bearing witness

the bees are leaving
my apian friends are going
the way of the anasazi.
the bees are leaving.

i pray they found a new earth
of blossom inviting
and colony thriving.

my mother is bleeding,
knife wound in her belly.
my mother is bleeding.

i pray an opening in the
fabric of time
where she may replicate
without malicious children.

i pray she awakens,
as if from bad dream,
to find we were never here.

june's i do

left right
in out
bread butter
mouth ear
pen ink
knife fork
lock key
nut bolt
nail polish
cup saucer
plug socket
salt pepper
match flame
needle thread
pencil sharpener
bottle corkscrew
magnet compass
heaven hell
sunrise moonglow
violin bow
bell chime
jasmine scent
flower bee
you me
all one

When April Showers Come Along

sliver of time

thrums shiver of joy.

love song heard,
heart note attuned
striking chord's
flash of illumination.

Divine bridges
river's banks.

sans reason,
contagious rhyme
measured a pulse.

was it yours or mine?

Do Ghosts Leave Footprints

Ghost men have danced throughout my life.
Phantom men waltzing on earthen floor.
I knew them not, though they were there.
I have photos.
Who were these transient, transparent ones?
These creatures of shadow weight whose names I knew.
Rarely fully material,
their interest in me minimal.
Grandfather. Father. Uncles. Lovers.
I knew them not, though they were there.
Envisioned here are my ghosts remembered.
Were unrealized dreams, cached deeply inner space?
What lost boys did you grieve?
Ghost men, where did you hide while alive?
Twilight men, drifting towards slumber,
your sentry duties fulfilled,
thus spanning a Great Wheel's turning.
Ghost men, my own men.
Did you register my curiosity
or only see me as one?
Ghost men, gone long ago gone.
Spectral men dimming at edges.
Ghost men, first men, you were my introduction.
What did you neglect to share?
My recall's fading.
Wait. Wait. Don't go.
Did you sense? Did you know?
Enchanted and beloved Ghost men,
in sleep and sepia,
do I see you still,
fleshed again.

November 2003

neighbors

weft and weave

last week,
ebony feline
strolled by 
through my early a.m.
botanical meandering.
owner of crossing paths was she.

day ago,
woodpecker suggested
I engage unmet neighbor,
who could not see her drumming.
"point me out up here," i hear.
there, atop telephone pole,
tapping tapping tapping
creating smiles among we three.

this morn, on walk,
was brought to bend
by hatchling swallowtail,
shivering
in miserable drizzle.
hitched a ride
it did,
on my finger.
resting now
on purple petunia,
til cleared for lift off.

with six you get hexagon

they are at moment,
fizzing bubbles,
champagne style.
these carl sagan,
'billions and billions'
heart sparklings,
circling round.
i sip their ebb flow.
which one shall be
the wave i catch to surf,
i leave to La Luna's
metallic illumination.

answer for a query

elementals

breezing, air whispers.
a dancing caress of invisible invites.
yes, strand slides upon cheek from tease.
'what?' it asks.
'you define yourself as chignon?'
it smiles at the helmet headed,
lacquered in defense against.

gull song lulls,
i step among broken open,
ground by shifting edges
me and blake share knowing.
glass birthed from heat,
a lightening strike quenched
in liquid salt.
rhythm in pulse,
in repetition
in endurance,
in foam dissolving
into
faceted light.



i took to the open road last august. like salome shedding veils,
i departed desert sands ruthless fire, returning to sirens' call
of craggy coastlines, hydrated beach and redwood elders.

spirals, blues and watercolors are one medium singing
themselves through me currently.

the words are there, standing just off stage awaiting their cue.
fingers are again itching for faces and clay.

as for winged victory, i know her well.
gold miner. gold worker.
i found, i fashioned."

Yule Believe

For you skeptics and bah-humbuggers out there, I tell you, the legend is real. As real as your hand held in front of your face.

We, my mother, sister and me, had returned from Grandma and Grandpa's house where we always spent Christmas Eve.

'52 Pontiac in the driveway, presents in hand, Christmas midnight was cloudless, hushed and celery snap crisp. We were very merry and the only creatures stirring for at least two blocks, when suddenly:

Tinkling jingles penetrate the night air. Clearly.

“Shhhhh! Can you hear that?” I ask, attentive to listening.

All three of us come to an absolute silent stop, glancing at each other. Checking up and down the streets to see if we can locate the origin of this fabled and seasonal sound, nothing and no one is around.

“Look! Up there, in the sky,” I cry. Mom, my sister, and I, mouths muted oh's, are watching blinking lights. The bells are above us.

“That's a plane,” my sister insists.

“No, it's not. There's a plane flying, that dot.” I point to a measured blink of red and green. “See there, how high up it is.”

What we are watching is not, I repeat, NOT an airplane. The lights and bells overhead are much closer to us and twinkling. The arc and speed of flight is also much different one from the other.

“Mom! Patti! It's Santa Claus! Oh my,” I pause, wonder struck.

We, all three, are rooted to the spot, doing naught, except staring. Normal time suspended, everything is occurring in slow motion. I knew we had crossed a threshold into the fairy tale, magical world which exists alongside the one that the unimaginative are convinced does not.

The gift of certainty is mine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

nine of wands

A lion was captured and placed into captivity in a concentration camp. He was surprised to find other lions who had been there for years, some had even been born into captivity in the camp. He caught on to the social structure of the lions in the camp very quickly. They had banded together into various groups.

One group was very social and spent their time socializing. Another was into show business and performing and kept themselves busy entertaining others. A third group was cultural in its nature and their purpose was to preserve traditions, customs and the history of the times when lions roamed free. Other groups were religious, when they gathered they sang uplifting songs about a time in the future when there would be no fences in the jungle. Some of these groups attracted people who were creative and artistic. Other groups attracted revolutionaries and they gathered to plot against their captors or against other groups with revolutionary aims. Occasionally a war would break out and one group would wipe out another or the guards would be killed and replaced by a new set of guards.

The newcomer also observed one lion, often near the fence, who always seemed to be in deep contemplation. He was a loner who kept to himself, joined no group and avoided associating with the others as much as possible. He commanded the admiration and the hostility of everyone, for his presence created fear and self-doubt among the others.

He told the newcomer "Join no group. These poor fools are busy with everything except what is essential." "And what do you think is most essential?" asked the newcomer. "Studying the nature of the fence."

~from tarot canada

angel of forgiveness

Gaian Divine

tactile:

ocean breeze cleansing soul
wet clay, oozing through fingers
sandy toes wiggling in wave foam
effleurage petrissage
giving facial massage
cashmere yarn
silk velvet

oral:
pink lady apples
garden picked peaches
fresh made lemonade
parantha bread
personal culinary experiments
spring water cupped to drink
licking an ice cream cone
cognac

occular:
lighted night sky
river movement
butterfly dragonfly tag
wind mussing globe willow's tresses
lover's grin
Rod McKuen's poem,
"When I Was Nine"

aural:
hawk song  
wind chimes
beaver's burping
children's giggles
friend's merriment
migrating cranes
happy dog yips
thunder
creaky redwoods sway
church bells

olfactoring:
heirloom rosebushes
lavender fields
bearded irises
russian olive blossoms
towel dried babies
rain soaked desert
herbal soup simmering
old grove forests
ocean tang



life is good. it's good to be us.
spirit of divine ever present

Parchment Charmed

Antiquarian's exclamation,
unexpected uncovering.
Cradled in palms
gently brailling worn cover,
bindings loosened by time.
Archeologist's delicacy
softly brushes breath
across particles,
releasing dust of ages.
Cobwebs enchanting,
veiled till now.
Tender whisper turns leaves,
tracing fortune's path.
Lips resound ancient muse.
Poetic duet spans eon,
a ladling of troved gems.

beyond form

Every evening, the dragonfly lands on the Bull's horns to tell tales of her day's roaming. She speaks of wind currents and whispers of coolness riding same, where water lifts its cheek for caress. She mirthfully clicks imitations of frog song meant to lure her as lunch to lily pad. Weaving with floral color, she laces the delicate texture of subtly perfumed lotus.

Whether hovering, skipping with breezes or playing dip-your-toe tag with others, certain was the pleasure awaiting her as dusk begins slow cadence to moon hum. It's in his listening, at day's respite, she dares share. His presence delights her. She knows her joy as a hug.

Slight modulation in breath, with fly swishing tail, the Bull listens for specific airwave band. She is a sound all her own. He smiles through his chawing. Startled was he, the first time she'd lit. These were unfamiliar fractalled eyes gazing into his. They displayed rainbow facets unseen before. Iridescent in pupil and translucent wing, she paused to brush dust from them. More astonishing than her arrival, were her questions. Did she not realize, a shake of head was death knell force for insubstantial such as she.

Fazed not, she rises airborne at slightest movement on his part. First to his left, fast feint sideways, zip around, land again. Her acrobatic ability was dizzying, although now he knows it as her dance. Her being lifts him. He feels his heart grow lighter.

delicate essence

i am you.
you are surrounding me.
i dreamed i entered you
using tongue to taste
cranium and brain stem.
from within you,
i am you.
consciousness seeps into
sinew, pulse and tissue.
i lengthen my knowing
on the slide in from
rectory to oratory.
you are immersing me.
seeing through your eyes,
i spill seed of joy.
i am your deep belly
laughing.


2004

Hexigram

this versus that
this not that
this leads to that
this or that
this and that
this is that

R.S.V.P.

Sunday. 5:55am.
After sunrise prayers offered, Mabel is walking, as she does daily.
Mourning doves hear her chuckling. She stops, raises head and speaks heavenward. "I'm so ready. I'm thinking, God, that if the carnival came today, I'd hitch me a ride."

Sunday. 3:33pm.
Mabel pulls into her weekly Staples parking lot. Reaching to turn off radio, when circus music issues from the speakers. At same instant, she glances up to the sight of a ferris wheel, carousel and midway tents across the street. Mabel erupts in laughter.

Next Month. High Noon
I'll receive a postcard. Photo side is a road sign. Message on back reads, "Follow it."

On a Clear Day You Can See Forever

Welcome to Always
 

Realm of this Samurai Dragonfly

“Now” is so last year. The new thinking and way of being is circular and organic. I invite you to join me.

In agriculture, it is well known that to reap a bountiful yield and maintain the health of the field, one rotates crops. Lessons from the Masters must also be changed around, lest they become weakened from repetitive plantings. We seek to renew them by allowing them to lay fallow, while we sow a companion seed.

By linear time, we are two thousand years since hearing the voices of the Infinite Teachers and some even longer. We read them in the present, seeking to make their relevance to the external world we are. Close your eyes for a moment and visualize their historical contexts. See them in their settings. Can you picture them, here and now? To what were they responding? 

We are them, come round again, in order to spiral an eternal dance.

They, Jesus, the Buddha, Lao-tzu, Zoroaster, Isaiah, Plato, Mohammad, Confucius and Mahavira, all brought and taught for some whose view of the world was that it was flat. Flat implies linear or straight. They came to seed a circle. Round is the new “Here.”

Rotation time, continuance of the coracle.

“Always” is center point from which all potentials and actualities converge, diverge and weave their intersect. It is the thread of them all. In 1989, in Taos, through a series of unfolding sequences, I experienced awareness of Past, Present and Future as a simultaneous and singular event that can be consciously traversed. It was a non-verbal communication, an immediate “gnosis.”

I felt a presence alongside me, within my heart, gazing out of my eyes, vast beyond my small self comprehension, immediately, joyfully recognized and ever present. There was no place, “we” were not. In blinding flash, a door opened and I knew myself as part of the whole and the whole as me. Everything.

I “heard” although a more accurate rendering would be, “absorbed” in completeness, that each one's purpose through all these “points,” was to know in perfection, an individual spark of Unconditional Love. I was engulfed, buoyed, embraced, pulsating in “Oneness.” I was “seeing” all the other seminar participants around me as continually connecting, shifting (“morphing”) in ever rotating spirals
.

As I gazed into other eyes, during closing ceremonies, in only one pair did I see reflecting back a corresponding recognition. I asked the Presence if I was to share this and received a reply that said, not at this time.

And so, I went silent, in line with what the teacher counseled.

I have carried this within me from then, forward, speaking of it on rare occasions. 

I have been a monkey waiting, at times impatiently, for the 1ooth to step into “Always.” This will be the quantum instance, we have been amassing and holding frequency for. This time around,  we, along with Gaia, will do this together. "I have it on the best authority."

In the meantime, I have worked at “neutralizing” specific sections of mobius strips or karmic streams, if you will.  This has been part of my task.

 The Divine Presence I encountered, revealed that it mattered not what name was given to the condensed sparks of Soul that were in agreement to serve, both in body and pure consciousness. 

The name is but a resonant note, a symbol that holds space for renewal of connection.

How I found myself at the Taos event is a story on its own, yet has it's correlation to what I've shared.

I heeded an inner voice that said, Be here now,” or more accurately, “Be there Now.” So, there went I, without any preconceived expectations, without knowing what the entire 5 days would encompass, as had been suggested. It was the first time I'd ever attended anything like it. It's also been the only one. When the Divine steps in and says, “Glad you came, I have something I've been waiting to show you,”  i intuited that further learning would be in the province of the everyday.

Also, once anchored, non-returnable.

And so, I end as I began this telling.

Welcome to Always, True Sanctuary of the Heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Prophecy, Forsooth

Out of Time.

Out of?
As in lemme
run to the store
and pick up a quart?

Out of?
As in stepped
outside to grab a pack
and didn't come back?

Out of?
As in
time out,
time delay,
gone fishing,
taken a break?

Out of?
As in
doled out,
passed out,
drawn out,
logged out?

Out of Time?
Well,
there's no time
like the present.
And, if not?
Well then,
it should be
taken out
and shot.

* * * * * * * *

chickens scratch in dirt,
like quilled pen writers of old,
seeking choicest phrase.

St. Peter's Prudery

Even though I'd given Catholicism up for Lent when 13, I still contained sediments of convent distilled guilt. Knowing one could be refused entry if not demurely attired, I studied my limited wardrobe. One is entering sovereign, not to mention holy grounds. No Daisy Dukes, micro-minis or naked flesh shoulders. This former parochial girl decides to test limits.

I elect to wear the only dress I'd packed, black with low scoop neck, albeit made more acceptable (or so, I thought) by pairing it with a higher cut camisole.

"Scusi, scusi" they would have said if they talked. By they, I mean the striped, puffy pantalooned ones. Instead, a strange man's hand on my chest bars way into the Shrine of the
Apostolic Order.

Denied. Thrice.  How ironic.

So off go I, to purchase a suitable cover for my exposed self, except, nothing was bared other than cardinal red lace. Oh heavens, do you think it the color or the fabric? We'll never know if my black one would have garnered the same response.

Wending my way through columns, hallways and hungry prayer boxes, I arrive at small gift store. A nun of hobbit size assists me, though neither speaks the other's language. I coffer up, returning with the only scarf large enough to veil head and decolletage. It is muted blues, homespun, coarse cotton, from papal homeland.

Chastened by habit, I am waved through with benediction. I cross threshold into Basilica. I smile.

"In nomino Madre..."

"Hungry? Thirsty? Sit.
Oh do tell. Fill me up, please,"
 Blank paper invites.

and now,

a soup pot of
syntax, synonmyn and syllable
are simmering on my stove,
so....

please enjoy the delicious gift of this:


How To Eat A Poem

Don't be polite.
Bite in.
Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice
that may run down your chin.
It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon
or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core
or stem
or rind
or pit
or seed
or skin
to throw away.

~Eve Merriam

 In Any Language


thank you.

2 words,
too small,

yet widened to stretch,
they encompass it all.

maiden flight

(first legs)

from within
will resurface the old stories.
the ones imagined just for me.
Girl Penny and Boy Penny,
loafer passengers.

Whose adventures were they for?
Grandma, did you wish to see the world?
Like the secret ingredient
in Thanksgiving gravy,
did you stir into me your longings?
Did you envision me solo explorer?

I open to receive who we were, and
who it's imaginable still to be.

Here I am,
miles away and beyond,
tasting boundaries
where new edges are grafted.
And some, original
wildest imaginings.

Here I am,
having the times of my lives.
Sitting upon ancient stones,
the ones quarried and carried.
True blue Aegean, my eyes behold,
hearing orators and philosophers
on the wind.

Here I was,
in the energetic presence
of Aristotle and Aristophanes.
Here, where visionary Pericles
brought glories to his
pledged Goddess,
loving her form in Aspasia.

Here stand I,
within the mathematic
language of God,
head bowed in gratitude
for sacred geometry.
Here imprinted,
photographed by stangers.
Did we recognize
each the other
from when we'd trod
these corridors before?

Here, amid cries and cheers,
were Caesars, Christians and charioteers.
The glory that was, still is,
alive in cobblestones.
Here too, my soul borne via Appian way.
Church chimes measuring time.

Here I slumber, to arise
humming morning arias,
appreciating work-bound descendants of
Cicero, Caraveggio and Claudius.
I partake a daily ritual,
counter sipping biscotti soaked expresso.

Here lay I
on back in awe,
a challenge to boys
in red dresses.
Here I, Isis
the veiled and ineffable one
they thought suppressed,
shedding my coin
in fountain and papal box.
I assure our way into their heaven.

Called am I,
to stand again on beloved shores.
Rapallo welcomed,
pensione ensconced,
I am brought from sleep
to ripe bounty unloaded
outside my balcony window.
Romeo to Juliet meeting at dawn.
Portofino piloted,
Here rest I, child delighted
by sweet gelato dripping.
Grazi Ristorante Puny.

Railed cross frosted crags,
I arrive, Elysee side.
Here I and they,
coquettes sipping champagne,
Chanel clad and enchantee.
Plaintive song emerges,
La Sparrow rehearses.
We, the sigh floating Seine-ward,
awaiting lover's return.

Too mute
to draw in elegant word,
I, eye sight of Paris alighting.
Faerie realm sparks appearing
first sky, then mirroring Earth.
Here I, daughter of Sacre Coeur
from the doorway gazing.

On The Telephone Line

today,
i saw a hawk.

today,
i was a hawk,
seeing me.

today,
visionary guardian
appeared for me.

"pay attention,"
he says.
"pay attention.

i come to activate,
to revive.

i am looking us over,
overlooking this.
i am looking out for you
as you gaze beyond me."

wide wing spread,
perched atop message pole,
"pay attention," he says.
"pay attention."

together, we listen
for the song of the wind.


june 3, 2009

Catalyst

upon entry
past portal lips,
nerve synapses snap.
i thrust through.

this direct yet narrow path,
a journey of viscose darkness
which beckons to center

pressing inward
to hidden chamber,
i pulse forth.
i die, yet live again.

wedded in
belly stoked fire
and breath born sigh,
spirit gestates flesh.

drenched in primal release,
a beginning's birthed.
i come to be.

april 2004

Revision

the study book
i'd planned for me,
twas not the one.

oh, now i see,
instead to eavesdrop
on dear Boethius
and his Muse, Philosophy.

New Lesson Plan

The Universe and I agree,
some Starry nights hold a gift for me.

While Freya chants a runic tune,
her Nornic messages are woven in dew.

A memo to a memo requires focus.
"Pardon me, sir, is that the humming of locust?"

"Besides," Coyote teasingly chides,
"don't you already have a degree in hocus-pocus?"

"Con te partiro," quoth Raven taking wing.
How epic the aperture shows this Spring's fling.

Now back to my studies, I'm off to roam,
through Eleusinian fields with
a slender graceful tome.

~May 20, 2009

* * * * * * * *

You're master of what you've lived,
artisan at what you're living,
amateur at what's next to live.

* * * * *

You build lifetimes
as spiders build webs.
Lots of trials, sometime
to fit one strand.

~Messiah's Handbook:
Reminders for the Advanced Soul

* * * * * *

The Warrior of the Light recognizes the silence
that precedes an important battle.

The silence that says "Things have stopped.
Why not forget fighting and enjoy yourself
a little." At this point, inexperienced
combatants lay down their arms and
complain that they are bored.

The Warrior listens intently to that silence
and understands that somewhere
something is happening. He knows that
devastating earthquakes arrive without
warning. He has walked through the
forests at night and knows that it is
precisedly when the animals are silent
that danger is near.

While the others talk, the Warrior trains
himself in the use of the sword and keeps
his eye on the horizon.

~Paulo Coelho
page 55

Odyssey

I let go of me,
to birth me.
I use you as shore.
Return and repeat.

I mortar these words as dam,
containing elemental force.
In muteness I reach,
where desires seek to beach.

You are siren's song
and I,
Ulysses mast-lashed.
I strain to contain madness,
to crash upon Source.

Grateful be I
for trusted companions
deaf to my howls.
I withstand the pull
on my way forward home.

I am looked for.

May 2004

In Observance of The Grandmothers

They're artistic adventurers.
Parachuting where Spirit calls,
they backpack their hammocks within.

Eating where they sleep,
they adore corner views,
reading the blueprints of
each other's homes for inspiration.

Like snowflakes,
each unveils an original tale.
Les doyennes
double quadrilling the first alphabet.

They are infinitely patient.
If one line cast
does not return what they seek,
efforts continue on another.

They trust implicitly.

They move with an economy of energy.
Rarely do they scurry,
although a scamper
is occasionally witnessed.
They dance en pointe,
at times, leaping through space.

Zen mistresses, responding
to all comers and knocks upon their doors.
They love guests and stories,
so be in no hurry.
Their experience of Time
is different than yours.

Though their influences
are eternal,
neither shepardess nor goddess
is awarded greater favor.

They counsel stillness and movement,
thus mirroring
our divine heartbeat.

They teach that to expect change
is vital to a joyful life.
They instruct by example,
remaining true to their natures.

Their dharma is the Cosmos itself,
spinning continual renewal.

They've labored as sailors, aviators,
homemakers and illustrators.

Wherever there is a line drawn
or a track laid, so are they.

They are children of
She Who Is Always.
They are Creation Whisperers.

12/04/07

maenad drums

Ancient prayers chanted,
elements invoked to intimacy.
Fire. Earth. Water. Air.
I wildly sing:
Come. Come. Come.

Shadow cast, bonfire lit,
I tendril beckon the god,
my lord and lover, twice born.

Welcome, I bid you.
Enter circle drawn.
Pluck succulence.
Sip sweet ripened flesh.

Here, entwine me
with fermented frenzy.
Spill in mounded field.
Heat. Limb. Damp. Breath.
Wildly we'll siren sing.
Here. Here. Here.



1/7/08

Embered Memory

I early learned to entertain self.
Countless hours spent hearth gazing
during long, cool summer nights.
Even before old enough to light it,
I sat entranced by golden glow.
After a day spent pollywogging,
it held my interest nightly.

Two small rooms away,
grown-ups sat chewing fat,
while stirring the daily news
into their cuppa joes.
Kitchen windows black
like scrying mirrors,
backdrop to debate and laughter,
trumping pinochle bidding wars.
After growing bored,
I'd melt invisibly away.

Rorschach designs in knotty pine paneling.
The sizzle of deep frying redwood sap.
Ribboning licks of dancing light.
These, some of the ingredients
I used to fire my imagination.
Visions appeared among the flames.
My world was colored by warmth,
as barrier to obsidian nights.

11/11/07

At The Crossroads

Ah, sweet symbolism.

"I have a dream," he said.

It's all a dream, first and foremost.

Timing is everything.
It's essential in gardening,
cooking, harvesting, dance,
punchline delivery, leadership,
intimacy and everything else.

The time is ripe for new being.
Change occurs unconcerned with our agreement or not.
What's new is the amassing energy for
a still to be determined experience of the present moment.

The ancestors spoke of this.

We love waking up from a bad dream,
disliking it when it's a good dream.

Collective awakening
while dreaming a new dream is the change.


-musings while at the restaurant at the end of the universe
the lights are dimming and the overture has begun.
Injoy the show.


P.S. If you doubt you live in an upside down world, consider this:
Donkeys are stubborn and resistant
while elephants are known t
o visit the graves of their ancestors.

Last Blood

I become my womb Saharan:
sere, barren.
My fertile crescent changed
by time's hot winds.
I am uterus come to terms
with the absence of coming to term.
No bloodline contribution
did I procreate.

What gift did I deprive my world of?
What missed opportunity?

Oh Daughter,
my own self renewed,
forgive me.
Forgive me.
Or Son, awakened beloved,
You too,
you too.

And yet
yet,
how full and pregnable I remain.
I, earth tethered and still conceiving
that hidden within
is an underground spring
nourishing
a perpetually blooming
oasis desert rose.

2003

Comment allez-vous?

I really would love to have your feedback, suggestions, applause, raspberries or ideas for subjects to riff on. comments welcomed.



thank you

Swept Away

It was during the Autumn of '02 and the drums to war had begun. Cowboy posturing left outlaw guy in black hat, time to hide, to destroy evidence. I sense another Vietnam, another divisive occurrence.

Futility settles upon me like a veil, all cobwebby. "What's the point to this all? Do I desire to lend my energy to this madness? What's it all about, Alfie?" These and other questions do dust devil dances through my brain. Aaaaarrrrrggggghhh!

Meanwhile, a new exhibit titled, "Desire and Devotion" opens at the Albuquerque Museum across from work. On my next Wednesday lunch, I enter, welcomed into zen stillness. This oasis from outer rumblings is showcasing paintings, sculptures and other artifacts from Buddhist temples. All from one collector.

The lure to return was strong and deep. This I did every 3-4 days during the entire run.

One day, an announcement. Exiled Tibetan monk, Losang Samten would be arriving to create a sand mandala entitled The Wheel of Life. This experience I chose to seek out.  I projected that this monk just might have it "more together" than me. I yearned to breathe the same air.

It's midweek of his visit and I arrive with a co-worker, Jessica. The Rinpoche is away at lunch. She and I settle onto a provided couch, she to sleep and I to read on more Tibetan culture.

Calligraphied on a banner hanging overhead is the following:

Just as a stone
is not moved by wind,

Neither are the wise
moved by praise or blame.

~Dharmapasada

Three quarters of an hour later, the monk returns. Making eye contact, he nods while noticing Jess asleep. He beams a smile, inclines his head towards her and gives me a thumbs up gesture.

I confess my first response was, "Damn, I'm here for me." Realizing how absurd I sound to myself, I breathe out frustration and judgement, returning his smile. He greets a few others in the hall before proceeding to his worktable.

The Mandala is 2 days from completion. It is multicolored. He explains the symbolism. Permission was granted by His Holiness, The Dalai Lama, to leave it up til the end of the show, rather than erasing it immediately upon completion.

He cradles a long conical metal cylinder, adds colored sand and begins rhythmically tapping the design. We, the crowd stand with a rope separating.. I am behind his left shoulder. While observing, I feel tension, fear and uncertainty start dissolving. In this same instant, clarity occurs. I grasp what I am and what to be.

I am a grain of blue sand in Spirit's mandala.

Nothing more, nothing less. One grain of sand, important to the whole picture.

An immediate sensation of warmth floods me, radiating out from heart chakra. I am joyous. As I offer silent prayer of gratitude, I recognize the true gift of the moment.

I am both creation and creator. Accepting my place in the scheme of things, I am granted the opportunity for overview. I am both perspectives simultaneously. I see from both grain's eye and the sky's.

At this precise moment, the monk straightens, stands erect, then turns looking directly at me and nods. The smile in his eyes acknowledges our shared secret joke. Grinning broadly, I bow in response.

Staying for maybe five more minutes, Jess and I then leave. All that afternoon was an inner glow of remembrance that we do receive what we need when we show up and ask for it. And I needed that instance of heartening to gently guide me through resignation and back to center. I would know myself as a stone not moved by the world's winds swirling.

And the winds of change are moving, make no mistake about that. We are rapidly approaching the completion of The Wheel of Life.

There is nothing to fear. We are but grains of sand, in many hues, that will be returned to Source. In ending there comes beginning.

Some have called our present age, the Kali Yuga.
The Mayans named it, The Fourth World.
Whether, it be Piscean or something else,
death/rebirth are ever present.
Meditate on Death, the 13th Major Arcana of the Tarot.
It is the time of initiation.

All is as it is, and we are continual.

2003

Georgia On My Mind

Today, a Rio Grande valley sky
is her painting,
all endless blue
and cotton puff clouds.

The vista I gaze on
is full up as
a woman satiated
by pleasure.
2 days moistened
by spring rains.
She's beaming.

New Mexico morn
s t r e t c h e d
across forever.
Dry brown slopes to bank,
growing into cottonwood green.

Reservation fields
pushing forth buds of
pepper and tomatillo.

Whistled gratitude
for eternity's etching
upon this face
of our mother.

Waterway arteries
borrowed for seasoning.
The river is high,
spoiling for spillage
on her journey
south.

This morning, this light,
spiraling hawk flight.

I am ancient again
painting on pottery,
smelling growth on
my sister wind.

She carries
mountain stories
in a grain of sand.

Destiny's Jester

Your voice,
like a gulp of cool, clear water,
after a long dusty trek.
A harmonic note, drumming through my skin,
outside in.
Pounding hounding,
through eons of dreams.
Who knew that a beloved,
once cradled chuckle,
would chime within so deeply so long,
resurrecting ghosts from my ancient boneyard.
Here were sensations
I thought long ago dirt buried and sphinx mute,
insistently clamoring
to stand risen in the light.

Once... just a moment before, whilst smiling,
you did as your grandfather directed.
You gave me delicacies sweet.
Into the glass jar you reached,
placing candies of easter color
upon my open left palm.
You welcomed
after I whispered shy thanks.

A paisan's pronouncement
accompanied our quiet exchange,
imprinting itself unbeknownst, in me.
Did you hear this phrase often?
I was teased you know,
on the car ride home.
Even your first told me she'd heard it,
yet that is another tale
for a different page.

What I recall though,
has shadowed me
these many moonlit miles since.
Always there echoing, quietly beckoning.
And so, I returned
to reflesh self
amid familiar aromas of memory,
all rung
by a soul resonating sound.


2004

Bertha's Gift

I am
a storyteller's granddaughter,
storing up and storied.
Found in epic myth
and a day's labor quietly shared,
I am all stories.
Through me, currents flow
and I spill rivers of stars
still unborn.

Dreamers dream a farmer's harvest
envisioning goods a merchant markets.
I am their imagined storehouse of plenty.

I hold dazzled the emperor's court
in exchange for my daily bread.
I am welcomed as circus act,
a curiosity of temporary diversion.
This, for those of lidded vision
who glance neither up, out nor beyond.
I am entered into their story.

Oh yes, dangerous am I
for I might awaken in shuttered breast
a glimpse of wider, untamed skies.
Tempting, I am forbidden fruit.
I hint of incense lit
where passion is life's perfume.
A snake eaten apple of knowledge
as yet unremembered,
I am phallus seed sown in fertile imagination.
Foretold to deliver with each breath's birth,
whole Universes arise to die away
in my singular story.

A pirate's map to buried pleasure,
I am spun threads
and woven yarn.
Squirreled to be savored
while carpet laid,
I kindle winter's warmth.
A cresting wave of story
that changes all with my passing,
I am tsunami's teardrop beginning.

I am the day's take and a life's ledger.
I reconcile accounts
to balance the illusions.
These, mere curtains,
that once opened
reveal eternity's listening heart.

I am
a granddaughter,
telling stories.

Eunice Marguerite

Today is a personal Holy Day.
It is the anniversary of my mother's death.
Every year on this date I plant a rose bush in her honor.
This will be number 19.

I acquired my love of gardening from my mother.
That and reading.
My sister and I both wish
we had kept the paper lunch bags she personalized
with elaborate stick figure drawn stories.
She said she did it so we would know which were ours.
Mom made great lunches with lots of goodies for us to trade.

Daisies were her favorite flowers.
"Clair de Lune" her favorite piece of music
and Joyce Kilmer's sentiments.
"I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as tree..."

Mom: thank you for the mark you left
xoxoxo
this is for you

Redwood Reverie

Afternoon shadow beckons
you enter into ferned glade,
enfolded in leafy stillness.
In silence, anxiety's edges
spill onto forest carpet.
Within these old groves:
mother, maiden, crone
move outside time, beyond trine.
Worn cares of workaday world
find no welcome here
in your soul's realm;
of Nature unveiling
her hidden rhythms.

Decay feeds growth.
Growth strengthens limb.
Limb reaches crown high
to descend again
through renewal's seasons.

July 2004

 

And so I begin

heart scars
tatted,
form gossamer lace.

intricate weaves,
these
threaded webs.

written as
vibrant hue and tone,
vibrating strings
thrum soul's symphony.

i make of myself
a tapestry of tellings.

thus this,
a spirit song-line
cast outward
in word.

october '03