No Time For Grumps

I’ve been in a parsimonious fray, but

my grandson is coming today and

I am planning to waddle and leap,

finger paint and read board books

to sleep.  I’ll let go of this

card game, no trumps, and

this casting for blame, in the dumps.

The tweets of an orange roister-doister

has made me long for a good cloister.

So if I turn off my screen, please

don’t think that I’m mean.

My healer is coming to say,

come on, grandma, outside to play!


Inspired by: parsimonious, roister-doister

Only Savoring

A monk surprised by a tiger fled, chased to a precipice.  Grabbing a vine, he hung suspended over the edge. The tiger waited. Far below, the ocean pounded.  Two mice, one white and one black, started to gnaw away the vine. Seeing a ripe strawberry within reach, the monk put it into his mouth, savoring its sweetness. ~ Buddhist koan

We’re all in a panic here,

projecting our greatest fears

when she says, “We shall see.”

In that moment of clarity,

I regain my balance.  The ancestral

westward ho! blandishments

open abandonment carved deep

genetic memories newly arrived

shivering in threadbare clothes.  Not enough

food on either shore. I join

the women gathering nuts and seeds,

digging roots, focused on certain lack.

She reminds me, carry

this prayer in your heart.  Ask

the light to hold them.

In the middle of this leap

to a fantasy freedom I see

the bridge is out, the gates are closed.

I scramble for a foothold

on the crumbling cliff, reject the one

luscious ripe fruit within my grasp

for some impossible

tomorrow with three berries

while the tiger paces above

and the waves and sharp rocks

wait hungrily below.  Why do I

cling to the vines and think they 

saved me, even when it’s time 

to simply let go?  I’m here,

popping that tasty fruit

into my mouth just before

the inevitable, spectacular fall.

The State of Being Expected

Natural forces within us are the true healers of disease. ~ Hippocrates

The wound is the place where the Light enters you. ~ Rumi


While very young, I had such great

expectations for this elderhood.

I saw my silver

-haired self striding the predawn

beach, a black dog running ahead.

Meditating with the tides

powerful, wise, mystically eccentric.

People with problems, I knew,

sought my presence.  I would read

their cards, their dreams, the dregs of tea

left in their cups.  Their hearts.

And yet here

I sit today, holding space

for our national disgraces,

all the wicked things my history

books glossed over or downright lied.

I walk softly; I’ve reached the point where

I apologize to startled

herons and snakes. I respect the life

force in wooden decks.  The voices

of the downtrodden speak to me.

Listen.  There is no solution.

Searching for answers

leads us far from the present

where our being emerges.

Open the place

here, now,

where love is found

beyond all the knowing.


Inspired by Expectation, Eccentric, Moment

What Now?

Sometimes the past I carry around

weighs me down until I am choking

and squinting through the heavy bars

slowly crushing my skull.

There are two options:  bed

or the lake shore, where the birds call

me to the present, watchful

warning.  A great blue heron stalks

too close to the killdeers’ nest

and the show begins.  First dive

bombing, which she shudders off

but now they have her attention,

the male hops close by, stumbles

and jerks an obviously injured wing.

Awkward and painfully, he leads

the heron away from the nest.  Even

fishermen intent on the waters won’t

hesitate to feast on a fresh egg.  The little bird

huddles in a shoddy attempt to hide, chirping

pitifully, Easy pickings.  Get your own killdeer!

The female is well-hidden until

the heron begins to move.

Then all at once, the plover leaps

into the air, jeering its kill-dee, kill-dee,

descending to meet its mate

and face this giant fearlessly

adamant until the heron saunters

off.  A few minutes later — on her own

impulse, this has nothing to do

with the pesky little birds, she croaks

her scold, taking to the skies like a

prehistoric bird, a pterydactyl straight out

of my sons’ favorite dinosaur book.  And I

am here, watching a gentle rain now

create tiny spheres in an intricate 

pattern that looks chaotic only because

my perception needs honing

and my sense of separation

— oh, hello, little bunny,

now where are we?

Tell It To My Heart

“For in spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody.” ~ Aldous Huxley

I have always resisted

labels.  Even calling the way

I feel into life intuition

is an instant limitation.

All the inherent potential’s

available now.  This constant

evolution allows the wordplay

I so love.  Truth speaking

fades as soon as it’s uttered.

The new runs through an open hand

yet we dare to try to grasp,

and name the nameless.

No, I am not clinging

to a single stand I have taken

and yes, each moment I will declare

another, experiencing this rich

unfolding of beauty, horror,

true love and deep anger.

Why do we tingle with life,

jump into insights, premature

leaps toward the next deep pool?

How do we absorb this quiescent

question amid all the mind’s

mumbo jumbo?  I don’t understand

a single thing, though I catch

glimpses of the cohesive flow

staggering, mouth agape

these words of praise escaping.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: premature

Full Moon Calling

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our minds.”
— Bob Marley, Redemption Song

Strange that I continue to be astonished
by synchronicity, chance comments
that open new worlds,
coincidences that bring needed
resources. Today Bob Marley
started singing Redemption Song
on my computer. How in the world
did he open iTunes and press play to share
his songs of freedom? It was the perfect
conclusion to a full moon ceremony
where I released the tight
doubts gripping
what I am manifesting.
I am standing in the space
of I don’t know
and that’s where all the power flows.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: astonish

A Notable Improvement

Once, it was easy to zone out

for an hour while a master moves

my muscles and limbs, but now

the intention I hold as

I move into spaces

transforms my very being.  I am here

to release because it is clear

that my grip is deadly.  Though

I hold on for dear life,

that chokehold is fatal.

A month ago, I named

what I want to release,

but in this healing container

created with an intuitive energy

mover, I am learning

the power of simplicity

offered by orthobionomy.

She touches my feet,

and all the things that I can’t stand

arise: full-blown, operatic,

enticing, beckoning, Jump in

— free admission! —

and relive that past trauma.

In the middle of the deluge, I remember

I am here to release,

so I let it go — I was holding that

in my feet?  When she moves

to my hands, all the things I can’t handle

arise. My body is so literal!

When what I believed I could handle

appears, my throat gets itchy

and a tear slides down my cheek.

I track its path in wonderment.

It feels huge, obvious as if traced

with a purple paint-laden brush,

and I am here, right now,

to release it all, even the joy

bubbling up in the freed-up places.

I open my treasure chest, intent upon

bestowing all that I’ve held dear,

all that’s held me captive.

She touches my scalp

rivulets of energy

zapping, finally freed,

flow down and out

the bubbling wells at the soles

of my feet. Soul work, indeed.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: notable