All Due Respect

“Sometimes I felt like a hueman kaleidoscope, a walking collection of shattered glass with bits of crazy color churning inside me.” ~Eleyne-Mari Sharp, Mad About Hue: A Memoir in Living Color

My stout heart seems friable in this mist
as morning spits then pauses. That’s thunder
or a heavy truck. The muted sounds hiss.
My skin accepts the kiss and I wonder

how this epic life unfolds. This moment
bliss as I let go of expectations
I’d been holding, creating such torment
heedless, blind, soothed by pithy placations

yet all is well from the initial sight
all the beliefs I’ve bundled to protect
needless, I’m untouchable now love’s light’s
illuminating shadows I project.

Inspired by: Initial, Stout, Epic and Frangible.

Featured image leaves from a great sugar maple, using the kaleidoscope effect.

Top of the Morning

— with thanks to Eva

I set an intention each morning
as I end my time of
sitting in sanctuary.
I ask for a revelation,
an awakening, and then
as I manufacture the goods
of the day, fabricating
smiles and hammering out
compromises on the factory
floor of my life, I watch
from the window at the very
top.  Insights like wordplay,
I pick up each peace
equivoke my vocation.
Today I construct right
resonance, grounded and reaching
into the divine connection.
And I open my eyes to
this ancient tulip
tree spreading toward the house
of my consciousness, first glance
and second sight.  This lucky view.
The sacred convergence of my soul
tribe finally summoned
– if you’re reading this, I’ve tucked
my love between the lines —
by a whisper across the planet
vibrating my spine,
home at last
in this finely tuned instrument.

Inspired by:  Revelation, Construct, Manufacture and Equivoke.

Love Affair

I close my drapes against inky

skies although sometimes I’ll peep

on clear nights to see which stars

have come to linger

between her branches.

Predawn, her massive dark trunk

rises from the fog

that clever whitewash obscuring

whatever toxic

humans have carved

in the landscape.  I am in love

with her lines, the grace

of her seasons, the 200-year-old

carriage, mettlesome dance past

meddlesome people who devastated

the wild places of her ancestors.

Sometimes I sit by her roots

and lean against her bark, or circle

around with my grandson, in genuine

puzzlement with each disappearance.

She delights in concealing him,

subtle guidance to pause just here,

now change direction, his giggles

ricocheting love vibrations

to the very top.  Just now

every branch is a complex poem

praising the lightening sky,

our interwoven connection,

every hidden root

pulsing deep in our

celebration of being.

 

Inspired by:  Puzzlement at Mettlesome Spirits thriving despite Toxic Whitewash.