The Reading

The forecast is stellar.

I enter a marvelous

portal of possibilities,

every game a winner

if I dare to place my bet.

The stars have been wrong

before, the windfall

they determined twelve years back

defeated by modern medicine.

All the constellations I touch

ring true so I won’t use

these lying eyes

or trip over the words

that distort what is real.

I’m feeling into vibrations

sinking into now.

Even though the world looks frozen

harsh and unforgiving

there is spaciousness

between the intricate combine

of molecules

we concentrate upon

in our doubt and fear.

Inspired by: Marvelous, Determined, Forecast and Combine.

The Art of Feeling

“There are these very high-energy cosmic rays being accelerated out there somewhere…This is literally a new way of seeing the universe.” ~ Ian Sample, The Guardian

The painting I require

will take years of disciplined practice

to emerge.  Right now, though,

I’m standing on the precipice

of a new vision of reality

and no longer trust my words

are enough.  My reliable camera

cannot zoom in on this one.

I have to tiptoe

so carefully on the delicate lines

stretching between us,

every word an invitation to trigger

some half-buried wound

longing to come out.  And I am here

for you.  I am here to the depths

of my bones for you.

Breathing with you as it emerges,

whatever it is, however it comes,

dedicated to its integrated embodiment.

My painting will reveal 

the Indra’s net of our connection,

how our neurons are reflections

of the way we hold each other

like constellations blazing across the sky.

We marvel at our sudden appearances,

when all the time we’ve had

this meeting scheduled, the responsive

universe wrapped up in us all,

threading through our lives in

an intricate pattern briefly revealed

in the fulgent sky at sunset,

in the distant stars dancing behind

clouds, and I’ve got to go now

take out my paints and start

from the place in 3rd grade

where I stopped drawing

to concentrate on the words

that fail me now.


Word prompt: Integrated.  Featured image of neurons from Dreamstime.

In The Zone

I love mysteries where

the resolution is adumbrated

by the first glimpse of the crime scene.

The detective never knows more

than we do, although her ability to grok

far surpasses our own.

We watch her eyes sharpen,

gleaming as she looks afar.

As if while we churlishly trudge

through drifts of snow,

she examines each micro crystal of a snowflake.

These tiny clues wag flags

so miniscule that we most likely

miss them, in our rush to

arrest the suspect.  I want to

cultivate that willingness

to find the fractals that

defy explanation

and use them for intuitive leaps

about the human condition.

Climbing up these perfect

weird patterns to reach

the stars — oh, the magnificence

of galaxies and clusters —

those constellations twinkling

augury like a mother fondly

watching a child who nests

matryoshka dolls, over and over

until finally saying,

oh, I get it.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: micro

Calling The Madhouse

“Don’t buy into the narration that you are the problem.” — Dan Booth Cohen

I am here to claim this part of me

so long neglected and shunned,

feared for the dangerous power

that can’t be approached without severe

repercussions, only accessed sideways,

bursting forth when my walls collapse

by the tsunami of crisis.

A psychic cat has volunteered

crying, yowling, yelling, howling

while careful sourcerers reflect

what they’ve tuned in to,

this fear, this overriding rage.

All of my congestion

has been choking

the sound I must give this pain.

Appropriateness be damned.

The cat proclaims what I’ve ignored:

this selfsame blackness permeates

every being. Never identical, but words

are so imprecise

we can call it dark energy.

When I can speak of my own,

proclaim it and parade before you, naked

and trembling in humiliation,

all the fear at the loss of love

then you can safely access your own.

Hold a different hand,

walk away from Big Pharma

and those doctors telling you

life is happy and joyful and you

are crazy, depressed and anxious.

Don’t they hear your fine-tuned


to the drumbeats of oppression?

Come with me to create

a safe haven, a community of loving

humans who build the container to explore

these necessary screams

of outrage: a sure sign

of your sanity

in this offensive culture.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: identical

Feed The Truth

At this moment, you’re host to about 50 trillion cells, and each of them is really a sentient being in its own right. They all act together as a community, implementing the monumental collaboration you call your body. — Rob Brezsny

It’s hard to grasp that I am a colony

of sentient beings.  Not until a few days after

drinking a delicious pineapple jugo at two a.m.

on the outskirts of Riobamba

did I have my first brutal lesson.

Don’t drink the water means

stay away from ice, as well,

but when you are half asleep

and thirsty on a slow bus,

sweet cold juice tastes like ambrosia.

It takes at least two days

for the fierce war to break out:

foreign amoebic armies

bombing indiscriminately

to stake their claim on intestines.

I’m sure the warmongers would call

my diarrhea collateral damage.

I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink,

they damn near killed me.

So who is me?  It’s not the face

of the woman in the mirror,

who sometimes seems a stranger.

Perhaps it is a shifting constellation of power

that urges me to

feed my gut flora precisely

because when the “good” ones lose their grip,

the “bad” ones summon unspeakable grief

or lethargy, and a craving

for sugar, more salty snacks

to cement their dominion.

That is how “I” know the bad guys

are hoisting their flag, confident

in their eventual overthrow.

Who is it who knows to drink kombucha,

eat kimchi and pickles?

Fermented food feeds joy,

makes me laugh

and loving.  And which wise colony

deliberately seeks asparagus

and broccoli, leeks and

cauliflower, the prebiotics

creating harmony and balance?

Close your eyes when you approach

me, and perhaps your colonies

and mine can meet without distraction.

Perhaps we can finally know

who we really are.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: grasp