Dive Deep

Every data point is either false, exaggerated, or taken out of context. The conclusion is preconceived black propaganda void of sustaining analysis.~Scott Ritter

While we hurtle through the canyons
losing sight of our companions
the current tumbling us apart
where are we heading? we start
to succumb to a daydream, we scheme.
no one thing we can hang onto
where’s our civilization gone to?
our grasp desperate, inutile
resistance is futile
unintegrated past debris
we choke, we cannot breathe.
This severe acute respiratory
syndrome in the hands of story-
tellers with an evil aim
to gain the steering game
an influx of panic and fear
a threat to all we hold dear.
How can we take a bearing?
Be here now, gentle and caring.
Contemplate and as fear rises
acknowledge the surprises.
The military might outside the door
is not to save your life, now
calls for deep listening
open your heart. We’re glistening
like dew upon a flower.
Let this moment be our finest hour.
I’m here for you and you for me.
Shh. With this one breath dive deep.

Inspired by Contemplate, Daydream, Hang On and Bearing.

Featured image of “Indra’s Net: it’s a metaphor for inter-being” from thoughtco.com

In the fragile moments…

…love needs to run the show.~Thomas Huebl

Each factoid conflates and the
twittering ensues: a chirp of doubt
a caw of derision cues uneasy
flutters of the flock, buffleheads
suddenly alert. A silent bald
eagle swoops spiraling
a kick of panic, they rise
called to scatter, frantic.
It seems that things are breaking
away. The landscape shifts
earth shaking, heart aching.
Eerie, empty and the lap
of water here where I anchor
settle my electric nerves
though I may wish to fly
I find I’m rooted in relation.
How may I serve you?
Reactions seek ground. Out of
the box confined, away from
the flickering nervous screen
I bow before this glorious
life delightful flow
through me in ways
I cannot say. Silent now
leave the fray. Together
we will find a path
that’s kind. We go within.
Embrace the fear awaiting
I’m with you. In connection
we will hold a space
for what is true
emerging in our humble grace.

 

Go Figure

The embers are cool, and I have lost
the eyes of long regard and so alone
I face my darkest corners, create
a ledge and perch watchful.

This is the glitch I spy
from far below, peeking with
frightened courage. Overwhelmed
by life’s adventure, everything

strained, the ice holding
beyond the boiling water.
If I could cut a romantic
figure, I’d persuade you to

look deep into my heart
the way I do and with such calm
kindness hold the sinewy
dark cords pulling insistent.

More and more space, there’s a
crowd and I can’t catch
my breath. Sidereal Sun’s in
Aquarius. Earth quickens

toward spring. Moon flirts
with fullness. Deep in spaces
of unclaimed dreams, do you
invite the end of the world?

Do you ask if you are worthy,
do you wish someone to show
exactly how to love?
Fairytale-rescues of

powerless, bound
by magical powers unseen.
I set out to see the world
and find love. And do we all?

Is love a luxury? All these words
of course lead me astray.
I sit in quiet, greet
each moment precisely.

And when a thought proclaims,
you’re not who/what/why/where
you should be, yes, and
I learn, oh, this is love.

 

End of Winter’s Dream

I have done all that I could to see the evil and the good without hiding.
You must help me if you can. Doctor, my eyes. Tell me what is wrong.
Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?~Jackson Browne

Nine hundred miles south as the crow
flies, the hawks copulate in leafed-out
branches, loud cries and beating those
feathered wings–fifty-inch span–

The female settled
in a vee so noisily I hit record,
can you imagine my surprise when he
answered her call? Floored. They struck
a chord. They did the deed
in front of me. They mate for life,
create a bond. And what I’ve seen
remains; in fact it grows with
every kree I hear in these
northern skies. In the sloth
of winter’s haze, dazed and sleepy
I throw off my suffocating
covers, greet my avian neighbors
as all around the lake, beings wake.

 

 

Telling New Stories

Someone’s been telling you stories, and they just ain’t true.~Dan Fogelberg

Here in the chaos of dismantling
the grip of greed, we need new

myths like heroines channeling
the bones and roots our great grand-

children will discover, digging
in another time to uncover

the resilience of Gaia. They
won’t waffle, trapped in lies

of separation, our intrigue here
a mystery–why did they hide,

they’ll likely ask, when told
the stories we are crafting bold

and leaping from the tangled knots
that we believe enslave us

and deprave us, suddenly caught
in a flash of light, insights

streaming–we’ve been dreaming!
Looking deep into our very

essence, we sense the connection
so clear outside our manmade

boxes fear designed. We’re out
of time. Each breath we presence

now becomes the gift of freedom.
How our ancestors loved us,

they’ll exclaim, our true words
reaching far beyond our graves.

Inspired by: Myth, Resilience, Intrigue, Waffle, beautiful and mysterious Spanish moss
and the need for us to shift the narrative and create new myths right now for the sake of all of us.

 

What Appears To Be

It is time to practice how to attune to the new reality that Gaia is preparing…See people awakening and walking their own paths towards the new.
The circle of humans that stand in the light of the new reality is larger and larger. Rejoice and give thanks.~Marko Pogačnik

In the ubiquity of fear and smear
of politics and media, oh,

we fall asleep standing right here,
declare we’re copacetic—cheer

thrilled as the festivities appear.
We forget that we are desperate

addicts, looking for a fix, oh,
we won’t call it that, hush, dear.

As Gaia makes this quantum leap
in her own evolution, the sphere

we are vibrates into light, oh,
breathe into us the words: all clear.

We’re fingers on the hand waving
into the mirror. We are love, oh,

look into our palm, life peer,
the lines are trails into the new.

The web we weave spinning, oh,
into the space appearing now.

Inspired by: Copacetic, Ubiquitous, DesperateFestivities and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, oh.  (The rules: Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.  And today it was sooooo hard not to edit.)

The Way Through

We’re tuning in together across
the planet, deliberate, setting

aside our jaded lies. We’ve treaded
water, gasping and choking, trying

to heal ourselves in the poisoned
system, rising and falling alone.

Throbbing wounds from unexpected
splinters: we do not rush to kill

the pain. Instead we witness the
longing for death, trace its descent

through our lineage, the millennia
a tangled knot we cannot integrate.

Setting aside our individual triggered
drama to illuminate our collective

trauma. Each of us a fractal symptom.
Summon our skilled weavers. Illuminate

the net which binds us, blindly grasping
until we let go. The tapestry emerges

familiar and strange: our wounded
ancestors’ intricate scenes of carnage,

victim and perpetrator dances too horrifying
to love. Release the story. See the spin.

What breathes through us, what moves our
passionate living? Opening our vulnerable

hearts now, we sing what is. Resistance
chorus urges us to act. The future

clamors: repeat the unexamined past
fast. And still we sit, allowing

the tightly held terrors. Safe now
in our warm regard. In this relational

space we create entirely new
breathing what is in the way.

Inspired by: Descent, Jaded, Death and Splinter. and the Collective Trauma Summit going on this week (it’s free and it’s liberating!)

The Old Stomping Ground

For M.C.

I met my old lover on the street last night.~Paul Simon

At four in the morning, I detour from prone
shadows rasping through the sudden chill

winter’s first hard shove and though I
bunched my summer blankets in a scrum–

nervous dreams–still sharp cold nipped
every inch of skin I offered. When a lover

dies, we all clamor for recognition, jostle
into chronology as if grief gives rights

at last. All the newly revealed lessons,
once mouldering in the dank basement and that

final call we never made–did I think that
he would rise from his deathbed, demand

my distant voice? He plucked my heart
in his passing, so I reenter that sticky

web I fled so many years ago, the one
I carry with me still, in the dark enjoining

strangers and new friends, regale my
side, painting romance over the edge

of terror and pain revisited. Oh, I saw
this day coming, long ago, and yet right now

there is not even a glimmer of dawn, not since
nightfall descended. The moon is bursting

wide-eyed full over my shoulder as I peer
into indigo east searching for signs.

Inspired by: Detour, Nervous, Shadows, Nightfall and Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness prompt: ground (which means no editing, just put pen to paper and press publish.  No matter how much I wish I could change.) The soundtrack for this one is Paul Simon’s Still Crazy After All These Years and Stars by Grace Potter and the Nocturnals.

outasight

i’m sitting with an eyepatch qualm
hoping the pain of light will

sink into the blossoming awareness
of my beloved lake. honking

erupts: geese depart or arrive.
i’m attuned to sound waves,

exquisitely woven by a silent
cast of sentience, all these unseen

beings. i carry yesterday’s scars:
tender cornea scratched by

an eager book shoved into my
eye, contrite child running for ice,

holding my hand, “it’s better now,”
invoking the power of intention.

all the saved podcasts treasures
just for today. i celebrate twists

and turns walking my highest path,
declare with joy behind the black

silk, surely amazing sights await
my newly opened gaze tomorrow.

Inspired by: sentience, qualm, slow, cast and a scratched (ow!) cornea.

We Save Each Other

For James

This dissonance created by talking
heads spinning webs of deceit

is no mistake. Carefully crafted
disempowerment revealed in the dark.

Spiraling up. We start,
disturbed. Harvest what’s been

planted, brows wrinkled.
When we dare to question

we’re inundated with flippant
non-answers, rising like vapor

in our muddled midst.
We are awakening to the chaos

feeling alone. Despair.
We cannot make sense of

the cruelty of separation.
Across the planet, we tug

a line igniting our soul fire.
Oblivious, immersed in our unfixable

wrongness, even so we touch
the responsive field. Huddled

in pitch black, eyes closed
as the light hurtles us to day.

Every agonized step we take
loosens our silenced sisters’ bonds.

Every word we stutter dissolves
the others’ gags. Every gasp

breathes. Our connected hearts
pulse to the living now.

Written for #OctPoWriMo Day 1 prompt a dark night of the soul and inspired by: Flippant, Vapor, Harvest and Wrinkle. and a suicidal tweet by a young autistic gay person in England this morning.