The nimbleness of intelligence

microbiome

~

How many times

will I shed raw and return?

Or is it a stronger current

amorphously assembling and deconstructing

in circuitous layers of attendance

as I unwittingly rally

behind the porosity of thought

the seduction of knowledge

~

I am a small planet

a symbiotic microbial world

my mind’s peripheral orbit

has flung so far out

in its trajectory that now

my axis seems nearly invisible

but I can still feel it…

this bright nucleus of love

teeming with life

~

Tepid fleshed, soft and juicy

I navigate through

this microbial stew

with winged thoughts

a heart that prisms lightning

and opposable dancing thumbs

exploring this finely tuned internal edge

tingling with the emotive tracings

of “new” frontiers

~

While underground

the nimbleness of intelligence

arises in quietude

fervent, listening

patiently listening

for openings of emergent steam

clear signs of the heat of engagement

~

I look “out there” from inside the swarming warmth

positioning myself in the spaces in between

practiced in resistance to the consistent hum of patterns and static

The quietude continues to rise from its circuitous path

this time through the soles of my feet

rising to the opening in my sky when I hear

“Out here! Out here! Not out there! We’re right here!

We’re all right here… playing in the fields of wild light”

~

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Picture source: Teach the Microbiome

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Mamma clock

Turrell

~

You were never adventurous

insisting on sticking to interaction

proscribed a sure thing

trying to be a “good girl” but always told

you were never good enough…

I was the one thrown into the air by each season

intoxicated by a flower’s breath

building new homes out of cardboard or snow

exhuming pets I was curious about death and bones and teeth

climbing trees listening to their heart sap

nipping change from Norman’s penny jar just for the sneak of it

not caring much about showing my girl parts to the neighbor boys

my anatomy a fire fly in a jar

And there you were pushing me off

unsteady on two bicycle wheels

as if your moods weren’t the day’s bad weather

and me always approaching you with the caution

of the kid held flat out in high winds

and now you were casting me off like a baby bird

as if you yourself knew how to fly

Well…little did I know your strange insistence

was giving me more than wings

your internal Mamma clock was saying

it was time I learned to fly

sending me on my way

with all you had learned of trust 

and the red apple of your love

watching me

as I took off and kept rolling

~

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Artist: Terry Turrell

Verde Corazon

fern

~

my sleeping fingers hear night rain

they sweep wide 

opening a window

my waking skin is dampened

smelling wakened soil

~

my blood is pulsing

melting runoff

~

breathing it all in

deep as my lungs will take it

  tender buds

unfurl in my brain

without thought

~

full to bursting

~

………………………………………………………………………………………..

photo: nezartdesign

Finger prints

magdalen

~

You were imprinted on my fingertips

written as dim memory

in line and skin

~

I kept your image at arms length

or balled it into a fist

A turning away

from the violence

As if there is no real death in ascending?

~

As a child

it is true

I was taught to expect some relationship

while being impressed into the feverish tribe

of Jesus watching

~

Before me

pale lipped men

created tension

bells ringing

Climaxing

with a tiny chaste taste

~

Who clothed me

in this rag tag skin of living words?

Held hostage

~

Until

I fall pummeled and wading

in the waves of this unexpected birthing

Free now to love you simply as a man

~

A man of flesh and bread and wine

who once lived to turn the world.

~

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Artist: Caravaggio

Their cadence syncopated by raindrops and bird calls

~

Max Ernst

   ~

Softening their intelligence

transparent as water and air

they meander through the maps of their minds

unraveling the edges of illusion

~

Circumnavigating the solid grid of references

they walk deftly under the ladders of hierarchy

The flight of their passions

entertaining the complexities of insight

~

Their cadence syncopated

by raindrops and bird calls

they resonate as bells ringing

weathering the storms of vulnerability

~

Each of their words

the flesh of their hearts

their ageless spirits

carry loss as kites in the wind

~

While planting bright seeds

in fecund dust

where some may grow

under the radar

~

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Artist: Max Ernst

 

He sang my pulse a metronome

#4

~

I once took a lover

Substantial as the undertow

He sang…

He sang my pulse a metronome

As mermaids surfaced mesmerized

~

He showed me between his strong legs

Thick hairs, long soaked in the moon

Permeated with his strength and compassion

~

To love and be loved is evermore

His words becoming the flesh of dreams

I moved like seaweed in his tides

Undulate and grounded

Melding with the cello of his landing

~

Compelled, the spirits

Shufflling wistfully in dust

Remembered their names

Became eager for color

Incanted lullabies

Spellbound by our heat

As it rose to claim them

~

Proud, my body animal

Went to ground bearing seed

I became witness and thunder

Rounded and swelling in storms

Unfolding broad wings bearing rain

A haloed tunnel of bone and cusp

~

All forgotten in the first cry of birthing

As in this moment my world split in two

And continued to divide into ocean and land

Both realms indigenous to the lost souls of Man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Artist:  “Whispers” Monique Passicot

Loosely Binding

Hanji

The making of Hanji paper ….

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mulberry bark

Gather,

skin, boil, wash, pound

In winter

cover with the root mucus … of hibiscus manihot.

Blended together … artfully form.

In a warm room … dry slowly … covered with stones.

I am durable … unpreserved I outlast civilizations

Enter my door … I am cool in summer, warm in winter

Impenetrable … the rain that falls can not dim my light

~

Accompanied by cricket sound in a field of stars

I sit in the soft glow of papered lamp light

it’s ancient tradition a beckoning

all my loved ones resting deep in sleep,

and tonight a great nest of grandchildren

dreaming of mountain tadpoles

and the wild strawberries they picked

as their own sun kissed bodies ripened in the sun

In this moment

I wonder at the naturalness of this great love that binds us

I am dazed by this spiraling life my heart forever flies towards

while still maintaining my own self … full, nurturing, self providing

I sit here like an open field arms held wide for it all

Tonight looking out at the shadows cast in response to our light

the dreaming of this family and the vast silence of living surrounds me

I wrap myself round with the wonder of it all

At the strength and resilience this steady cadence our hearts beat

Seemingly fragile

But oh, so strong

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Hanji paper is a traditional paper made in Korea from the inner bark of the paper mulberry. It is durable with archival properties and can be openly displayed in museums without protection. It is a good ventilator but can also keep a room warm so it is used to cover their wooden framed doors. It is also waterproof. It’s translucent qualities lend well to the artistry of shading lamps.

Hanji Paper Artist: Kitty Jun-Im

Assembling

ahingas

~

Ahingas at dawn

poised between the viscous and the thinning

drying their wings

~

Algae blooming

convoluted and impatient

now remembering their place

~

A  young man  with dark eyes

continually filling his truck bed

with damaged and forest overgrowth

~

Muscling new piers with humor

immersed in sea water

they’re building the new bridge

~

The many Gods speaking as the roots of Origin

actively assemble

the thaw

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 I sat on the dock overlooking the fresh water lake each day watching the ahingas. They are cousins to the cormorant and pelican, sometimes called “snakebird” as they swim submerged except for their heads above the water. Their feathers aren’t waterproof like ducks, so they open and dry their wings off before being able to take flight. There’s a lot of silent standing, occasional diving, gliding and wing drying….but mostly just standing there facing the light.

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Photo…”Ahingas” Meher Baba Center, North Myrtle Beach, SC

Collage collaboration!

Blue

~

It’s been a steamy tropical summer here in the Blue Ridge Mountains. At odd moments errant cloud bursts are signaled by the booming of thunder and zig-zag flashes of light. Just as suddenly the clouds part and the air radiates with the returning intense heat of the sun and everything changes color. I’ve become accustomed to waiting out the impenetrable sheets of rain. They rarely last long. It’s as if someone is having fun with the on/off switch. Makes me wonder what the birds and bees are doing during these drenching interludes.

And I’ve been traveling a bit…the bath tub waters of the Gulf Coast and a retreat on the southern Atlantic coast with alligators and jellyfish. My most recent trip was a road trip to upstate NY to celebrate with my Father on his 94th birthday!

Upon my return, I was delighted to find a request from fellow blogger, Marcy Erb. She wanted to know if I’d be interested in allowing her to post my poem “I dream of being a weed…” with a collage she was creating inspired by the poem. What a great idea Marcy! Another weed lover…and so much more! If you aren’t familiar with Marcy’s blog,  head right over there. She has begun designing a Major Arcana with birds as the focus. Her alignment of archetypal symbology is so unique, relevant and beautiful, I’ve become completely captivated. The links are below….

“I dream of being a weed…”

The Emperor

The Tower

The Wheel of Fortune   …. and my favorite!

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pastel: j h white

Beauty waits

 418c5e593a71678f65e31eae9b152181

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

it fills the spaces left behind

a tenderness that registers the slightest wind

so vulnerable it stops breath from breathing

in sudden recognition of how hard it is

to fill space when empty

waking each day turned inside out

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

That sharp clacking of stone upon stone

leaving a path of shards

the hidden gravity that shades the color blue

Where memory seems more than skin

translucent but barnacled…

a legacy of the light of dead stars

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

it separates the cut edges

opening abrasions with graveled hands

where hearing is more sensitive than sight

as music evokes both acid and balm

and the heaviness of dreaming

is carried in weary flesh

~

There is nothing ambiguous about loss

I am ever present in its deep grain

comprising the growth rings

through which side branches grow

I have become something other than I was

something less something more

while separated from beauty

~

This seemingly inexhaustible thirst

redeemed in the breath of wildness

each inhalation responding

each exhalation my wordless prayer

In animal distress

I bend low at the stream

Silent, listening…. I drink

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Photo credit: http://amolecularmatter.tumblr.com/