Roses

Many

roses

bloom

in spring;

but there

is only

one

you.

Bouquet_de_roses_roses.jpg

February 5, 2016

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The First Day

The day I sat

and looked in the mirror

I stared:

I was looking at me.

 

But it was not me

that I saw.

 

My pupils rounded,

black trench coats

preparing for summer rain

my skin relaxed

after the ebb and flow of the day

I dared not move

for there I swear I saw

the light of a soul.

 

Inside my body,

beyond my mind

there lays a spirit so vast

that it does not know me by name

it stands tall and strong,

not with pride,

but not without it, either.

 

When you are Light,

I suppose you need no one

to tell you just how brightly you shine

 

I felt confused;

I felt at peace–

as if I had known this feeling all along

 

It was the first day of my spiritual practice.

 

It seems so clear now

but with fall leaves promising signs of winter

at 18 years

all I wanted was a pair of mittens and a safe

place to stay, away from the cold.

 

Listening to Spirit

is not always easy–

but it’s always needed

 

to quench a thirst deeper

than Jesus felt in the desert,

Buddha under the tree

when

compounded

together

we have every star, every Being

right here beside

me stood a mirror,

and in the mirror, a face

searching its own lines and faded chords

for lyrics one sang long ago…

there were mountains in my eyes,

an echo on each peak.

 

A sudden wave of peace

rushes from my pores, into the night’s sky

and asks you to grant its wish–

to look at yourself

not as you,

nor me,

but as One

 

a single universe united in song.

 

December 16, 2015

You

So you–

you–

want to write a poem?

 

Start by walking out your front door

and saying hello to every face you meet:

bird in the sky,

leaf on the lawn,

a summer wind falling gently over you

and you still–

still–

want to write a poem?

 

After an over-worked day at the office

gray cubicles and clear ice cubes clinking

on paper cups I just want to make sure

I’ve heard you right:

you,

who wakes up every morning

just to paint the sunrise;

you,

who tallies ticket orders

and buys Christmas presents,

builds log cabins

and feeds the homeless;

you

who has ever wondered

what your place is on this Earth–

you

want to write a poem?

 

The Earth hears your beckoning,

is waiting for you

to open up

open the door to your soul

and realize that man-made

will always have its limits…

the mountain peak will always

surpass Mountain Dew

and wild thoughts fall flat

onto to the blue horizon,

spread out like a quilt

nature made just for you.

 

Hear it whisper,

my dear,

that beating in your heart.

 

You mustn’t

simply

write a poem.

 

You are the poem.

 

December 9, 2015

The Same

I am everything;

I am nothing.

 

You are everything;

You are nothing.

 

So often we forget

you and I are the same.

 

Let the world

open it’s front door,

back porch, wind blown hair

and feel the essence

of Being.

 

Let it be known

that all associations

and ideas

are nothing more

than stepping stones

to our real life,

made of stillness,

peace and love–

together.

 

August 8, 2015

 

I, You, and Me

“There’s no need

to play with my heart.”

I never realized

just how badly

you hurt me

But the beauty

is that it is not “me”

that you hurt.

I am human,

a continuous self

not stagnant,

sitting on a shelf

I have learned

and I have moved

away

from the erroneous notion

that “I”

is a real term–

we are all connected

please show me

in the times my past

comes creeping up into my chest

that the pain is worth

the sunshine I still see

outside my window,

the candles lighting my table

they sit

honestly,

knowingly,

unquestioning

of past boyfriends and best friends

who seemed to know what was best for me

when I was a “me” without a voice

Now,

I am heard

we all have something to say–

first to ourselves

the memories will still glitter

like gold

as I crumple up the ugly

into ashes,

for my soul has always been clean

You were 

always hurting,

for you were

are

human, too,

on the brink of an island

of our childhoods,

our teenage, innocence-tacked

to-naivety

years

have gone by

and I feel like the only thing left

to do

is to not to forgive and forget,

but to forgive…

And then hurry on back

to my “me,”

our “us,”

now.

..

inspired in part by the music of Noah and the Whale 

.

April 5, 2015