Create The World Now

Where is the place from which you create the world?
The stillness of the lake with a shaft
of light. Inspired. Electrified and swirled
that yes reverberating like true craft

and so much more. What impulse drives you to
open the door? Do you call from beyond
time, leave messages from voices brand new?
Do you recognize, embrace and respond?

Here in the Great Awakening I sit
receptive, still, awake with such delight,
rejoicing in these night skies I’m starlit
as all these shadows finally come to light.

Slip Off The Yoke

Looking always without a clue for peace
enslaved befogged consciousness still a tease
learning to slip beneath the yoked control
sitting in presence here now I perceive

innermost circle of intimacy
where universal love intricacy
is never fickle, sometimes though it seems
a precipice over an endless sea

I pled for safety, I asked to be met
filtering through difficulties and yet
the only hurdle I overcome I see
with power deep inside, my great asset.

Inspired by: Fickle, Overcome, Intimacy and Precipice.

Altar’s Alter

Sitting in meditation, troubling words
emerge to flap frantic, abrupt small birds
batter my house’s hard ceiling, absurd

persistent they break a hole in the roof
of my consciousness, so that a shaft of
light is allowed to enter now.  As proof

of this place carved outside of time and space
I construct an altar, feel now the grace
in my very physical room, the base

of my alchemical transmutation.
Each difficulty offered, creation
gift holy among the crystals stationed:

rose quartz love, deep magnetic pull of eight
hematite stones, a geode carved, the weight
of serpentine, these mysteries a gate

the chance to break the matrix, open me
beyond the confines of controlled mind, see
channeled from outside of my knowing, we

find solutions are instant and easy
unhindered by beliefs, I sit in peace
each troubling thought released to spirit’s breeze.


Inspired in this morning’s meditation to reflect that the solutions to what is facing us are not to be found in the mindset that created them.  Calm and centered, the light inspires.  

The featured image is a piece of serpentine found on the coast, with the “swirl” effect filter.

To Be Clear

To be clear, I am far from stating that the material world does not exist.  Rather, I propose that what we think of as the real world is a holographic consciousness construct that–in all ways at all times–is subject to modification by our consciousness (or unconsciousness) of it.~Potentiate Your DNA, p. 70, Sol Luckman.

To be clear, I corroborate
starry-studded hope. The great
scheme permits a shift
deteriorates these rubber
stamps that once defined
a quirky campaign purely
designed to control us,
shut our inspiration down
before it’s found.
That’s opaque.
Words lead
astray. Our hearts
know truth when we can
sit aground, intuit,
follow every trigger
to its source as a matter
of course. Everything changes.
The bigger gift appears
inside the rift
of our exchanges.
Mumbo-jumbo yet again.
Bafflegab gobbledygook.
In essence, I applaud your juju
all the power flowing through you
transmutes the lies
and obfuscations
into clear sight, wordless
roots of transformation.

Inspired by:  Permit, Rubber, HopeShut, CorroborateCampaign, Scheme, Quirk. and Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt to start my post with the first three words of the first full sentence of the book closest to me when I sit down to write.  (That sentence is the quote at the beginning.)  I was overambitious today, trying to use all of the past two days prompt words in this stream of consciousness post.  Braving my inner critic to hit publish even though it does appear to be mumbo jumbo.  Creativity needs to be released.  So be it.


What Remains Hidden

I am grateful for what remains hidden.~Thomas Huebl

Where does trauma preside?
Holed up in a juvenile place

unreachable, yet glimpsed years later
alive and scolding like this green

heron’s brief flight across
the morning lake.

Always present
in a flesh that differs

from its intrepid sister
bravely forging ahead.

Like a forgotten base camp
the avalanche surely sealing it in

so the path is only
memory and faulty. We weave

stories and mourn, even as we
hitch it to our yoke

drag along the hidden pieces
emerging, surprise, who knows where.

Inspired by: Differ, Intrepid, Juvenile, Glimpse and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt to start the post with “where” and write whatever comes to you in stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. (I’m obviously applying for the bonus points if you end your post with “where” too.)

The Look Time Can’t Erase

Each with charm to sway are staring eye to eye.  They dare not look away.~Joni Mitchell, Edith and the Kingpin.

Deep in inner space, I finally
cease to castigate and just
say I don’t know. I’m tired
of the kingpin swagger, the lord
high muckety-muck’s dilatory
stroll through the rapt
mapped territory.

The face of my disconnect
appears, blurred edges,

A strain of nightly music,
dreamcast and obscure,
I’m sure reveals some
powerful insight. If only

I let go of these cold hard
perceptions I call reality.

A glimmer of gold
invites me to descend.

The truth is

I am numb and that’s
okay. I sit with what is,

curiously falling

into the field
with my clear intention

to be here
just as I am.

Inspired by: Nightly, Kingpin, Strain and Dilatory.

My Old Friend

I end each day in silence
clearing the path of ripples

from every stone that smashed
my surface, on my way down

sitting in a sacred space.
Finding the way through the

drama and unexperienced emotions
to this place, deep and wide

and dark, pulsing, magnetic.
And there I dwell into

clarity before I sleep.
At daybreak, silent once again,

as if my dreams had opened
long thoughts, to be respectfully

regarded, fading fast but
sometimes lingering or pulling

me into a poem’s magic.
And though I warn the people

that I live with, they can’t help
but think me rude,

eyes glazed at a hint of
chatter, running out into

the morning, into upon
a secluded chair, settling

quietly to the morning serenade
children squealing, birds

on every branch, traffic humming
into the background. And when I

open my eyes, I am regarded
by a lizard, stone pose

until we scamper into the day.

Written for the Stream of Consciousness-Saturday prompt of silent/silence  (must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.)  The no-planning part is easy, but I love this particular prompt because it highlights for me just how many picky little edits I do to even my spontaneous morning poems.  Not for this prompt, though, scout’s honor.

Alone Again, Naturally

I sit just so to allow
the jealous child to emerge

and return to the scene.  How
far from nostalgic, seeing past

the captured smiles in photographs.
Compare and contrast, fall

off the high-expectations cliff.
Not good enough? Give your best riff

and be found
wanting, no fair exchange,

overlooked.  Unsung hero,
braced for the pain, condemned

by this voice inside.
Sometimes I’m steered into

tight places when the child
grabs the wheel, panicked,

fierce, misguided.  And so
I hold this container

ward off the oblivious putter.
No one to harm or blame, safe

waking with the melting steel.
A sweet embrace, a heartbeat

here invited
in and now I breathe.

Inspired by: Jealous, Putter, Nostalgic, and Return.

Love Symbols

My heart is holding a bouquet

of deep red roses I have been

warned not to send, for fear

the thorns will prick

and tear into the wounds

left gaping by your passage.

I have been the scapegoat,

and this is no time for defense;

no need to paint the target

on my visage, at least

not any more than it is.

People who don’t believe

in the hard work deep in the night

close their eyes and cling

to the stories that burn

with every telling.  The flames

of anger fed by the need

for someone to blame.  Why

is this symbol so important

for me to share?  Our reconciliation

happened beyond space and time,

and I’m the only one

left to attest to our changes

of heart.  Who could believe

that love is the newly revealed

basis of our connection, after all

these difficult years?  Certainly not

these anguished survivors, intent

on rewriting history, content

to place the blame anywhere

it might land.  I’ll keep

changing and opening

to whatever emerges, certain

that our connections are

spacious in a way

we can’t fathom.

Unbounded Metaphor

The word daisy, for example, comes from an Old English word meaning “day’s eye.” ~ Merriam Webster.

Speech reaching for the

fluidity of presence

because we’re chattering apes

and the experience’s worth

is determined by the story

we tell.  Every word

dragging us into the indifference

cold separation

despite our intention to

illuminate this key

right here.

It unlocks the paradise

lost in translation.  Can you see

the stultifying power

of narrative? We are belittled

by interpretation. Pounding, hammering out

the rungs of a ladder

inspired by unfathomable depths.

Even when I sit

in the deep silence

feeling into my energetic

bonds and loving you,

still I open

my eyes

and compose this poem.

Inspired by Paradise, Lost, Indifference and Worth.