Wordy

I live on the threshold of water and sky

forest and plain.  Sometimes on the path

I scribble, racing the red

traffic lights on my way

to a civilized place

where my wild poem won’t fly.

My guitar always at hand for

my ballad-crooning folk singer.

And my pop diva has such

a snappy chorus.  I’m so freaking

grateful for my mess,

thank you, test.

I overwrite

to convey

like a cheerleader with a megaphone

what dwells in silence

deep inner space

dropping each beat

following breath

past the labyrinth

to the chagrin of my disappointed

mind watching as we slip by.

Slow for every speed bump

warning from my body.

Honor the hum

of om

embrace the silent song

and come up singing

at the chime.

 

Inspired by:  Hum, Overwrite and Megaphone.

The Healing Touch

Another one for Cristina

She made a path through the woods

and blazed her way to the starport

hub, opening up to places

far beyond mere galaxies.

And then she came back,

nimbly, on the tops of the trees

to light the signal fires,

summoning the others.

It’s a hard climb,

especially watching as she breezes

by, until I feel into the pull

of her updraft,

see the energetic trail

stirred by each flex of her muscles.

She’s teaching this technique

that opens the now

dissolving the obstacles

that used to block

the flow of energy.

This is pure healing.

And I follow, catching my

breath and gasping

at the view.  I’m committed

to this daily practice,

like breath: presence

and release, clearing

until this sudden change

today.  We’ve reached a critical

mass, as if constantly

following this path

has transformed it to a

celestial high

way, the trees shifting

their branches to lift us

into the skies.  The lightest

deliberate intention now shifts 

the planet,

delicate surgery

revealing the filters

that have shielded the multiverse

of possibilities here all

along hidden

by our sleep.

Inspired by: Possibilities and Sacred Embodiment Meditations

Same old Samhain

Rising from the endless depths

to see these

celebrants of bloodcurdling

horror and macabre death

appropriated from

the ancient Celts

and Indigenous present.

The weight of wisdom

inexplicably inciting

excited misguided

attempts to be other

but sexy,

trying on wicked outfits

ignoring the lurking

tropical storm just humming

in the perfect conditions off the coast.

The oceans get warmer and we

continue our blind imitations.

Samhain at sunrise

bonfires lit in darkness

the liminal time

to host our dead.

The gateways are open

and so our young don

their superhero capes

knocking on the doors

of our hearts, asking for sweet

mercy, and we fill their questing

hands with poison

the slow death of sugar

as we try to align ourselves

from the outside in,

and we find our costumes

just don’t fit.

 

Written for the #OctPoWriMo prompt Endless and inspired by: wicked, bloodcurdling, dead, weight and tropical.

The Connection

In my utter depths

a door flung wide

always merging

with the cosmic heart.

We pulse together

in silent space

so overwhelmingly large

so microscopically minuscule

I misplace

the way

up here

in the outer limits

where clouds or fog

or thick smoke obscures

my seeing

listen

the cries of anguish

at the brink of the abyss

where the tide rolls in fists

of shells and rocks and timber

with unerring aim

a riptide

I’m resisting

panicked until I’m hurled

onto sand scraping

mad for air.  I catalogue

these injustices, swear

vengeance, give you

stinkeye

cut you out of my life

with cold insouciance.

Sensational separations

ebb and flow.

Fingers fight for dominance

in a hand that has declared

autonomy and names opponents

masterminding their gory demise.

Drama, drama, drama.

I return to the breath,

my heart opening leads me

out of the shallows

immersed now in our

continuous connection.

Written for the #OctPoWriMo Day 25 Prompt: The door opens both ways, and inspired by gory, and opponent

Tortured by Love

Love the great teacher
sweeps me into the river
and I must let go.

I sit in spacious
meditation poetry
silent finger count

Poor man imprisoned
Rich man suffers headline shame
Poverty’s the crime

Soul light illumines
darkest shadows cast off for
childhood survival.

He says, Bibi, sit
so I drop my to-do list
to learn about love.

Today’s OctPoWriMo prompt – Day 11 – is to write a senryu about tortured in love.   But the sweet torture that love offers me calls for five senryu to celebrate: the necessary surrender, the difficulty of sitting in meditation, social injustice, shadow work, and the teachings of my toddler grandson.

Not To Be Found

The words have an empty ring and they don’t really mean a thing without love…~ The Carpenters (remake of Love is Surrender)

I notice the water is choppy

in my inner lake this morning.

An hour that usually dives

into the place of pure

surrender, lying on a night-

beach in Atacames, ocean

black ceaseless stretching

under the piercing star-lit

colander of constellations

ends

abruptly.

Even the dawn lacks glamour,

just a gradual lightening

of autumn-silenced morning.

I reach for the doorknob

just as a feathered body clunks

against the window. In the next

room, the light pours out

before my fingers touch

the switch.

I drag

my expectations as I examine

every gift: careful

scrutiny

of the betrayed child.

How to allow

the crashing

mishaps

strange coincidences

the funhouse distortions

reflecting my quest

for perfection

that will finally grant

safe harbor?

This, too, I heed

include

all

as I yield

once more to now.

Inspired by #OctPoWriMo Day 1 Surrender

Joining The Chorus

…a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,   
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings! ~ Paul Laurence Dunbar

Tell me more about
fortuitous blessings that arrive
after my diligent practice.
The number-crunchers assert
the planet won’t bear my weighty
insistence on posh digs
with my kind, careless
poisoned carnival-goers
making merry
while the bodies writhe,
the bonfires blaze.
And so I sit.
Center inside
and still
I crave assurance
that the miracle can arise
like breath
or fog on the cool dawn lake.
The atrocities reverberate
down the generations
bomb-blasting our present
ears stunned by this tone-
deaf assault.  In our knee jerk
reflex, we stand, speak
to the smirks and sneers.
Listen, we beg, and try
to chop the slippery
truth into bite-sized pieces,
now frantic in their swift
sweep under the rug.
How do our voices hold
the whole notes with these
hands covering our mouths?
Locked in the dark room,
the air sirens silenced,
the blitzkrieg so relentless
warnings are no longer
needed.  We know.
Together, holding hands
with every wretched being,
the bleeding wounded and
the sword-wielding
in the darkness, our inner fire
smoldering
questing,
holding this space,
and where, oh, god,
where is the grace?

Inspired by:  carnival, smirk, slippery, fortuitous, posh, number

night watches

in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems ~ ee cummings

they filter down through dreams

and spaces held open urge

me to leap from sitting

brilliant light pierces my dark

being taught to outride

that quiet space

honoring the shy shore-fishing

heron focus deep and yet so light

they could slip through the finest

strainers and the only place

to land is in this fertile

mind soil or else flutter across

the high ceiling of the house

of my consciousness like dust

swirling in the noon light

begging to be put down

before swept away in that frenzy

of cleaning before night

descends once more

flashlight in hand patrolling

these prolific inky places.

 

Inspired by a prompt at dversepoets to write a poem about the ee cummings quote above.  I have never written in ee cummings style, but I tuned in this morning and wrote the previous poem (on the cutting edge) before I saw this prompt.  So that’s going on.

Invisible Air Show

If your being suddenly pops into my view 

— whether I call you brother or stranger, 

tree or butterfly — your voice is so 

important to me that my heart 

is breaking wide open.  

I am here for you.  

You are here for me.  

We’ve called each other 

into the lovelight 

of our attention to witness 

and experience each other 

at such deep levels of presence. 

So I need to ask, did you feel

me yesterday, almost a billion

of you focused so passionately

on a ball in a green field?

Deep in meditative space,

a memory of you beckoned —

aren’t they watching the World Cup

right now? — so I ambled over, 

a spiritual fly-by,

such a rare occasion to be

with you all, beneficence leaking

like drops of pure inspiration

into our co-created space

of attentive existence.

 

Word prompts today: Memory, Amble,  Open,

Include Yourself

I abandon all false modesty

because I belong. In my body,

in my seething emotions,

in my recycled thoughts spinning

out of control. I belong

in this family, no longer

need to show up and create “peace”

by letting go of my way.

I risk exposure by being authentic

and even so, this is me. I belong

to my community. No matter

what views I express or how

they trigger you. I am alive

and I am included. I belong

to the serried ranks of hopeless

animals whose lives are caged

to feed me. I belong

to this nation, with its hidden

history of genocide and greed.

I belong to the Pentagon

dropping a bomb every 12 minutes.

I belong to every imprisoned being.

I belong to the oceans, suffocating

in plastic. I belong to the earth

drenched in pesticides.  

I open and I open my heart

to this new reality of global citizen.

Every time I resist, every time

I hear the gigantic “no”

I look deeper, pull the hurting

unwanted piece of me into

my heart. We all belong.

We are all included.

Daily Ragtag Prompt: Serried

Word of the Day Challenge: Exposure

Inspired by the Daily Addictions Prompt: Gigantic

Do all the cool kids use cool prompts?