Line between earth and sky

meaning nothing, nothing

ever really ends.

Ten minutes into the meeting

in which we are informed

of yet another procedure

to police our time,

souls, desperate for escape,

ooze from their containers

through holes punctured by tyranny,

then blend in the middle of the table,

a soul soup compelling this poem,

or anything wild and true,

to save us all.

Each evening, I tuck them in for sleep,

rotating their moist vessels for equal exposure,

snipping weaker members,

offering drinks to the thirsty,

loving touch, kind words

to carry them through long, still-chilly nights.

 

First thing in the morning I burst through the door,

eager to discover magic made manifest while I dreamt.

I hold my breath and tiptoe to their ledge,

not wanting to disturb their noble efforts.

Bending down, I take stock

of the miniscule but mighty growth since last observation.

I beam, clasp hands in delight

to see that true leaves have emerged,

stuck seeds have been shed.

 

In their holy presence,

I inhale musty soil and give thanks to all

that lies beyond my knowing.

I breathe the purity emitted by tender green sprouts,

cleansing me with their simplicity, their fortitude.

The singularity of their struggle,

the unfaltering acceptance of their purpose

inspires me to pursue my own life with such discipline,

such humility, such faith.

 

Each day I observe their journey, wanting to do more than watch,

wanting to bury my toes in a little pot,

curl into a ball underneath silky soil,

and begin to grow thirsty roots

connecting me to a deeper, more basic calling.

I want to slumber in the shelter of damp earth,

nestled between brothers and sisters in the process of becoming.

I want to awaken one morning to the gentle tug of sun

and exert a fierce, tenacious thrust

through the rich, moist canopy cradling my infant self.

As my roots solidify, anchoring me into purpose,

I want to stretch tender arms toward the sky to embrace light.

I want to throw my head back and dance with the breeze

strengthening my fragile body and instructs me in joy.

 

Before pollination,

before fruits appear,

I gather this delight,

this fantastic obsession,

my first harvest of the season.

I am nourished.

 

Heart soars into tree,

perches next to hawk.

Fingers fumble with camera,

turn it on, angle it skyward.

Eyes peer through lens,

notice tree, now empty.

After emerging

from trudging through shadow

I keep the mud on my boots

and leave footprints

on white carpet

Keep flowing

no matter how cold,

how lazy,

how much you crave stillness,

just flow.

 

Move forward

without asking where

you’re going,

know that you will go

where you need to be.

 

Be gentle at times,

tender with kindness.

Rage when necessary,

expressing your truth

with all that you are.

 

Retain memories

of each rock, foot, twig, fish

you have held,

while opening yourself to more,

without regret, attachment.

 

Reflect light

from sun, stars, eyes,

and remember

your own ability

to sparkle.

BE who you are.

Not imagine or sometimes act like,

but BE.

Don’t plan it or regret it,

just be.

 

Be WHO you are.

Not what or how,

but WHO.

Be someone, a personality,

distinct, thriving, growing.

 

Be who YOU are.

Not who other people are or want you to be,

but YOU.

Only you know who you are

in that wild and instinctual way.

 

Be who you ARE.

Not who you act like, dress like, talk like,

but ARE.

Find who you are deep inside

that pulsing, glowing, core of yourself.

 

Be who you are.

A meeting with clarity at the river,

standing with the morning,

seeing my shadows,

knowing them, shaking hands,

“Welcome, I’ve been expecting you.”

 

Understanding why, who, how,

reasons stripping away layers

until I am naked bones

not shivering, just being

by the river, in the river, with the river.

Being bony trees,

not longing for green garments,

just being,

honoring stillness, bareness,

being little more than essence,

everything else stripped away,

peace cloaking me,

even though I didn’t need covering.

 

This must be what truth feels like—

weightless, ticklish, still, serene,

curiosity steeped in courage

propelling me further into the rubble

where I am still standing, standing still,

receiving, exploring,

listening to clarity whisper,

“Be who you are.”

Some poems

do not like

some days

just like

some days

do not like

some poems.

Flailing

in this ocean of discontent

I wait for patience