Choice at Midnight

 The witching hour,

A time of infinite possibilities.

Midnight is what I want it to be,

Sometimes magical, other times evil.

But the times of evilness are of my own making,

Mine alone.

It is my free choice, I can drift and float in the essence of magical wonder or

Chain myself in the darkness of a black soul.

Both exist in abundance

In the witching hour and I decide which to feed.

The ability and freedom to choose is a grave responsibility,

Frightening in its implications.

There is no one else here,

But they are all watching

Which choice will I make?

Witch choice will make me?

Memory in Peace

That magic touch,

Remembered in pre-dawn darkness is

Treasured for the gift it was,

The memory it is, and the love it will forever hold.

It is odd how the sound of a train whistle, the barking of a fox,

Or the clanking of trash cans on the street corner can take me there again.

Sounds and actions so totally distinct, one from the other,

Yet completely connected in my heart.

The pre-dawn memory grows lovelier in the distance

Between us,

Until the distance is gone and the

Memory becomes the reality.

Time erases the distance and the anger until the space between us

Becomes filled with positive emotions and non duality.

There ceases to be a me and other, a man and woman

A lover and a beloved as all entities and emotions mix together in the space of a second,

In a dimension of sound and light and fuse into

One, the eternal, the transcendent, with truth at the center of its being.

And in this centered focus, once again, together, we experience the magic of the memory in peace.

 

April 2016

Maybe I Don’t Want to Know

There is a voice inside,

A tiny one that speaks to me in the seconds before night turns to day,

Those hard seconds before truth and light floods out the darkness.

The voice is soft and lonely. I can never hear what it is saying.

And all too soon its time is up, the sun rises, and the seconds and the voice are lost in the light.

Maybe tomorrow it will speak up, maybe tomorrow I will hear it clearly and finally know.

Maybe I don’t want to know,

Maybe, maybe …

A Beautiful but Bumpy Ride

Wisdom leeches out of melting snow banks and

Star light travels from the ground up as

moonlight seeps though the pores of the earth and floods the sky with peace.

Come, sit by my side in the forest at midnight and

Feel the earth’s truth in her being.

Be still and let your soul be free.

Then hold me tightly as it is a beautiful but bumpy ride!

Mine to Claim

There is a light in my words.

They possess a divine luminescence

That does not flow from me

But from a much greater source.

A source above and beyond me.

But the other ones, the dark words,

Where do they come from?

They take over sometimes, in spite of what I say I want.

Where does their power come from? Me, him, somewhere else? Someone else?

They seep into my soul unbidden from a place I don’t want to claim as my own.

They weave their webs around my heart and steal my light.

Their thoughts are dark, their meanings are dark, their hearts are black and broken.

I would feel sorry for them if they were not mine.

They are here to control me, to upset my basket of good and light.

They are mine to deny and disown, but mine nonetheless.

To deny their existence or my creation of them would be to deny a basic part of myself, maybe one I am not proud of but an integral part of me all the same.

So now there remains the question of what to do with them, yet again, or with the me that breeds these destructive thoughts and words…

I don’t know.  To shut them out would be to deny a part of me, and maybe invalidate my good thoughts and words as there can be no light without the dark.

But they are heavy words and sink to the bottom of my soul where they lay neglected but never ever forgotten, and never formally put to rest.

Their dark lingers in my mind as it is familiar and known. I know the depths to which they will take me if I let them, as well as the indifference they feel for my heart and soul.

I should stay away from them as they are cruel in their relentless pursuit of my mind and thoughts, in their attitudes of sorrow and despair.

I think I’ll tuck them away in a folder at the bottom corner of my desktop. Out of the way but not forgotten as

To ignore them gives them power, a power over me that unattended can take me to places I would rather not go, bad places,

 Their places,

Dark and heavy places,

But still they remain

Mine to claim.

 

A Play of Stillness (2/24/17)

I sit on the stage.

Darkness surrounds me.

The audience, if there is one,

Is silent.

There are no props on the stage

Only layers of black curtains.

Although I don’t remember auditioning for a play,

Here I am.

It’s odd that there is no music or

Other players.

So I sit in my darkness for what seems like forever

But there is still no sound, no movement, no life.

Just stillness and a mild sense of confusion.

I feel the space in front of me more than see it.

I sense it is there, curtains in a circular shape

A boundary perhaps but between what and where?

The other side is unknown and unknowable

Until the show begins.

But will it begin?  Still there is no script or other players,

No music or lights.

I run my hand through my hair to prove to myself that

I am still real in this sensory deprived place.

But what is real about an empty stage, a wordless play,

A playerless story?

I begin to realize that

None of those things matter.

All is stillness and non-duality.

The “show” never begins and never ends.

The circular curtain and empty stage contain eternity

And this space is an empty place within me.

There will be no play, no script,

No lights, no audience.

This story is mine, the darkness my stillness,

The only witness, me.

Just me as part of the universal consciousness

Acting out a play of well-rehearsed lines without ever saying a word.

Each player a part of the whole

Never separate from the others.

All joined in the cosmic drama

Of existence.

The curtain rises on one story, one actor, one consciousness

In an act that never ends.

Waves of Grief (December, 2014)

 

 

 

Grief comes over me like waves on the ocean.

Its waves roll me under and then shove me back to the surface for air,

 

but only just enough air to keep me alive

Before the next wave breaks and drags me back down again.

 

It is a rhythmic dance of hope and despair,

Of light and dark, of breath and suffocation.

 

The rolling waves of grief grow weary with time and come more infrequently and so seem to rest for a while.

 

But the pain lingers, subdued at the back of my soul until

A sound or scent revives it and it comes thundering back.

 

Back with an attitude of indignation to have been

Left where it was, not looked for, not missed.

 

It seems to think it has a right to occupy my mind and heart and

Sometimes it does, but only because I let it.

 

The song that grief sings to me makes my soul hurt and my heart ache

Until my body once again feels his against mine,

 

My head resting on his chest hears his heartbeat and my senses take in the scent and Taste of his skin.

 

My soul feels his touch once more and the potential of his being mingles with mine

In the beauty and magic of oneness.

 

I feel the oneness deep in my heart until the inevitable happens and our song runs out of rhyme once more.

 

With the rhymes gone the waves of grief for what could have been return to remind me of the empty shell I loved and held in my arms and heart.

 

The liquid suffocation that I thought was losing instead gains strength without my permission and

 

Sucks me back down,

 

Again.

 

 

 

Of Love and Light

Nostalgia weighs heavy on my heart tonight, 

And I long for what could have been.

 

But then I remember why it wasn’t but what makes me the most sad is that I also remember 

That it almost was.

 

So wanting and loving, I sit alone in this night of late winter cold as the music of piano and cello drifts through my head.

  The sound of the cello speaks to my soul and caresses my heart.

 

In the melody, I hear two hands playing together in perfect union and feel that

I am as one of those hands, looking for the familiar accompaniment of the other.

 

And so in the depths of this late winter evening I am lost in

Remembering what never was, feeling what didn’t exist,

 

Loving what could have been  

In this time of warm darkness, candle light and winter solitude.

 

Now there exists only a memory of he and I, together yet alone,

Forever wrapped in the spirit of love and light.