An Invitation into Seeing

See, you have to
go beyond
The Flower Gate
for that is where love blooms.

Are you four petaled or five?
See, I know you are part
of The Garden.

Your stem
goes
into the ground —
that’s where
your roots
intermingle
with others.

  See, that’s where love
is found and
that’s where you
discover love
is part
  of death
and life.
Flowers tell you that
by their beauty.

I don’t know
more
than this.

I am just beginning
but beginning
is living.
(I do know this.)  

Do you see?
Tell me.
I want to know
the next step.

We can do this
together.

I know each one of us must find
our own way.

But the more of us there are
the clearer and easier the path.

Meet you in The Garden
we create.

To the Flower Garden

 

blush pinks, duckling yellows, forget-me-not blues, raspberry reds…

there is something about the softness
of a single petal
the way it curves around your finger
scent descending
lingering fresh
with the delicateness on the brink of life
with the fragility on the brink of death

this is the petal way

it beckons you beyond the flower gate

(I believe some words on the first line were inspired by a poem I read awhile back. It was beautiful. I cannot remember the title or who wrote it. So here is a shout out to the author who unfortunately shall remain anonymous.)


This poem has echoes of The Garden found in biblical yore, in literature, in song (Woodstock), and in echoes of spring. But, it also has it’s own true path, highly steeped in the feminine. May it open up or speak to a longing in you. For ecstatic traditions, the longing is the path.



Breakthrough

 

Breaking out of one is the hardest
break of all
the breaking of the toes
which feel too cripple
to walk

the breaking of the thumb
the pointer finger
when will it stop?

I look at myself, wonder
is there more to myself
than I

I turn my head, my
neck breaks, cracks
circles to include
a bit more,
a bit of a break,
for breaking
into myself
breaking my fear
of being alone
in this long life

I feel a terror, tremor of
being me
my knees break
bend
to come up
again
bend
up

I become shorter and taller than myself

And then,
my heart breaks
I shatter:
dislocation
dysfunction
dysmorphia
dystopia
“no foot loose and fancy free”

But, a falling, falling
fall    ing       fall     ing
fall    ing       fall/I am falling
falling fall/  

                into
 ALL

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving

 

I have so much life around my house
Coyotes howl
Owls in their pas de deux calling
Fox, red and grey, weasels, raccoons
Bushy tailed squirrels, chipmunks, and quail
Slithering snakes—garter, gopher, and king
Blind moles, burrowing badgers
Turkeys gobbling, deer prancing, skunky stinks
Feral cats, bobcats, roof rats, bats
Cougars in the valley, a peacock on the roof
Waddling possums ’cross my path
Horses of course
And multiple wings—
Blue birds, black birds, red wing
Hummingbirds thrumming
Sparrows fighting, swallows swooping, wrens’ chirrup
Cedar wax wings, thrush, orioles
Cowbirds, grackles, chickadees, crows
Red tailed and red shouldered hawks
The great blue heron
Dark shadowed vultures
Seeking their prey
Crawling creatures with bellies so low
Lizards leaping, frogs a hopping, crickets whirring
Daddy-long-legs dancing up the door
I have so much in life to be grateful for.

What are you grateful for?

 

In Memoriam: For Kathleen and Rosemary

 

On Bernal hilltop
looking up
a strong wind hits my face
but only a hint of cold.

Fog rolls in big clumps
passes towards the horizon
and then…
downing sun lights up the sky
highlights the tiniest finger of
gathered air.
It gathers there.
And then…a
tendril of wispy cloud
sails right towards me
longer it grows
longer longer still
right o’er my head.

I felt like it could touch me.
Awe I am…and then…
touched am I
by the feathered wing of an angel.

Note:  They both liked clouds.

 

A Fly

 

When you’ve been alone all day—
even though you’ve talked to a neighbor
a mail man, a homeless man, a friend on
the phone:

There’s this fly. It started
the morning with a buzz.

Is it     inside?     out?     It’s in.
Damn, should I kill it dead?
Damn it dead, should I kill it, but with what?

Upstairs I go to the computer.
Back down again.
In the living room I sit on a big
leather chair.

Around it goes, passes me
By. Dives straight behind the clothes
on the rack
by the front door.

Jump up I, and run slinging open it
To whoosh IT out—but no luck for me
                                   no luck for it.
Hidden, no FLY zone.     Gone.    Done.

Out I go to buy food for dinner
Cook and chop. Chop to cook.
Saffron and basil. Chicken in chunks.

Down I sit at the dining room table
look up to see…
                                     my     friend     fly—  

Emily Dickinson and I.