Stirrings

 Her tools have left her hands 

The wooden spoon replaced by the paint brush

The clean hands replaced by speckled residue of ideas 

and construction

She  was never certain what would be  cooked up

or if it work would be palatable

This time it wasn't about taste 

It was about moving in circles and 

with the current

The recipe slipping off the counter and 

the ingredients not yet discovered in the pantry 

nor anywhere.  

Moment by moment the stirrings arose

Tasted by a few but held upon the easel by one

Constant

Purging the death 

into regeneration

Heightening the love and purpose

within the seed

Fear does not exist

Nature in its finest

Blends with what is

Forgiving of its past and now

Forging forward

Unscathed by events

Lifting higher with each earth breath

it seeks to tell a story

a Story for us 

a Tale of Constant, Beautiful Truth

We are part of it

In our Rising 

Key To Me

 From whence comes the loneliness?

With Worthiness sitting underneath

From deeper seated dreams

Inability to traverse alone

across work, love and existence

As i look to break this ceiling

composed of straw concrete

It's false facade

Hanging from strings

I challenge myself to lightly

graze it surface

opening to the resolve sky

The pure me

The creative me

The loving me

The me loving me

The KEY

Non Earth

Surf lingers from the turbulence below as I silently pause in 

remembrance of my mother's womb

this rise and fall

Pristine horizons upon my gaze, laden with salted whiteness

recognizing what lies ahead, I am still

I can choose to be reborn today or hide a bit longer within my 

watery shelter

This is not the earthling soil

steadfast in it roundedness

It is a gaze into intentional horizons of non Earth

Its balanced act between fluid water and flowing sky

Yet I recognize it and propel myself forward to be reborn again

Band-aid Box

Housing the crimped edges of thin and flimsy waxed paper the band-aid box holds the bandages  and a few thin red threads of fine filament.The box had probably had been dropped on the kitchen floor with rusted edges exposed and may have been paired with its' sister mercurochrome.

We knew in which cupboard or drawer it was hidden as it was as much a savior of skinned knees as a sweet kiss and hug.  When the metal container was refilled with fresh bandaids from the  new cardboard one, we were delighted to have the choice of many sizes and shapes.   ( I still don't know why they made the little round ones.They fell  off so quickly and covered only a pin prick.)

We have been covering up our wounds for many years, adding antiseptic measures to assist in healing and  other modalities known to our ancesters like ultraviolet light and fresh air.  Our deep wounds may have required excision to provide a clean pallette for our body to do its miraculous healing from the inside out.

Today as we sit still amongst the every growing corona virus , the band-aids will not do.   The sting we feel is not the mercurochrome but from the old pains coming to the surface.  Perhaps the present  pain now is that we were not so kind to our elders or maybe our pursuit of happiness was flung aside onto someone else's shoulder. The pains are deep, the cut unobserved but its sting still present.  It may be that we hadn't held our body in the highest regard and neglected giving it what it needed for unexpected times like this. The spiritual body may have been placed to the side as well.

Today we sit  still.  It is a time to grow not unlike the acorn unaware that it will become a tree.
We know we have it in us, to thrive, to prosper , to be a tree within the forest of humanity. WE are trying to envision it .  It is tenuous to be still.

This opportunity has all it needs to be the healing from the inside out for us.  It requires patience and non judgement which for myself has not been one of my highest virtues.  But virtues we have, compassion we have, and time to envision a new place we might step into or a new way we might interact in at hand.  

The band-aids will always be in the drawer, sealed for that skinned knee or paper cut and  the deep wounds of our communities will heal and are healing, because we are healers.   We are created to self heal and now is the time.   Shed the impossibilites with the innate possibilities.   Choose the shape of the band-aid that will cover the exposure and delight in the face that you found the one with superman on it!   We are resilient and we are healers.

Rise Up Again

Rise up again Phoenix, this is your time
with head held high
Smoke and Clouds gone to the other side
whisked away as meringue froth

Rise up and walk barefooted
soft spongy layers beneath you
Filled with Protection and Joy

Rise up and breathe the rain filled air
moist with birth of all things Good
Sprouting connections swirling in the breeze

Rise up You know this Land
Its majesty is greater than before
Its corruption vanished
Its possibilities are yours

You have risen in Glory
Rise up and Hold your head high in Truth and Righteousnes
It is your time and It is Our Time

Moongoose on Zucchini

Reflection: crusty, sandy soil
Upon lazy morning bay rising

Warming towels, sarongs swirled beneath
canopy of pine and palm
hopping birds, branch to branch

Disguised, fleeting insects harvest legs and arms of
sunbathers
with unrequited delight
Contained water brushed blue with plastic tints
ablaze from reflected seeking sun

Pigeon visitations, solo excursions, checking on progress
of crumbs discarted by hasty children or lazy tourists
Rainbow necked, they clamor closer and closer for bits

Territorial squirrels in underbrush of succulent vine and
Mongoose vie for frontline pounch, wayward beach sites

Giggles of young pearly white asian girls
curled almong the greenery edge of sand and undergrowth
they echo between the splashes of ocean's edge and  walled
extreme clifts of weathered transformed time

Returning from my early water exploration
morning snack blossomed into a garden of zucchini
bread delight
Shards of  foil in delicate splatter rested with nut shards, broken branches
and crusty sand

Someone here in my absence?
No footprints of scroundral
No trail of crumbs

A shadow glides over my now closed eyes
It smiles and feathers it with words from his soggy
beach camo trunks

" You had guests while gone- they guarded your chair" he speaks

Moongoose on Zuchinni : what a start to the day