Golden Light Inviting

I’m in the woods, the golden light inviting
my expanding feeling/touching/sensing

tuning in place in now
as every shadow

every dunno how

comes creeping in
such simmering seethe


how much being
can I bring

embracing the responsive universe
integrating me

why even think of holding back

into the illusory precipice
I leap

Seeing The Miracle

I drag despondent patterns outside sleep-
less under a benevolent sky. Why
do I cringe to harvest what’s planted deep
in the mindset I’ve cultivated? My

creations snug under this existence
laborious and weighted cogs–I pause
to rescue a frog who distrusts my dense
clumsiness, each attempt shows gaping maws.

He declines a frisbee, boogy board, net
at my behest, unwilling guest, each trap
a miracle perceived as certain death.
And how am I the same? Plucked out and tapped

and frozen under tiny wildflowers
who’ve pushed up from thick mulch to praise the day.
I breathe into the lessons. I devour.
I click. The frog has still not leapt away.

Frog and net

Inspired by: Benevolent, Harvest, Despondent and Behest.


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.

Bad Blood

Everything looked rosy, I was tickled

pink, laughing with my charming hosts

yet before I could blink, you called

me to the wilderness, you checked

my boldest boasts, insisting that I factor

in these ancient bleeding ghosts.

I’ll stand here while you shout

and scream your anger to the skies.

I’ll feel your pain and I’ll rejoice

you’re not like other guys.  You ask

me to claim a guilt for triggering

your pain, and once I would have done so,

but look, that is insane.  Next door

a child is loud at play, pow, pow, pow

pow, pow!  Then Mommy, look–she’s indistinct

–there are three children now, young, filling

the morning calm and my small unread book.

We want a map, a model, blind to all

that is around, insisting that our pain

right now engulf our heart and take our mind.

Summoning the mother, we try to break her ice

with furious mad tantrums, we refuse to be nice.

Inspired by: Factor, Pink, Wilderness, Charming and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “rhymes with rosy”  — the rules for the SoCS is it must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (And frankly, y’all, that no-editing thing is hard.)