To Thrive

How many problems spiraled from your inability to just address one?~Kiara

Like a gazelle, I learned to stot
a purely panicked duck-the-swat
out of my body into space far
from the threatening face,
the brandished fist, the full-
court press–you get the gist.
The body that I left behind
stationary, cold, the world unkind,
digested what it could, the rest
fragmented in traumatic mess.
Guess what? I’m back
right in my base. On track
I root, devoted diligence,
explore the soil of my essence.
Survival tactics I applaud
sheer intelligence–I’m awed.
What led me here alive
bequeathed, I now release
to thrive I sit and breathe.

Inspired by: Gazelle, Press, StationaryBrandish and last night’s sunset.

Soundcloud recording here.

Time For Me To Fly

From my grumpy dream-dither
I swither through this long

gallery, a mist obscuring paintings
of possible paths. Get a job

insidious whisper. At the shore
the lake is green tree reflections

outlined in white. Two geese pair high
sure and swift across choices,

feathering the sky.  A fish
leaps, spreads concentric circles.

Sacred symbols emerge like breath.
A snake vees across the bay.

Hummingbirds left three days ago
but I keep the feeder filled for

stragglers. Not all of us are timely.
I picture way stations strung like red

sugar lamps welcoming them as they
race winter. There must be ways

to thrive through my sensibilities, be
grateful as the ground shifts under

unctuous hospitality. I cling to well-
meaning hearts even as I slide into

the cool waters. Hope is a human invention,
a necessary ingredient to sweeten

the indigestible. From the tall grasses,
four ducks emerge preening. As I sit

by the swaying feeder, a tiny hummingbird
alights, my miracle offering accepted

even as I urge this being, fly, there is
no place for you in the coming cold.

Inspired by: Grumpy, Unctuous and Gallery.

Like The Sunset Instructs

In the long summer evenings,
I scout the perfect view of his

passage, ready to switch tracks
when cloud banks mystify.

I watch the slow slip into
a horizon that keeps expanding

ever westward. Here in July,
the sun never sinks, simply slides

lower to blush the sky with tickles.
Clouds and the waters painting

in glorious improbable colors
that will lead to silvery

nights reflecting the play
to no end. And though I check

my lunisolar app, try to arrive
a good half hour before the

calculated setting, the changes
open what is always outside of time

like clues to a new dimension.
This is how it goes, gently,

inexorably, a shocking delight.
Senses stroked and plucked

by newness, the fullness
of experience. The bold inventive

light, sometimes a lunatic
visionary musician playing

in scales too high, too deep
for our attentive ears.

Our cells respond.
We hum and thrum below

our apparent sensibility.
Abandon all useless clocks

here at the threshold.
The key–musical mystery–opens

this portal where the fabric
slips, the loose threads unravel.

Don’t waste recrimination
on the illusions which held

our focus, grinding down our
spirits, chasing the dollars

so essential to survival.
This is a different way of life.

Perhaps the manna of our
heartsight is what truly

nourishes us. Bathed in this
nightly ritual, I fast longer each day.

My needs dwindle as I turn
to count these four, the

resources of my birth. Earth and fire and
water and air. (Now collected

so pay to drink, to set foot on holy
ground. Gasp, bleary-eyed through

the chem-trailed air while the forests
burn. The plutocrats exchange foul

grins and dirty money
laundered in the once clear streams.)

What impels this greed,
plotting to wring

the last drops of the planet?
Will they flee to terraformed

colonies on the moon, Mars,
and beyond? Dissonant fools.

United at last in sacred
consciousness, all beings

enter the vibrant
fibers of our nervous systems

—so much grander than we
have perceived, linking us all.

We stroke each other
like the sunset instructs,

gentle, playful vibrations lingering
tenderly, calling illumination

through the darkest clouds
in this newly painted vision

of who we truly are.

 

Inspired by: Scout, Mystify, Switch and Passage.  And yet another lovely sunset that slipped out of time.

The Other Side

“Toil and trouble.  Fire burn, and cauldron bubble”
— William Shakespeare

Flames burn

all you have ever held dear

every belief, opinion, perspective,

every particle of your carelessly constructed reality

ablaze.

The pain shatters you.

And when you reach for

soothing water,

your frantic sloshing creates

this unholy mess.

Your life is now charred, sopping ruins.

All the mistakes hidden in that dark cellar

burning in plain sight

anyway,

in spite of your efforts.

When you huddle in desperate resignation,

all hope gone,

only then does your heart crack open.

Somehow a spark of life still burns.

Before the cycle begins again,

construct an ancient spell:

carefully place aloha, divine compassion,

tausend dank, friendliness,

merci milles fois, delight,

mil gracias, childlike belly laughs

in a circle

to hold you and love you

as you have always been loved,

as you’ve always longed to be loved,

as you’ve never allowed yourself

to be loved.  And we —

we who hold you,

throughout time and space and beyond,

happy to be finally glimpsed

like a delicate spider web at dawn —

we say, ah, cousin,

how you’ve missed us,

how we are you.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: bubble

First Star I See Tonight: Vernal Equinox

“I see the ancestors’ existence as parallel to our own. We are here and so are they.” Francesca Mason Boring, Connecting To Our Ancestral Past

We ascend

called forth yet again

as if for the very first time

with the same energy the womb

thrusts the newly emerging

child into the world.

At first, the stars seem reluctant

to show themselves as if they await

some sign proving

our valor, persistence,

our curious nature

even in the thickness of the dark.

Or perhaps we have no eyes

to see those pinpricks of salvation.

We root for the food source,

like a nursing babe

oblivious to the colander of starlight

piercing our hearts.

Blame the long winter, huddled

alone and lackadaisical, yet

without this darkness, we might

never see

destiny calling, tempting us

from the deadly grip of our fate.

Shining through the connections

the lost tribe clutches us

from the other side.

We need them now

more than ever, our urgent call

oblivious to their constant presence.

The stars biding in broad daylight

as spring swells seedpods,

tiny roots push upward

through the deep, cold dirt,

echoing our yearning

yet again.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: invisible

Grandchildren’s Joy

“Innate creativity of life in action…enable these new habits to be stabilized and inherited.” — Rupert Sheldrake

This thin line of misgiving

is coloring my day gray.

Just below the murky surface

lurks something that has been stirred up,

threatening all of my hope.

I feel an urge to binge watch

an old television series that I very purposefully

missed during its heyday.

Instead, I close my eyes

and ask: who feels threatened?

Who feels anxious and disturbed?

I place footprints on my floor

and I walk back among the generations

of my ancestors, looking for the ripple

of disquiet.  Its origin lies

far back in time.

Strange that it could suddenly

reach out for me

like a tsunami exploding

over the eerily abandoned shore.

I am caught exploring

exotic treasures revealed by the trough

of the receding wave.

This niggling unease is a gift

from my commitment to evolve

so why do I want to crawl back into bed

and pull the covers over my head?

Even when I know

that I can burrow through the roots

of this tree and apply the healing balm

end the misery so many generations have suffered,

I pause, frozen.

This homeostasis, like a tyrannical ruler

forcing each of us to remain

in the pain and the agony,

can be coaxed to a different place

with help from above.

Invisible dimensions stand ready

to come if we would only beckon.

And still it takes every ounce

of my courage and commitment

as a mother and grandmother

to crook the tiniest of fingers

and whisper, help, for the children’s sake!

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: above

Hope Rocks

Last night I crept into a dark cave
with an egg-shaped quartz, a wooden flute
and my hope rock, the navy blue ilmenite
worn smooth by the pounding surf
against the cliffs at Narragansett.
I snuggled between animal skins,
my flute on my lap
because songs that come in the dark
must be honored, and I have sworn
to be ready for magic
in every breath. Outside,
I could hear the wind
like gusty laughter from the stars
and the snowflakes, muckle flukra
dropping in huge clumps
like a fleecy blanket,
a seductive warmth that can kill
the deep dreamer.

Hibernating, I considered what I have lost.
Those of us with chronic illness
tend to keep quiet about this but
we sometimes whisper these secrets
to our physicians: the libido that flees
until it is barely a memory.
At the first spring tease
warmth curling into my cold comfort,
I sprang up like a child
and to my surprise
I found that I could take with me
that longlost friend
I hadn’t really missed
suddenly leaping up to run
into the false lure
of the pre-spring sun,
hope clutched in my hand.

Inspired by The Daily Word Prompt: tend