Tea Mugs and Wine Glasses

Come, sit and sip with me again.

The tea will warm our hands, the wine our hearts.

Hold my hands across the table once more and

Watch and feel my eyes melt into yours.

I know your heart hears mine but you pull

Your sweater tight and muffle its cries for me.

Let it out, it only wants to share.

Don’t be afraid,

Your heart won’t leave you for me and mine

Won’t leave me for you, but

They will meet when

Our chests touch.

Their harmonic beauty will speak to us in peace and love and

Lull us into the sweetness of sleep

Among the tea mugs

And wine glasses.

10/24/15

Again and Again

My life is contained in a shoe-box beneath my bed,

 

At the bottom of a green glass vase of pennies, or maybe

 

In the prayer flags hung over my mirror holding the cut-out owl Karen made for me.

 

My soul is contained and content in a mildewed pod growing in the land of wind and chi.

 

My future and hopes lie waiting in my pendant box, waiting for my questions with answers I may not want to hear and

 

My love, where is that?  In my heart or his? Love and lust are confused and linger in the scent of him on my heart.

 

My future is no more concrete then a speck of dust illuminated by the sun’s rays peaking through my lace curtains.

 

And death, what of that?

 

When it comes I will seal it and I in an empty bottle and set us adrift on an ocean of eternal possibilities and

 

Where the tide will take us is where we will stay and begin again, and again, and again…

It Waits

It waits with patience hands

Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.

Its story is always the same,

Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.

There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.

It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.

It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,

Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.

It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,

In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,

For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,

The face of our existence, the light in our souls,

The essence of our being

Before we were born.

All the Light of a Million Suns

 

His hands are weightless

His smile, eternal.

 

His eyes hold all the stars in the universe,

All the light of a million suns.

 

His energy charges every cell in my body and

His love powers and drives my nightly dreams.

 

When he speaks to me, his words feel like a warm soft blanket

Draped  with love over my shoulders.

 

His voice comes to me in the silence of meditation telling me to stop,

To let it all go.

 

He tells me that good will only come to me

After I throw out and reject the darkness.

 

He watches in silence and sadness as

I try but fail over and over…

 

He knows he can’t do it for me.

I know I can’t do it for myself.

 

 

Because of Him

Gratitude for the smallest of things

Becomes gratitude for the eternal.

Because the eternal exists in even the smallest,

A baby’s laugh, a milkweed bloom, a crystal blue winter sky.

An autumn leaf, falls softly in silence,

Releasing its life with gratitude in a celebration of color.

It is the small things in my life that cover me in warmth and

Feed the fire of my gratitude with love.

I am thankful for sunrises and sunsets,

The defining moments of each day’s beginning and end.

I am grateful for my children and grandchildren –

All manifestations of God.

The life light in a newborn’s eye,

Holds the spirit of heaven and the knowledge of Krishna’s grace.

And when I am in danger of forgetting these things, I sit and go deep inside myself,

Inside to that point where I am connected directly to him and he brings me back to grace.

It is my gratefulness that fuels my passions for the loves in my life, from acorns to hummingbirds

Grasshoppers to lightning storms,

Soft kisses at midnight,

And sweet love in the morning.

I am grateful to exist in a flood of grace and love.

Grace that is endless and effortless, and love that is all encompassing.

My heart is full and soft and my smiles are because of him.

Hari Om

 

Never Did

 

Its treasures lie in plain sight and

The knowing is revealed but the truth of it all remains hidden – by choice, but not mine.

The knowing says I must take a first step but can’t look behind as

It is a step that  leaves no footprint and gives no clue.

But I remember as I have been here before,

Always alone, always.

This time I have learned that one step doesn’t always lead to another,

Another place, another time, another other.

But I don’t care anymore and therein lies the difference.

My steps have ceased to be random, with random direction or, as before, with no direction at all.

As it turns out, it really didn’t matter to either  of us,

Never did.

There Are No Words Left

What can I say –

There are no words left…

No correct ones, anyway, but even without words

 love’s heart lingers.

The useless words drip down the windows of my soul like rain

Turning snow to slush

And white noise to wet mud.

Sucking me under again.

The memories can’t be erased, or ignored.

And although they can’t be sucked back into non-being,

They begin to fade and with time become so thin they blend with the dripping snow,

But still I cannot, will not, forget or give them up.

I know the memories will remain mine,

Always mine and each time the same.

They will stay in my mind beautiful and true

Until time steps out of time and begins again.

(Poem #5  April 5, 2017) 

 

The Stones Will Remember

Evening shadows shift

Through broken windows.

 

Chimney bricks slide down the roof

Puddleing under the lilac bush.

 

Weeds spread into the driveway

Reclaiming it for themselves.

 

When was this house built?

Was it ever new?

 

The yard and doorframes bear witness

To the families who grew here.

 

Long forgotten toys and broken swings

Hide beneath the matted field grass.

 

A broken clothesline flaps in the gray autumn breeze and

Sprung clothespins mold and rot into the ground beneath the broken posts.

 

Feral cats are now the only life that calls this old farm home,

And birdsong still fills the rafters of the barn.

 

The barn that once held livestock

Sits shifted on its foundation,

 

Listing and leaning to the south,

Away from winter’s fierce winds.

 

The stately oak gracing the front yard is rotten and broken,

Its fingers through the house roof.

 

Where did they go, the people

Who called this place home?

 

When the last one left,

Why didn’t they clean out the house?

 

Why not take the toys?

Close the windows? Lock the doors?

 

Did they not know they were

Never coming back?

 

The windmill out back has long ago

Crashed into the apple orchard,

 

Breaking in to pieces as it fell

and crushing the trees it had stood watch over all these years.

 

But in man’s absence

The apple trees continue to produce.

 

The lilac bushes flower every spring in spite of

Not being “cared for” in over 40 years.

 

The forest is slowing creeping back in to fill the void

Left when the field was abandoned.

 

All that remains of the people who once called this spot of land home

Is the family graveyard,

 

Where stones are carved with love and care,

Preserving for all time the names and dates of those whose lives began and ended here.

 

But the lilacs don’t care about being preserved,

The Oak is beyond pride and the buildings are slowly returning to the soil,

 

Just like the bodies beneath the stones.

Another 40 years and the stones will be all that remains.

 

They will be all that is left to tell the story

Of a time gone by.

 

The story of a house built to last a lifetime, a barn crafted with pride,

The story of generations of a family who lived, worked and died on this land.

 

A story only the stones will remember.

It Waits

It waits with patience hands

Outside our knowing, waiting to be let in.

Its story is always the same,

Its truth dependable but not always what we want to hear.

There is no hypocrisy, no deceit in its soul.

It is the soul that fills the void, that encompasses the eternal.

It exists in rhythms of time, tides of dependability,

Cycles of freedom and seasons of hope.

It can be ignored, but never escaped and so it waits,

In beauty and joy, in bliss and acceptance, in love and peace,

For us to wake up and realize it is but a mirror of ourselves,

The face of our existence, the light in our souls,

The essence of our being

Before we were born.

Into Blackness

I made too much of it,

More than it was.

But not at all what I 

Wanted it to be.

Yet I continued, wanting,

Wishing, and hoping and for what?

For another night?  It was just a one night

At a time love.

It feels unreal now,

 a waste of me, of my soul and heart.

And now begins the slow fade into blackness and silence, just like all the others, as

My soul bleeds and my heart beat stops and

My eyes, still in their blindness, wish it were not so.