(S.W.A.K.)
The sea breeze sends a kiss
on my cheek a mark
of our brief encounter.
It came without warning
and I was ready
though caught by surprise.
The window to my heart
opened a heart-shaped shell
a handful of smooth stones.
I wanted for nothing but
wanted more.
An empty chamber smooth and winding
it entered and a spark ignited.
Life answered the call
and I was home
whole and wholesome.
The front door sealed shut
the encounter from my beating heart
where language and oneness
have no barrier even here
even here.
Category: Connection
Stories connect us
Each Leaf
Change is the natural order of things.
Each leaf reached the highest highs
Full bloom and glory
And now the lowest lows
The underbrush.
Each leaf, each expression,
each color
as unique as a snowflake.
Tear
A tear in the fabric
Discarded and forgotten
no time to mend the broken
The wind broke the silence
and the leaves twirled
unable to change their course.
Strong foundations seemed to crumble
and rumble, left tattered
and back to their original stone.
Was it too late to turn back time?
Have I had enough of this game of chance
where no one wins?
The night brought an early chill,
even though it was only late afternoon.
A voice seemed to stir
from the rubble, from the tattered
and torn into shreds.
The stars shined through
A reminder that all isn’t lost
all isn’t gone in the dark.
There is a constant light that can never dim.
Of Shadow and Light
I. Shadows in the corner
A face looks out the window
as I play unaware of its piercing
eyes and snarled face.
It watches me often.
Appears here and there.
I feel helpless and scared.
Those watchful eyes and scowled face.
II. The light turns and turns
Other times I have this power
or at least I think I do.
My bedroom ceiling light.
With its round opaque glass
And swirling patterns of ribbon and flowers.
By its own accord, it spins above my head
Slowly and steadily.
Sometimes I follow it with my finger.
Other times I will it to turn.
Tracing the path
Round and round.
It gets the message.
And the glass starts to spin.
Matching its pace to my pointed finger.
Sometimes I reverse the trace,
just to see if it responds.
And it always does.
This relationship, this power.
A track to follow.
My eyes fixated on its path.
We do this little dance.
I follow you.
You follow me.
The glass never unwinds itself
off its hinges or crashes down.
Just above me as I slumber,
It turns and turns.
[ Based on true events ]
Patchwork
Patchwork of clouds
thread, thread, thread
pink, orange marmalade
light blue and a gray hue
Summer June bugs buzzing in my ears
left to right
hidden from sight.
An end of summer soiree
Easily missed
if shut indoors.
A serene scene
unseen
when we get lost
in our screens.
Each generation
Each generation faces its own
struggle and strife.
We demand answers to our questions.
We search for firm footing.
The answers are not so clearcut
bold and obvious – though sometimes they are.
Simple solutions seem almost laughable.
The riddle rattles around in our head.
It tumbles and rolls quiet
like a desert weed across a vast landscape
or loud
like coins in a canister
we shake up and down
or a magic ball that should solve all!
Conclusive, personal it is not.
And what of the scholar who writes and reads
scouring pages upon pages
fixed wood in their hands.
The letters fall off the page.
Can I pluck them off one by one
and make sense of the chatter?
The noise that rattles.
It morphs from chatter to laughter,
sob and sigh.
A tooth-saw grin etched into wood.
A permanent mark of what I once understood.
The Ripple Effect
The ripples of light
A reflection of the moon
still, stagnant, a clear mirror of
what’s above, so below.
Which image is true?
Which image, the reflection?
A pebble in the water
will break that perfect, serene image.
Life each day is full of pebbles.
They can disrupt a clear scene,
- real or imagined –
thought, plan, or idea.
And now you are at a crossroads.
or plans get derailed,
Goals change.
Our focus and interests evolve as pebbles too.
The fluidity reminds me to not be so rigid
and stuck.
Like a mirror of glass,
I can reflect in my own imperfect image.
And that is just as real or valid.
Imagined or rooted in the here and now.
The ripple effect.
Some pebbles are big, heavy rocks
that make a big splash
Disrupting the quiet.
The waters are moved with brute force.
A little pebble may not have such a loud,
obvious effect.
But its ripples still go out, far and wide.
Is there a cause and effect?
Do our stones create the waves
of rage or anger?
or serenity on our shores
further down the journey?
We can’t hold all the stones to prevent their departure.
Release them into the waters.
Transform them into sand.
Hardships meet resistance.
Sharp jagged edges get smoothed down.
Even if it breaks into a million pieces,
the rock is still ever present.
Holding onto the rocks would be a burden,
their weight, their heaviness,
and sharp edges.
We wouldn’t feel or see the joy
and lightness that surrounds us.
If we drop them all at once,
it’s like hitting rock bottom.
A jarring crash to the system.
Can I let go of this stone,
even the pretty ones?
I can carry them in my pocket
but eventually there will be a hole
or they will be lost without my attention or care.
Then I will feel loss, grief, dismay.
But it wasn’t all resting on
what the stone represents.
It is all inside of me.
The burden and the light.
The sadness and the joy.
There is safety in letting go.
Now I am free to embrace the day,
to make connections,
to feel joy, love, peace, and gratitude.
Accepting that a perfect,
serene scene was never
the end goal anyway.
Finding my Voice
I used to be afraid of the dark
and the deep shadows in the
corners and depths unseen.
A watchful eye, I did not feel alone.
My voice was not to be believed or
listened to.
First by others
then by my own accord.
It felt drowned out by many others
whose voices rose above
and outmatched mine.
I no sooner gave up.
How many years would pass before I
could sing and chant
to my growing belly
in my kundalini mantras.
My voice like a bellow
no longer soft and meek.
It reverberated off the walls
and landed in my heart
and in my palm.
My body shifted and transformed.
Motherhood.
I was ushered into a new role.
Determined to be more loving, more present,
more grateful.
I not only found my voice,
I found my courage
and the authority to
speak what is mine.
I am paving the way
for the next generation
to be believed.
To be seen and heard.
At nightfall
At nightfall we run with abandon.
We feel alive and invincible,
unaware of our own fragility.
Walking on a wire, we coax that
necessary bravery
to balance the task and the act.
At nightfall we run with abandon.
The amusement rides lit up and flashing
Old relics of a bygone era
Still functioning with a dated beauty.
The blossom disappears underfoot in the dark.
I try to save it and place it in my pocket
for protection, for safekeeping,
unaware that my own reckless abandon
could still crush it as my heart beats in my chest.
Laughing and playing,
Feeling alive and free.
I plucked that blossom.
Some beauty spoke to me.
A language that you were mine
for the taking.
And I acted on that urgency.
At nightfall we run with abandon,
not knowing what tomorrow brings.
How flashing lights were to sparkle never again.
How fun summer nights were limited.
Childhood seems so random.
Our family, so random.
The choice is not ours.
And we grow up together
Awkward in our adult-shaped bodies.
Our minds want to stay light.
To play with reckless abandon,
not knowing how short one life is
compared to the next.
What we do matters less than who we are
We tend to work like old cars.
Something goes.
The engine,
The body,
The smooth flow of heat and friction,
The get up and go,
The pedal to the metal, as they say.
But we are not machines nor computers.
Even if society tricks us,
Influences us,
Tells us otherwise.
I am more than a widget giving an output.
Yes, we all need each other.
We are an interdependent species,
Even when we can feel the most alone.
Our time is sacred and limited,
Precious and potent.
How can society run simpler
and with less friction, tension and pressure
so that what we do matters less than who we are
and how we show up?
Maybe that is what maturity is
and taking time to ask the questions,
not just reacting and repeating
the rote memory of what we have always done.
Healing Insights 