Borderlands

04 Friday Dec 2015

Posted by in abundance, aging, becoming, change, courage, discomfort, Inspire, listen, lost, poems, poetry, receiving, release, the road, transition, work

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Along the borderline,
territory between nowhere and here,
a no-woman’s land.
As the barbed fence you’ve been following
runs out,
wire hanging,
wind and boot crush
contain the remains.
Stop walking.
Look far, gently,
in each sparse direction,
above and below.
A kiss will press your cheek,
hair will lift out of your face.
Even desolation carries Spirit.
Perhaps, especially.
Where the winds blow uninterrupted,
dry sweat into salted white rings,
room for Her grows.
Beneath an open range sky she spreads wings,
hovers,
inspires your scent.
In the borderlands, a map is only hope-
drop it.
You are being breathed-
oh yes, bigger journeys beckon
and instructions no longer apply.

Each day

29 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by in becoming, courage, devotion, family, honoring, listen, poems, poetry, Sight, strength, vision, work

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The rock,
the dense coldness you carry, can’t put down,
shift endlessly hoping
for a more comfortable position-
that stone you think is solely yours
as it mopes and drags and cautions and weighs and snivels,
all while closeting the real pain?
Think it belongs to you?
Turn your head,
look back down the line.
Greet your inheritance.
It is simply your time.
Now, begin the work-
call forth the generations of people
whose blood you share, and
who’ve given you each celestial day
to awaken again.

Until now

29 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by in abundance, aging, beauty, becoming, change, family, honoring, lost, movement, poems, poetry, release, Sight, vision, work

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A vision may well peek from the crack
with cloudy newborn eyes,,
Step out, sticky, legs wobbling,
sensing whether this environment is ripe
for emergence.
A vision may appear,
reminding you of what’s possible,
then
disappear from whence it came.
Within the steam trail of its memory
and your belly’s pool of tears,
grief
for what could have been
and
a growing relief-
ah!
the nourishment for that dream
couldn’t exist
until now.

Walls within walls

26 Thursday Nov 2015

Posted by in becoming, discomfort, family, learning, poems, poetry, the road

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Sometimes, walls within walls-

a corner in a lit closet-

become the needed arms pulling you in

when being of the world steals too much of you.

The buffer zone softens,

muffles distant voices still too close,

settling scattered and jabbing elements.

This is you

learning how

to be your own port in every storm.

A day will arrive

carrying the gift of that small place

purely as memory.

Roller skates & wings

20 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by in abundance, beauty, becoming, change, fearlessness, freedom, gratitude, joy, poems, poetry, receiving, release

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I monkey with words,

try on hats, new songs, clashing cloth,

break the rules, knowingly and not.

Sometimes, roller skates and wings work

with a red feather boa-

unless it’s too long 

when snagging it under a wheel

becomes potentially lethal.

Swinging from trees, throwing vowels like bananas,

and whooping it up in the jungle

means

I’m not likely to be invited in for caviar.

No problem,

I’m having too good of a time out here

singing beneath the stars.

Ask them to tea

19 Thursday Nov 2015

Posted by in abundance, becoming, change, courage, dark, devotion, discomfort, dread, freedom, gratitude, honoring, learning, listen, movement, pain, poems, poetry, release, strength, wonder

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Shame is a dark and sticky thing.

A hole we never see.

A bottomless, unnameable void.

It snatches us in the unlit alleys of our minds.

Ghastly,

what it thinks it can make us do-

shrink ourselves to the smallest brittleness

of an undesirable,

worthless,

lifeless

outcast

who cannot get anything right.

Immense power we give to one with no hands,

no face,

not even a nose.

And, how lucky we are

to have the nerve

to turn and look,

to sniff,

to get to know

the lurking bogeymen, the paralyzing Medusas,

behind the fence

and around the bend.

Come, come-

Let us ask them to tea

to learn what it is

they really want.

Into the black pocket

16 Monday Nov 2015

Posted by in abundance, beauty, becoming, change, courage, devotion, discomfort, Inspire, learning, listen, peace, poems, poetry, receiving, release, vision

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I reach softly into the black pocket,
wrestle with butterflies-
these are prayers
and this is Mary Poppins’ bag.
What arises hasn’t feet
or end
or concrete idea to control comfort.
This is roll of tongue,
whisker of remembrance,
waft of cinnamon from grandma’s kitchen long ago.
Your divinities are found here,
as are everyone’s.
We enter alone,
exit the same,
but billions of hands reach
to hold us in between if
we choose
to let them.