as we blossom into our glory.

Inspired by:  Compose, White, Literature, Festive, Bedeck