Glistening Lake

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Glistening lake reflects the dusk hour
in lapping waves
of azure, black, and peach.

Sun low on the horizon,
disc of fire
moves faster than flicker.

Sense of open wideness
as I sit on the dock
arms locked around knees.

People walking circles
around the basin of water
exchange words
immersed.

Birds swoop low
to kiss the water,
in one graceful movement
of flapping wings
and singing heart.

Sky tangerine
Vibrates in cellular beauty.
A stillness so sound
it mirrors holiness.

Beneath the willow
I walk on the path.
Unlocked.
Searching gaze.
Intaking.
Breathing.

Tuesday blues on rooftops soars

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Tuesday blues on rooftops soar.
The eye as wild as eagle wings,
spanning the heights of mountain rims.
Connecting knuckles;
curving spine.

A low sound, emitted from within
vibrating of cells
in silent energy.

The boundary lost
of archetypes, hieroglyphs.
Strawberries.
Colors forming geometries of the sacred.

I ventured out into the great beyond.
Holding my shoulders.
A poncho draping
In loose folds.
I held my name, an essence
I can only begin to grasp,
in unity. Between notions
so fractal, they move
in faceted fashion
of fingerling fineness.

Flower of immortality,
nocturnal halo, candles
glowing in darkened candor.

Nymphs sing in perfect
tones of emanated radiance,
flowing essence.
The power to behold fulfills
the nucleus of divine being.

Staggered I fluctuate
on waves of ethereal,
outward and in.
Blending boundaries,
until thinking disappears.
The child enters now,
oscillating from lacelike expansion,
to creviced contraction.
The place where time and space
appear both odd, and more tangible.

Painted with memory, wafting
with scent, it carries me
back in time to mildewy leaves,
in the shade of the mottled tree.
The rainbow shimmer in each apple bough
sage green, white, and dark olive leaves,
purple and russet queen bark.
Veins, buds, opening, closing.
The world is breathing,
one breath.

Three-part movement

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Heart.
Carnation rose –
unfurling being,
rings the bell of images,
beholding memory.

Dewdrops of saffron light
sing in the echo;
the rising source,
pure, subliminal, ever-present.

A wondering wish
of wild revelry.
The reckless dreamer
gazes into the blue beyond.

Rhythm.
Unlike the steadiness of beat.
Rather the varying harmony of waves
washing the shore,
from hushed brushes,
to crashing tides.

Or the sacred proportion within
a fern unfolding,
Spiraling in golden unity –
its green-apple transparency against the rays of sun.

A visual graph marking,
in progression,
the irregular order of the cosmos.

Trust.
A symphony in endless acts.
As long as life.
My work in progress.

Sleeves folding back repeatedly.
Breathing.
Allowing the process to happen.
Acknowledging the other.
Saying yes to being.
Knowing that I am enough.
Smiling when I get off balance.

With each turn, the core
opens, in contrast of light and shadow,
a little more, exposed.

The fire was stolen

Wonder by Alex Grey

The fire was stolen
from the gods.
In its embers I saw a glowing universe.
Form and emptiness. Matter and spirit.
The eyes of the soul.

I sat on top of the world
Beneath the light of the full moon,
its light spreading.

In the silence, before the open temple
I found myself, the form of many truths,
the twinkle of my own star.

I penetrated the world I know viscerally.
From cell to cosmos.
Finding boundaries.
Overcoming thresholds.

Spirals of rainbows unfurled
inward and out.
From man to temple,
into the surrounding effigies.

A world unspoken
that lies between layers
of ethereal realities.

I sang my song in the stillness,
saw energy move in ancient gestures.

At sunrise I found laughter
resonating in my belly.

The echo of creation,
and the universe’s wink.
Sleep a long forgotten sister.

I plodded the sand, the whiteout,
the open loudness
in search of peace.

I stared my discomfort
and fear in the face.
Every time I closed my eyes
visions fought to hold on
to my tired mind.
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Sacred Fire

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burning bright
cleanses my soul
through the night.

Aspiring high the flames
tear, licking the sky
in formless wear.

Millions of tongues,
in unspoken languages,
consecrate
the essence of the divine.

We stand together
as one
witness to our
indelible, unsolvable self
and to all that is other.

To whispered murmurs and hushes,
to the bird in the rushes.

In secret pockets of the night
embers glow of eyes that see.

Forward and back
beneath the vast sky,
in luminescence.

Mine and yours,
a heavenly embrace.

With all that is movement,
growth
process.

Unfurling spiral of life
seed, shoot, leaf, flower.

And back, withering
becoming with the earth
underneath and over.

The tide runs in and out
as it follows the secret
stories of the moon.

Eyes glow and tears shine.
A quintessential saltiness
pressed from deep within.

I release to witness.
My heart quickens.

The in and out breath
that shapes us.
The bridge between
words
arcane, sudden.

‘To see the world in a grain of sand
and the heavens in a wild flower’
said William Blake
mystic, poet, unknown.

My breath soft and shallow,
I soar into the sky
holding form, dear
to essence,
one instant, so precious.

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I clad myself in rain

red-rose-sideI clad myself in rain
donning the color
of the morning sky.

My cheeks unfolding
in the spiral movement
of the rose.
My breath whispering
like the rocking of the tide.

Sometimes I sing in the stillness,
sometimes my voice is clear
like spring water,
or the gurgling of an infant.

Sometimes I stand inside a cave:
In front of the door
there is a stone.
No one can enter or exit.

But this morning
dewdrops form
on the silhouette
of my body
in the newfound light.

I wear a wide hat
shaped like a cloud,
and in silent requiem,
I compose an ode
to the seagulls
floating effortlessly on gusts
of wind–swooping,
screeching,
a call as wild as life.

A pattern so arcane
and mysterious
it trembles in my throat.

My Name

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I searched and found that I have a name of kings. In an ancient language it means gift. It was chosen because in my father’s mind it was associated with outlaw. My parents were smitten by the rebellion and freedom-searching of a generation that wore flowers in their hair.

Along with my first name—a short name with lots of sound, a boy’s name in a girl’s body—came my second, or middle name. This was a cool sip of water that had Gaelic origins, and whispered and sighed, saying yes to unity and divine power. It welcomed all the gods, and spoke of its feminine gentleness.
Together, I was one. Clad in both my costumes, I became whole. I contained the sun and the moon, the male and the female. I had strength, frailty and awareness. I was the giver, and the taker. The fountain of life from whose source clear water sprung for others to drink. The one who also drew in and absorbed, and perhaps often, redistributed in one form or another. Sometimes form became ethereal, and in its diaphanous shimmering it sang into the moonlight, evoking an echo from a distant land that resonated over time. Who are you? Speak my language…
Growing up I always wanted to be a boy, and yet have come to find myself in my woman’s body and mind. A revelation in happening, I became who I was meant to be. I have walked on many paths, and am now finding the road that leads home. In its authentic moment of genesis my destiny was chosen and prescribed. My identity was written in my name—short sounding and sliding in its simmering emphasis.
Followed it was by a long whispering and secret sigh. This word was humble, and yet stood apart defining the identity of that which came before it. It made me a woman in my boy’s garb. Somehow it was my true calling and, if I could, I would have chosen it as mine—as a way to make myself known to the world around me. Not as a boy, a bandit, but as one who spoke truthfully, who in her wholeness contained wholesomeness. Who could describe the rainbow in its evanescence, and sit by the side of the river contemplating the passing water, and its shore. In that relationship—of shore and ocean—I found devotion, and also my true love, whose name speaks of salvation.
It was later, when I discovered in the gift of my name a most profound essence that had meaning beyond words. It signified that I was the bridge between opposite shores. I could speak both languages and make hands shake. Peace was in the making. I contained the power of the gift and was able to receive it.

Brine

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Blue and white extend far beyond
the open sky, melting the sea,
its turquoise expanse crashing
into white waves. Bubbles of foam in a mad
rushing caress caught between water and shore.

Brine mixed with the smell of fish and seaweed
evaporates into the air.
Earth and sea emit a primal sound
that rocks me to and fro
soothing my tousled emotions.

Beyond the coastline, wild palms
frayed by the careening wind,
their fronds point arrow-like
toward the cobalt sky.

Snowbirds in groups stand huddled
and distant. They observe my approach
in a diffident stance, and shy away
as soon as I am too close.

Pelicans, one body in flight,
swerve gracefully above the horizon,
each part of a greater whole.
Their motion, a symphony in action,
touches me deep within.
A beauty so perfect
it sips of the divine
and startles my uneven breaths, caught
between whim, and insight.

Barefoot on the sand, I spread my feet
wide to the touch of broken seashells;
somewhere in between pleasure and pain,
I imagine a massage of organs churned
in the motion, and my foot opens, unfurls
distends, breathes.

The sun glows tangerine before sinking
below the horizon, pulling with it
my discomfort and any critical sense left.
As the night descends with
its loose cloak of velvet blackness,
humor enlivens my own shores:
this country of impatient physicality
now approaching acceptance.

I stand in my flesh,
more compassionate,
distilled by the pickle of vodka.

Magic in my pores

IMG_4494The fresh air works its soothing
magic in my pores. I breathe in
rain drizzle and salt spray.

Seagulls veer overhead.
The sun shines a glimmering
stripe over the Cascade Mountains
in the bay beyond.

The day has passed
indulging in passions and care.
Soaking, cooking, playing music,
reading, yoga. Now it’s time
for the most attended arrival.

I have sat down, picked up
my black journal, uncapped
my fountain pen, and started
writing.

I let words flow without searching
or effort. Images flit across the mind
like black and white birds flying low
and fast over the water.

They thrust their wings and bodies
forward and back in a tension
willed toward freedom, love,
nurture.

Each year the seasons turn
the wheel of time, arching
their smile in chromatic hues
over the months.

In her own bird and beast,
flower and tree, resonate
from nature’s call.

Responding to an inner will,
a promise to the gods,
or a drink from the tree of life.

Like them, my words are willed
to grow, transform,
move toward what is felt,
yet unknown.