Category Archives: light

Languages

31 Sunday Oct 2021

Posted by in learning, light, listen, nature, poems, poetry, return, silence, wind, words, work

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I keep checking for messages.

They aren’t there, of course.

What sends messages these days

doesn’t use the language I grew up learning.

How many languages don’t we speak because of those

we had to,

pinning words down with force for

efficiency

exactness

precision

accuracy

literalness lopping off the Song of the universe?

There is light, instead, what trees eat,

reflecting on the full belly of blood-red

garden pot,

and wind talking the leaves high,

high up the towering eucalyptus.

Clapping faeries have flitting epochs to share,

and they await those willing to listen

to languages bodies understand.

More quiet than I yet can hold

is the ear that can translate for me.

God, I know what I would like to be

in service to what is far greater~

please, show the winding way…

Day enters

11 Wednesday Aug 2021

Posted by in community, dark, light, poems, poetry, prayer

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Day enters, the birds have yet to wake.

Outside, settling in beside stone and succulent,

greetings begin.

First, to the distant trees.

My, they have much to say

and they know what it is to hold it

in silence.

To the white faces of flowers, turned up

towards a sky leaning in,

I whisper hello.

Hummingbird swoops through the half-dark.

Surprising to see her beside me on a branch

this early.

Are you here for poetry?

It seems to be so.

Owl hasn’t stepped into dreaming,

and he calls, and calls, and calls…

The sound

24 Sunday Jan 2021

Posted by in abundance, break out, digging, fertile, light, movement, poems, poetry, Sight

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I’ve love for things I can not see.

I’ve been destroyed by things I can.

If all in its existence might bloom

into beauty we can know,

what holds us back from knowing?

Not wondering?

Not admiring?

The blows of living a human life on this planet?

Being like a mole now, head and wide webbed paws

digging towards light,

I’m throwing off weight of earth

to find a way of nourishment, instinct

and abundance.

Who needs strong sight when every cell reverberates

with the songs of the universe?

I might place a pair of tap shoes on my feet

and make some noise

because the rhythm of having been born

quakes again inside me

and, this time, it might be building until

no one can mistake the sound.

Windows into the dark

25 Sunday Oct 2020

Posted by in dark, growing, light, night, poetry, presence, silence, strength

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I’d like to sit in the room

there with that pajamaed boy upon his knees,

crumpled blankets and bed beneath him,

staring out windows into the dark,

to sit silently with him

wherever he may be.

Not to pluck the darkness from his sight or sorrows,

his fears or confusion,

for he needs the darknesses,

they feed him as much as light.

And Heaven knows he must gather experience

and knowing

and skill continually grappling with both.

Both, ever both.

Here, it is an All sort of existence.

May it be that he (and you, and I and they)

feels what it is like

to be he, only he, and to sense

that that being is more

than even a growing imagination

can conjure

in vast nights silently sitting, and

finally with darkness

not alone.

Emptied streets

04 Saturday Apr 2020

Posted by in adventure, community, courage, dark, global, light, offering, pain, poems, poetry, song

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A man walks beneath black umbrella,

Calla lilies bloom in the rain;

A woman stands at the kitchen window

staring out with soapy hands and sponge,

singing,

“And you look at yourself,

pacing the cage…”

The playground is taped off in yellow tape,

A child speeds home on scooter with no cars in sight,

“All the spells I could sing, it’s as if the thing is written

in the constitution of the age…”

Grass is greening, lungs ache,

and hearts are breaking,

“Sometimes the best map will not guide you…”

Stay strong and bend, be well

We are in this together together together

We are all pacing the cage–

Not alone not alone

As we walk thin line between birth and death

Now and here

Now and here

Together

Not alone

Hold that thin line dear,

Dear,

Hold it dear.

At the Crossroads

12 Sunday May 2019

Posted by in break out, change, family, learning, light, movement, mystery, nature, poems, poetry, transition

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Tension builds

where the incomplete blow

as storm winds

toward completeness.

With worn boots and ragged clothes

after years in the woods

a brightness comes.

What had been too frozen to speak,

let alone move,

imprisoned by experiences of youth,

is warming with daily lighting of the flame.

Who had been silenced

who had been harmed

who survived by freezing in time

and not breathing to avoid giving herself away

is no more a fossil

a casualty

a repetition of a story too old to tell.

With spark, a light in thick darkness,

a new way forward.

Without knowing, or plan, or shape

to follow,

entry into another world–

full capacity–

at the Crossroads.

Solstice

20 Thursday Dec 2018

Posted by in honoring, light, movement, nature, poems, poetry, transition

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We’re stirring the cauldron

the thick and sticky

syrup and grit

the mud pulling at our heels

not the bright spring sprout

with nodule of dew

but the dark, obscured, unformed

and weighty partner

the feeding stew

of shit, and fears, unspoken grief

broken tears

and mothering blood

offering slow-cooked nourishment

to the sprouts

that invariably come

here, there, we know not where.

Winter time,

soul, hearth, slumber and pie time.

May we hold growing light

tenderly

with encouragement

of the winter to come.

In the cross-hatch seat

28 Tuesday Aug 2018

Posted by in abundance, becoming, community, gratitude, honoring, joy, light, loving, nature, poems, poetry, prayer, weaving

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In the cross-hatch seat of the chair

wooden, dusted in time and use,

a cat

curled

and sleeping.

Looking over at her, floor boards below and sun

reaching through a far window,

doubt can not waver the sweetness

of a morning with feline, coffee, a book

and silence rising from the woods outside.

Broadness of day

26 Thursday Jul 2018

Posted by in family, light, poems, poetry

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What must she have done upon discovering

her husband’s sexuality

with their daughters?

At which point, what year, and how-

in broadness of day, in sneaking through night,

along whisper, twist, and shadow never confirming?

And complicity? Suspicion?

Imagine the toxins pumping, daily, through veins

related, betrayed, confused, abused.

Where,

its beginning.

How,

its end.

How.

A lopsided egg of a moon

07 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by in abundance, adventure, change, discomfort, dreams, light, nature, poems, poetry, transition

≈ 3 Comments

A lopsided egg of a moon

invited me into sleep

even after shutting the curtain against her light.

She stirred wakefulness,

and a sloshing fancy of dreams,

dreams of time travel and remembered people,

an upsurge of unknown futures and staccatos of history.

New land, an unwritten life, and no one to catch me

disturbs digestion,

but moments come when slow, long-distance swell

breaks overhead,

washing my shoulders, sucking at my ankles,

shifting immense vulnerability to a salty, and fresh excitement.