Surfers Waiting

Look past this cleve;
this deep misunderstanding,
and I will gird myself--

like one who must itch that itch
at the end of one's nose
or on the elbow during deepest meditation,
or at the place where wisdom meets the heart,

and we will bob on the ocean,
surfers waiting for the wave,
and ready to meet the water with courage and fascination

with the salty green of prana
and the universe calling us home.

Universal Yes

Finally, spring has absolved us of our transgressions as frost melts and dissolves into the leaves that will evolve into the longest days. This carousel of a planet tingles at the brush of the rain; the embrace of the sun who was embarrassed to evolve astride the light. Now her face is a tower on the horizon. The brilliance breaking the withered and weary into dancing bits of laughter. Giggles and spasms of joy in the presence of green and blossoms buxom and bold. Finally, the earth revolves toward the universal yes of abundance.

Gravity Sings

Gravity sings to me on days like today, where the way the sun collects in the tender cells of my terminal skin is bitter sweet, Dreary profits who want me stranded in fear, parched and pinched in bitterness, a wastrel of myself where the pulse of energy I feel in the morning is severed from the beauty of apple blossoms and distant from the joy, aloft like a kite or a bird just flying above the ridges because she can, I test the wind on these days and launch away from the heaviness of bones and into the sky just at the edges of leaves at the edge of the horizon of so much light at sunrise caught in the mirrored presence of a single droplet of night collected for bees to drink as sweetest tea.

Spirited Set of Losses

Discount the velocity of the way this daily bondage of mindless escapes into simple traffic and you will know my life. There is no elevation of thinking. There is no grain sewn on fertile ground. There is no rip tide to pull me under and release the pain through the thoroughly saline fascia. Instead I endure the panic of standing in line at the grocery store waiting for the phone to ring or the cashier to notice me with something more than wondering words-- if I found the paper products and strawberries and a crisp white wine to drown myself in that spirited set of losses.

All the Angels

The abrasion of the places my heart has worn thin are brittle and blackened by the denials of simple movement every soul must make. These places cry, throaty and bereft of hope, for soothing balm to heal, begging to bring air and light, and so I sob and wait. I chant and call to Jesus, Mother,Father Krishna, Buddha, Quan Yin, Mary, and all the angels and saints to touch me with hands so very gentle and carry me with prayers to the companion who knows how to walk beside bowing so that I almost miss the nod to the light that lives in both of us so that we might be whole again like each moment we can step together again. throaty abrade session blacken

Making Home

The vestibule of the heart holds me again like I am someone worthy of this much love. I have suppressed my voice for so long it is clear that I have shaved the marrow of time from my bones toward the end of all days and in the sound of my words. But the truth of spirit stood next to me on this day spoke with the clarity of a solar burst and burned through the fog in an instant in the words "No more." No more silence. No more getting by. No more swallowing bitter herbs that do no good. I am worthy of this home I have made in the sun. I am the keeper of this much joy in fragrant lilies. I am the mother of abundant skies that open to the smiles of my children's beautiful minds.

Not Knowing

The mystery speaks to the stroke of brilliance,
mandible wagging deliberately oblivious to the ensemble
of thoughts in my mind.

Float on the surface of the water
or look carefully through the woody vines in the arbor
and you may deliberate joy caught in the clouds above.

As for me, I won't inspect the color blue too closely,
nor will I ask for proof of vitality.

Instead I will listen with each breath
to the sound of peepers,
imagine the color of daffodils,
and wait for the sun to dip below the horizon
of all thought.

The moon will rise slowly
where peaceful chirping of the night
drifts into not knowing anything.