We Can Tune In

We can tune in to alternate modes of knowing and seeing, thereby expanding our narrow understanding of reality. To do that, however, we can’t rely on spoken and written language, but must be receptive to their non-verbal codes.~Bruce Chatwin

How much further should it worsen
before the voices join in hollers
and mutiny against our plundered
country? Billionaires: abandon
ships, those evil trips expose
your fear, hoarding the public
goods and scrawling laws to
keep your place. You’ve reached
the top, the dunghill of our dried-up
dreams. Are you afraid you’ll
be deposed? Do you catch
a glint of guillotine
or cutlass gleaming through
the muck of misery,
suicides, complete despair,
powerlessness imposed
in those relentless words
you pour like water never
meant to quench our thirst.
Today we glimpse 500 million
bucks that Bloomberg spent
simply to wrest control
and wreak havoc as we spin
we finally see the greed
that we deny inside ourselves
mirrored, emblazoned, bright,
burning our eyes. Forced
to kneel, overwhelmed, our
balance lost, our downcast gaze
connects to mother earth
and grounds us here in space
that we create
from fertile dregs of fear.

Soundcloud recording here.

Inspired by: Top, Country, Afraid and Mutiny.

The Tide’s Now Turning

The Tide Is Now Turning

“To follow the way of water is to return to one’s spiritual essence.” — Hua-Ching Ni, The Book of Changes and the Unchanging Truth

“Be!” My grandson commands, so

I look closely with him at a puddle.

Present in this very moment

that stretches beyond time and space,

our hearts connect, pulsating

with this vibrant aliveness.

An insect is floating, and I conclude

it is dead, but he says,

“Bee!” again, and gingerly

fishes it out to rest in his palm.

The water drops off and the bug

stirs, drying its wings from the newfound

land of a toddler’s finger.

We have been talking about gentleness

with living beings, hugging trees.

And now his inquisitive focus

feels the creature step daintily

over his skin, as if showing

gratitude for salvation. I am watching

that wasp-like abdomen as it quivers,

worried that this love-fest

will turn ugly.  I teach respect

and yet I vibrate with memories

of wicked inexplicable stings.

He turns his finger and the exploration

continues but when he looks to me

in doubt, I say, “Fly, bee, fly!”

and whisk it off into the air.

We stand here like herons,

our feet in the water, yet rooted

in the earth, our faces lifted to the sky,

celebrating a tiny flight

with exquisite concentration,

and he says again, “Be!”

Soundcloud recording here.

Inspired today to repost May 4, 2018’s poem, as I’m feeling whimsical about the  ceremony of pure presence, a cinch to capture the magic of being with my grandson.

As We Sow

I’m committed to uncover
the love. I recover my power
as I leap off this steep tower
of lore, the stored beacon
beliefs that guide me
and weaken my strength.
There is no adequate
shortcut. We reap
the harvest of impossible
decrees, improbably
impelling us to the brink
of extinction. We call
the world into being
awake or asleep as we
breathe. The intricate surface
drama triggers our unexpected
trauma, hidden, uninspected
or seen, denied, rejected.
I’m calling attention
manifesting intention
literal, precise, I’ve released
being nice. So obsolete.
In the new paradigm we’re kind
to ourselves mattering
while old ways continue
shattering.

Soundcloud recording here.

Inspired by Leap, Recover, Adequate, Beacon and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt “ect,” for a post which “must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write” as well as this intriguing article about the power of power.

 

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.

Soundcloud recording here.

Betwixt and Between

“The world cannot be translated; It can only be dreamed of and touched.”~Dejan Stojanović

Soundcloud recording here.

In civilized company, I forget
the animal sounds I uttered in sweat
giving birth. That epiphany groaning
like a goddess instantly transformed
my self-perception informed that I am
woman, fierce and guttural, no longer
immersed in the deception of a pretty
thing. And no chagrin as I connected
to the earth, my purpose clear: to
mother this new life emerging in a
shocking strife. When life begins
and when it ends, we shatter.
The fragments of our created shell
no longer matter. Right now in this
dance betwixt and between, ears open
I am listening. A silent dog beside me,
both alert to early spring. Mating
red-tailed hawks chwirks and squirrels
kuk. Bluegrosbeak warbles a duet
with a Carolina chickadee’s fee-bee-baby.
How I wish that I could speak these
ancient ways, not cluck or twitter
cackle or jabber, a pure heart
sound offered and received. I am
a foreigner to myself and all my
cousins, listening in mystery
feet on the ground, as all
around me, beings praise and call.

Inspired by: Forget, Chagrin, Perception, Epiphany and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt Animal Sounds. The rules of SOCS are stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write. And even though I write fast, Saturday writing is always a source of chagrin as I watch my wandering thoughts spin out of control. Fun times, though. Try it!

 

Check Your Baggage

When I am down and I forget
the way we were when first we met
hold my eyes, reach out, my love
just recognize we are kind of
the same, inside the skin and bark
and fur and feathers. This whole
game of hide and seek when we pretend
we only go so far and then we end
palpable here as we avoid each other
all the struggling excluded brothers
here converge, awaiting flight
we bite our lips, we are polite
lacking special courage that it takes
to bridge the gap for human sakes
though crises loom, we’re in our heads
sneering at our different threads.
I’m sitting in the terminal
poised boomerang’s return
to my roots. My potential’s germinal,
nearing spring, and so I yearn
with this young heart to serve
the sour and the cynical
a dollop of joy and verve
bless the inimical.

Inspired by:  Terminal, Boomerang, Sour and Young.

Soundcloud recording here.

Stream of Being

There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.*

I postulate that now is when
we collaborate consciously
practice zazen
as a planetary being
guaranteeing our well-being.
The subtle realms ring true
while wretches longing, sing blues
bewailing the lockdown
prison bars break down
and isolate, each unvoiced
song that seeks to rejoice
silenced, the malice echoes
through the death rows
alive in our cells
we carry the spells
of ancient lineage writhing
rushing to church and tithing
to be free of the curse
we can see, pray the universe
will reimburse these good deeds,
knocking down the weeds
that separation frames
and names in childhood games,
the propaganda that we live and breathe
long before we show our teeth.
We’re locked in time.
We can be free
reach out your subtle hand,
tune in with me.

Inspired by: Collaborate, Postulate, Subtle and Wretch and the childhood rhyme (a form of propaganda) Goosey, goosey, gander*. Featured image taken in Chingaza National Park, Colombia.

Sound recording here.