The Tempest

For a time
the swirling winds
of the rushing tempest
seemed to have ceased.

I walked amongst the trees…
we chatted.
A simple song they sang…
the gentle breeze echoed through
their branches.

My heart space
‘wonder-struck’…
A calm serenity was found
in the still silence.

Then, without notice
pellets of hail, sleet
fell from the sky.
Any subtle form of air
was now a fury
lifting me from any solid
foundation.

I twirled in the air—‘freezing.’
I was caught in the rapturous
whirl.

My mind raced—
I could not turn off
the noise penetrating
through my head.
My being ‘rocked.’

It was no use trying
to fight all the elements
rushing
toward my center.

I’ve known this place—
and this time I am
more aware of myself
within these encounters
of chaos.

In every way I am stretched—
refashioned and yes, maybe
reshaped—TRANSFORMED.

The tempest far from over—
The flying debris leaves me
blinded.

Yet—

I see.

I vision—a way
through this ‘place’…
still, silent, alone
yet, never by
myself.

Hidden within
the tempest I am pushed.  Yet,
I do not resist.
I know I simply
must let-go.

Frigid

Frigid…
I see my breath
in the framework of the night—
it shatters like a thousand
tiny pieces of icicles in mid-air.

The cold
creates pools which form
in the very corners of my eyes…
they slip down
freezing before they spill from
my chin.

The blustering wind
pierces my cheeks
like a sewing needle
weaving its way through
a seamless garment.

Why am I out here?
To listen~~~but to what?
What is there to listen to?
A tree cracks…
a lonely leaf scurries across
the icy terrain.

I’m frozen—
my nostrils await
another breath
before ‘sealing’ closed barely re-opening.

I listen…
and hear nothing.

The silence—it’s intoxicating.
I drink it in
one shot after another
and suddenly ‘inside’
my being I’m warm.
I’m listening to the chill of
nothingness—
and in this moment
it is as a
burning flame.

Yellow Flowers

When I was but a child,
I wore a shirt of yellow flowers—
it was so beautiful.

I held it in my hands for a long time
before draping each of my arms
through its sleeves~~~slender shoots.

I buttoned each circular sphere
imaging myself
that very flower blossoming open
with so much wonder…

I could not wait to get to school
so as to ‘show~off’ this
dazzling cloth which my tiny tent
of a being adorned.

When I arrived at school
I was alive, unfolding…
the yellow flowers seemed to shine
from inside my heart.

I rushed to share this bouquet with
my friends, but as I approached—
yes, from a distance
they began to laugh.
I could not imagine what they were
chuckling at~~~it couldn’t be me—
could it?

As I entered the circle,
my joy suddenly shattered—
My friends began to mock, make fun of
my beautiful yellow flowered shirt.

I allowed them to pluck away
the gift of every petal…
the tiny thorns in the stems, not even
visible, pierced my fragile heart.

No one saw the tears that
blanketed my pillow that night as
I clutched the shirt in my arms.

So long I tried to pretend I did not
see the beauty of the yellow flowers…
I tried to ‘fit’ in.  I tried being
someone I was not…it felt like prison.

Then one day, walking alone,
the tears from so long ago slipped
beyond my cheeks and fell to the
ground.  I looked ‘down’ and realized
just how alone I was NOT~~~

Bursting from the earth,
tiny yellow flowers~~~
covered the damp ground
and began to reflect their beauty
upon my soul.

Lovely, these yellow flowers,
gifts given from the Source
of all things created…
and yes, even I am one~~~
budding amidst the yellow flowers.

The Empty Pitcher

Pour out the contents—
every last ounce of ‘whatever’
remains; let it spill out
and dissolve so that it might
not be found ever again.

Hollow, the Pitcher
at last…
This is how it first arrived
in the world after being
held, kneaded and placed
in a fire—
it came out of the kiln
absolute perfection.

Somehow—
so many of ‘our’ pitchers—
yours, mine…a collective ‘ours’
have been filled, tarnished,
scraped, cracked from the
inside…and for too long
what we’ve come to believe in
are the falsities of who we actually
are.  It is this we are not—
this is not what defines us
and yet, it has.

Wounds inflicted—
‘we’ have allowed to fill us.
Some we actually believe true.
Imagine NOT believing in your own perfection.
WAIT—imagine
BELIEVING in your
perfection.

Empty your pitcher.
‘Look’ inside…
maybe its shine is a bit lackluster after
so many years—
perhaps a mar has
formed and
your pitcher broken
in places.

Can you finally ‘see’ you
in this emptiness?
Behold the splendid
Pitcher you are and
always have been.

It is in this very
emptying you are
finally FULL.

Now—splash yourself
everywhere that will
receive the love that
is YOU.

Ghost Wagon

You ‘see’ it don’t you?
I mean really ‘see’
it is anything but ‘hollow.’

At night—it is then you can
see it and them—
Yes them…

When the stars light the sky,
the canopy covers the wagon.
A team of galloping stallions
begins shuffling its hooves.

Inside…there they are
artists in their own right
poets at play, and a choir
of heavenly hosts.

Paints of endless colors begin to blend—
words flow from a pencil’s lead
and the singing is soft almost silent
as ghosts go traveling to ‘bedrooms’
where dreamers sleep unknown.

The haunting—
sweet mystery
send messages to the slumberer’s
night…
visions, illuminations, transfigured
awaiting a sign.
Yet, no sign need come
nor message be
had.
BUT—if one
discovered…
a treasure at last.

So…
sleep peacefully
tonight and, if you
hear the sound of
hoof beats, close your
eyes…quickly~~~FAST.

The ghosts in the
wagon are
coming at last.