windexing the back wall of the cave

24 Sep

There are no other caves besides the personal one.

There are no other shadows but my own.

Aloneness at last reflects back to me a clue in separation

that togetherness can mask

for now I see my own puppet story skills

for what they are.

I put on a wicked good show.

This cave seems to lack an exit

so the way out appears to be in —

into the muck of my own waste.

Submerged and miserable,

there are only two options—

drown here or

stretch for breath

and reach untainted ease, at last.

Perhaps i’ve grown so old that the shackles no longer hold my wrists

or the flattery of the shadows is no longer true enough

to hold me sway, awaiting impossible union.

The drying out of this body

a time bomb that I ignite.

The eyes that meet beyond the bomb

do not shadow play anymore,

and once the cave is left

the dark draw has no pull.

 

 

 

leap of faith

30 Aug

Something became apparent yesterday.  I discovered the leap of faith I’ve been dancing around for years.  The leaps of faith in the religions I grew up with were more up front.  I found them early on and leapt with abandon, perhaps from conditioning for being good, perhaps for the love of mystery and the possibility that true goodness did exist.  In short, I believed.  I was not much of  a Thomas.

The one I just discovered might be so obvious that my mention of it will have you shaking your head with my slow processing speed.  No more beating around the bush, here it is:  If everything that I see, feel, hear, smell, taste, and experience in this world changes, the knowing of the thing that doesn’t change for me is a leap of faith.  The direct experience of the unchanging can not be known because (and here is where I am using my mind to try to solve a riddle that stretches out of the realm of mind) to know it would be an experience of it and experience is a changing phenomenon, by its very definition.

Stand up, flag me down, you who can answer my riddle.  Can you send a lightning strike to the heart that makes the unknowable known?  I’ve had experiences of beyond and daily I flow in a realm that meshes with the mundane, but is not of it.  BUT tell me tell me if you can what is the mystery in the heart of a man.  Is there a black (w)hole of connection to the unchanging within my heart, within every heart, within every quivering bit of matter?

I am not distressed.  This little epiphany just has me pausing.  Sitting sitting feeling feeling all to know what is unknowable.   Must we always leap to reach?  Is this why there is no where to go?

Love to anyone kind enough to tread in this unkept field of blossoms.  I love that you are there and here. This expression is me, moving beyond my knowing, allowing the questioning to come.  I am not separate, and yet this body being has existed from within this marga spot only, seemingly.  Can she merge with knowing before she’s gone from this body?  Oh, the strangeness of it all.

good will

21 May

My back seat was full yesterday, and when a small window of time opened up,  I crawled amongst the beach traffic to a Goodwill drop-off point.   When I pulled up, the worker was standing ready to help me with the boxes. On top of one box was a skirt that has made it through all my many moves the past 10 years.  It was a beauty, rich fall colors, a mix of fabrics.  Time to say goodbye, but my hand couldn’t help but fondle it one last time before I picked up the box to hand it to the man waiting in the drop-off.

May the next owner of that skirt be well.  May the skirt live the next phase of its life with joy.

“How are you doing, today?” I asked the man, present.

He told me as we shifted these boxes to his arms that he was not doing so well.

I asked him why this was and he said that “it started out okay but…” and his voice faded out, so I added into the words unsaid, “Then all hell broke loose?” and this made him laugh.

“Yes,” he said.

More boxes, more shifting of weight from my car to his arms.

“I hope you are able to resolve your trouble” I said as I waited for my receipt.

“Oh, it will be resolved alright.” He said.  “I’m moving out.”

“Oh, big life shifting.” I said.

“Yes.”

“Good luck with your move,” I said in parting.

He smiled.

I do not know what it is, this way life has of bringing me truer interactions with what many would consider peripheral.  It has been this way often.  The moment opens wherever and whenever.   May Mr. Goodwill be well. May his move bring him peace—and may we all meet where we meet in the smallest of moments .

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

pain and joy got married

14 Aug

 

Can pain and discomfort glove the hand of plenty bearing gifts?
Joy exists not in spite of but because of obstacles – I assert this morning.
What do we have in the end, after bouts of illness and love, but just ourselves?
And the gift of this self is won in a simple marathon.
Outlasting our every thought, we still exist –
and in the ending miles,
we learn to be there in whatever way we are,
accumulated skeletons,
in need of nothing,
ready for any errand,
sitting in dull evening light,
a raging sunset escaping in rays between our ribs.

place title here

28 Apr

“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best,” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.”
― A.A. MilneWinnie-the-Pooh

The hover before the in breath,

milk ducts in an empty breast,

the stomach: a hallowed out bruise,

an arm contorted every way to ease a throbbing itch,

slack tide’s final pause,

the coyote hamming to the camera in the air just off the cliff,

my attention’s constant hole never empty yet—

Is it the ohm?

Is it those last shivering atoms releasing the reverberation of the gong,

the hum of what was catching up to the trumpet of what will be,

the sway of the air’s almost embrace of the planet’s constant spin?

Let’s linger here, eyes closed, tongues out to catch the first drops.

Not holding our breath,  not rushing it either.

kiss and tell

7 Apr

I have a pervasive feeling of discomfort often.  I am finally able to identify this sensation as a feeling of something  pressing down on me about the tasks that are waiting for completion which directly contrasts to the wonders that are spontaneously arising every moment.  This pressing feeling has been so intrinsic to life for me that it is only as it is peeling back that I can feel it in its absence.  Whew.  How exhausting it is, and yet I continue  to have it return as tasks begin to mount, and I become lost to what is unfolding now.     Mas y mas, I am committing in holy matrimony to the moment, not the task.  I wear white, and you, now, wear white; we walk down the aisle together, you and me.  My life partner?  Oh my, perhaps I am even in a polygamous commitment, for I am marrying each moment, which is singular, but in the moment, arises all things.  Scandelous.  Just today I married my scratch pad, my students, my daughters, my cat.  I marry the moon as often as I can.  Today I joined with a bumblebee in the flowering azaleas as I fretted over the over-pruned camellia sticks, overjoyed to find signs of new growth.  We had a tryst, for this bee came on so strong.  So ripe is this romancing – the lover is here.  Dear missed connections – I apologize for all the overlooked love notes that have ever come my way.  I read the writing on your crumbled leaf, peel back your bark;  your hum enters my ear, eternal.

 

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