I hear the moth tangled in the lamp
And the clock’s tick tick
Metronome,
And I am left with stray thoughts
Looking for a home,
Trying to delineate
Where things stand,
And how we do
This dance,
Never giving it a name,
And more interestingly,
How we already simultaneously know
The steps.
Tag: Meditation
Shifting Tides
Feel the pull
Of the tide
As it moves out
And collects;
Collects its expressed waves,
Feel the sand as it recedes from beneath bare feet,
All signs inform,
“It is coming,”
this next wave;
It is what you have been preparing for,
Bracing for;
Feel the shift in the air,
see the wave
As it emerges,
Now a crest
That too
Has been waiting;
Awaiting this very moment,
To crash;
Break
Upon the sand
Upon the rocks and shells,
And upon creatures
In its path,
Awakening, refreshing,
Anointing
With memories of the distant,
Bringing the far near,
To then recede,
With the shifting
Of the tide;
Again feel the pull,
How familiar this dance!
For we are
In all ways too
Moving with,
And as the tide.
Magick of Being
Time is
an illusion
It’s ever a moment at a time,
Each individual one
We think
We have,
Yet, we only know of it
Once it’s passed,
Worry not
For what has come and gone,
Live in the present
To make Being
last.
Incense
Today I purchased lavender,
myrrh,
dragon’s blood,
frankincense
incense
now as I lay to sleep
the scents linger in my nostrils,
the gentle aromas play
with my imagination,
creating dreamscapes
for me to dream when I close my eyes.
Imagined Words
When I was young
I used the write stories and poetry
In my head.
Too quick for pen and paper
The stories unfolded before my mind’s eye,
Like drops of rain I could try
To catch them,
But surely I would miss too many to try,
I would lie in bed
With words my dreams,
With words the sheep I would count,
But surely with such tales on play
There was no way rest I would take
I would imagine the words
Being spoken from my mouth,
The thought of the sound of my own voice,
Catching and releasing the words from my lips,
And yet not a noise would be made.
When I was young
I was a dreamer,
An artist,
A dream artist,
Painting mental pictures
Of the imagined works
of this poetess.
Coalescence (A Hot Mess)
She of Letters 