Written while being sat

written while sittin'

there is no one who waits.

the one who waited 

never was

Nor was content to assent

to what is.

nothing more than this exists

it is

found

and humorous

kind

no argument for or against rises,

 the wave tosses the driftwood.

12.15.2014  on being encompassed by nothing more or less

From time to time I am rediscovering pieces of written breadcrumbs on the trail to this moment. 12.16.2020

Yogini

the winnowed grain
the pearl
the jewel from the quarry of many words:

feeling is my practice.
feeling is my way of devotion.
feeling riveted to the center.

for Her sake,
Shiva does not move.

for a yogini
everything
is a rose petal on the altar.

new year pearls

i walked among the trees today
my hand swirling pearls
in the pocket of my vest
mixed with rosemary from NM,
fragrant, smooth, earthy, sea born.

open
 to find a tree
open
 to receive a pearl
the trees  appeared out of the corner of my eye
or right in front of me.

i don't  know why i am drawn to do this
the necklace long ago undone.

you can imagine the pearl
resting in the opening
usually at the base of the tree
sometimes, though, higher up the trunk.

i don't know why i do this
it doesn't matter why.
it's done
in thanks
to the mystery of life,
to this giving and receiving.

In Between

naked in the rain

 i left apples 

In the crook of a tree
for the creature who finds them.

something deeper than everything

 calls me

to connect

to the unseen.

October 31 2019

Mother

My mother
My grief
My love

I think I am dying
She told my dad
How intimate
What a connection they shared.

through the dissolution
of her body and mind
we connected,
she and i
my mother and i connected

Help me
she said
and i did.

taking the time

he said he saw her that morning,
the old lady,
the grandmother,
on her knees in the kitchen
picking up oatmeal
flakes of oatmeal

when the bag of garbanzo beans over flowed
onto the kitchen floor today
and i knelt down
picking them up
one at a time
i thought of the old woman

knowing the value of one thing
taking the time
to pick it up

it is not the first time that memory has returned

i stop to pick up
i kneel to wipe the floor
i take the time

maybe

maybe - he wrote page after page
just that word

maybe
i am waiting, for courage
to write,
to let this voice be commanding
in its kind quest to awaken and be heard

it was awakened
and i think it frightened me a bit
so strong it was
so sure
so deft with words
how could something so spontaneous be considered of value?
how could it be trusted?

and then there are her paintings,
joan mitchell
i see pieces of my thread are the full fabric of her expression.

  so
maybe
that's where i am living from, right now,
dear Jack.