Summer Arrives
Rain has brought green to blades of grass
As spring fades and hides again.
The moss rose peeps out with promises
She will keep in deep pinks and bright yellows.
Hosts of many colors dazzle the heart
Reminding the soul of harvest.
Short nights allow dark thoughts to transform
Into bouquets where birds gather and twitter.
Life becomes a slow, soft, sweet song
Flowing from and back again into the Divine Belovèd.
Time—Being Precious
“As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go”
—Emily Dickinson, “After great pain”
likely Narcissus breathes
on her mirror of self esteem
prompting her to glean
your pen across myth
peers down nose at her—
she spits you adulation
(more than anything even!)
but itches you not be you—
Narcissus’ brain gorges
on its own mind and heart—
you pray she move in joy and love—
as she goes on angling your lake of words
imagining schools of stinking thoughts
spawning to spurn her, to scorn her,
to snub her, to slight her!—
freezing persons must let go the freeze—
let her hooking your thoughts
to spit at her stay mysterious—
no more bootless musing—
your time—being precious
Image: Created by Grok & ChatGPT Inspired by “In the Shelter of Thy Glory”
In the Shelter of Thy Glory
I am here
At Thy call.
I do not see
Nor hear Thee,
Lest Thou dost flee,
Yet Thou dost flee,
And I glide
With illusion.
But disillusion
Will return me
When at last
I know I need rest.
I am feeble
But Thou art stable.
I am now humming
Near Thy name.
Touching the hymn
Of Thy word,
I will sing Thee into being,
Calling Thee Father, Mother,
Divine Friend.
Resting in Thy love,
My soul’s light grows
In the shelter of Thy glory.
The Open Window
Seven Rimed Couplets for Sister Parvati
As the Divine Belovèd reveals
The closing door, all melodrama repeals
Her burden, and to the open window grand,
She will step into the light and stand.
Peering into the blue of mystic seas,
She will bask in the divine restoring breeze.
With the Creator of Souls will her soul glow—
The Divine Mind her mind the mystery show.
He taught her to remember that the soul
Through eternal tranquility remains whole
Though the mind darts hither and yon
And the body equals dust, dusk to dawn.
She will practice the joy of love night and day,
And to earn the bliss of stillness, His word obey.
In Our Own Paradise
for my belovèd husband, my sweet Ron
So, what if the sidewalks were painted yellow?
Something horribly bright might happen:
A ball of brine might replace the moon—
Yet we would still find our favorite table
At any café in any town we choose to visit.
You would still smile every time
You remember where we have been
Each year as we have followed the map—
Unfettered, unafraid, roving in Joy.
Shining mugs clinging to our Solace.
Scoffers have long been repudiated.
We have snuffed all their guesses
That we would part bitter and repentant.
You have remained my better hero,
And I have become your solid half.
I take flight in words to remind you
Of your quiet beauty, and the stars remind us
That we were long aligned to follow a shared destiny.
We have crafted on earth as near a heaven
As is allowed by this dual-powered Maya delusion.
Our home allows us to breathe, stretch, and be still,
Embracing the boundary that holds us
In the evanescent glory that the larger world tries
So hard to conceal in pettiness and selfish riots,
That work so hard at tarnishing with its lies.
From the pocked past, we have grown smooth edges.
Each a different spiritual identity, united yet unique,
We go about our days in harmony and balance,
Practicing spirit as the world traffics in mud-clod ways,
Stewing in caves of ignorance and deceit.
Forsaking the past has become a blessing
And even if we must recall certain evil acts
Practiced against us, our ark points toward Eternity,
Where we will abide in the land beyond dreams—
Yet, for now, in-but-not-of this valley of sorrows.
We are perfecting skills, leaving this Maya dream behind us;
Thus, we have learned to breathe in our own paradise.
Reading
Image: “Autumn dawn with crickets and prayers” created by ChatGPT inspired by “Crickets in the Morning”
Crickets in the Morning
“It has always seemed to me that autumn crickets are especially loud.” —anonymous
The politics of anguish
Clatters in the voices
Of the masses
That would sing in dawn
Among the grasses.
When you hear them
In the morning
You wonder what
They did all night.
And if they prayed for morning.
Image: Created by ChatGPT inspired by “A Soul Escaping the Soil”
A Soul Escaping the Soil
I’m not the little girl I once knew.
My womanhood blooming like compost:
Roses growing from my cheeks.
My hands pushing up daisies.
I was always a quiet woman.
That stone speaks louder than I ever did,
Announcing my name and age
To every eye that passes by.
I’m not the same woman anymore.
My neighborhood hovering over hers.
She pulls at me, though, as if I still had heartstrings.
I left her slowly, the bird accustomed to its cage.
My skin of light is not hers now.
She lies stone still in her motion of decomposing.
Image: “Prayer by the Sea at Sunset” Created by ChatGPT inspired by “At Thy Sea”
At Thy Sea
Blood steeped nerves bow before Thee.
Blossoming Rose Divine,
Accept my devotion’s wine.
Thou hast seen my trembling lips
Murmuring prayer that erupts
From despair that corrupts
My soul that silently seeks Thee.
My hands offer lesser roses
To the coffer where love reposes.
Sing through me as I worship at Thy sea.
Gather each note to its full sweet breath
Let Thy boat carry me home before death
Plays his trick to blind me to Thee.
Sing through me as I worship at Thy sea.
Serendipity on a Gentle Breeze
Summer wears a smile all winter long
Waiting in the wings for wings and things.
Spring poems fill their pockets with sharp
Little stones, musical shells, and wispy feathers
Of the tall grasses at the edge of the yard.
She will not go outside unless
A cerulean garden calls her name
& offers her hot peppers,
Tomatoes, and squash.
Then she will fly the cloud flag of heaven
As the blanching light of the sun
Crosses the path around the rim
Of the house where she resides
Full of moonbeams
Praying for constant brightness
Less severity from her fellows
& an autumn decked out in a riot
Of rustic hues that flame to the touch
Of the eye and rustle in the ear.
Now when winter burns, she will scorch
Each word and torch her soul
Back into the arms of paradise
Waning in the world but waxing in her heart
As a warm memory flows along the mind
Like a balloon carried on a gentle breeze.
Image: Created by Grok inspired by “Lonely Offices”
Lonely Offices
“What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?” —from Robert Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays”
At her invitation,
He appears in her dream
Visiting the farm
Where she was raised.
Years have separated their paths,
Through schools of anxiety,
And she is chasing a phantom
Down the fog-dusted dreamscape.
He appears with briefcase in hand.
Instead of facing her in conversation,
He spreads a pile of papers over
A large table, begins studying them.
Offhand, he asks her what she wants.
Dream fog swallows her answer,
But he empathically asserts,
“Any response will cost $192,119.46!”
A price she equally emphatically
Rejects as she gasps,
Trying to grasp his proposal
To prostitute himself.
Yet she knows she will never comprehend
The offer and even if she had the cash,
She would never hand it over.
She picks up her guitar and walks forward
Saying, “I will sing some of my songs for you—
For free.” He rejects the offer, stuffs his papers
Into the briefcase, and without a word or gesture
Of farewell, walks back into the fog of illusion.
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