Are there any more words?
I wait, I close my eyes and don’t think.
Thinking gets in the way.
Jumbles my ideas and thoughts.
Better to just wait,
close my eyes and wait.
I’ll write what they tell me to.
But not with words,
those come out of the end of my pen
All on their own.
This well isn’t dry,
Not yet.
I feel it stirring,
Waking up.
There is a sense of fullness in my head.
My thoughts are racing, competing, but none are clear.
They are busy working things out on their own,
Hidden from me in a misty veil
Until one, that special one, breaks through
And brings with it a flood of words.
Not from me but through me from
Behind the veil.
I can’t tell the veil when to lift,
It tells me, and after it has had its way,
Has said what it needed to say,
It slips back behind my eyes, rests and is silent.
And the words sleep and are at peace until
The stirring begins again and the veil is lifted,
Once more.
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
The early spring silent snow
Fits my mood.
It is a white dusting of truth
Accentuating every little branch and twig,
Making every little lie all the more obvious.
The silence into which the April snow is falling
Seeps through my eyes and into my heart
As if to smother and quiet its
Telltale beats.
It comes as blessing and a curse by
Prolonging the inevitable with maybe that one last chance.
But I know the sun will come out and
It will all be just a memory …
Once again.
| I think the words are on strike, they are not working…
They have left me, again. Are they all on vacation? Or maybe just sleeping in… They hide beneath my bed and try to trip me when I get up. I hear their giggles under there But they are too fast, I can’t catch them! They refuse to come out and play but stick their little feet out from under the door Just to tease me! I caught a glimpse of them outside early this morning, Sneakily running through the garden heading for the woods… Those little rascals, I’ll have to take a walk to the brook later And round them up and put them back to work. They can’t hide from me forever, although sometimes it seems like they can… Silly words.
|
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.
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
There is a smoothness to the
Texture of ordinary days.
Ease and effort are the same,
Quiet gentleness and holy light.
Each object flowing effortlessly
Into every other object yet each
Remaining what they are .
“Water takes the shape of the vessel that contains it,
Yet has no shape of its own” (Mooji)
What is my place in this quiet?
I am the water outside of the vessel,
The space the wind occupies between the trees,
The pause between the breaths.
I observe he smoothness of ordinary days and
feel the light that exists at the center of the flower.
And know that he and I have become one.
(Poem #3 of the April Poetry Month’s 30 poems in 30 day challenge)
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 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.
