Sea Healing

A wild unruly coastline --
Waves march in ordered sequence
to end in joyous explosions of spray.
Sand etched daintily by the feet of gulls
shivers from the orgasmic thud of surf.
Jagged chins of rock jut defiantly,
tearing fog into grey rags.

Windblown pines,
arthritic sentinels of the shore,
guard its secrets from the sea's
unrelenting inquiries
and sigh in conspiratorial whispers
like bewhiskered old men retelling
oft-told tales.

Stepping lightly,
I walk down long logs
hoping an agate will wink at me.
My hair is salted by the wind.
Eyes down,
I wait for God.

Perspective Shift

Today my world view shifted.
I looked out a window whose shades have been drawn.
I've likened life to a ladder,
Stepping on rungs of the present
That rest on the foundation of past experience
To ascend (note the connotation of "progress")
To the future.
An upward journey.
To repeat experiences is failure.
Like the game of Chutes and Ladders.
That's the image I've sculpted,
The script I have written.
By that standard, I feel like a loser.
I've barely climbed out of the slime!
This was a day I drew back the curtains
And saw an ocean, no ladder.
A heap of equal potentials.
No hierarchy.
No up = success or down = failure.
Just movement like breath,
Stirring waves of awareness.
Gently lifting dross to the surface.
Letting light play with it
Wind stir it.
The rhythm of the tides shift it.
And then awareness subsides for a while.
Something new arises.
Life isn't a series of steps!
Life is waves!
This was a day I jumped off the ladder
Into the water.
Abandoned judgement and effort,
Linear seeking,
The journey of Will.
This was a day to be one with the ocean,
To wash up on the beach
Exposing new pebbles,
Be warmed by the sun.
Then slowly be drawn, somewhat changed,
Back to Source.
Mix with the wisdom of the deep,
Recharge and be lifted
To pound against rocks
Or caress the sand again.
I'm awash in acceptance, surrender, cyclic sea change.
I'm always supported.
There's nowhere to fall.
The breathing of the ocean has transformed the earth.
Slow but relentless,
Powerful, gentle.
Atoms of shapeless water
Lap cliffs into sand
Erode calcified thinking
Slowly exposing beauty,
Bringing agates to light.

Hands

Today I look at the hand holding this pen

And am willing to write what I see:

Translucent skin stretched across tendons and bones like a worn umbrella.

A map crisscrossed by blood-bearing rivers.

Age spots sprinkled at random like towns.

All overlaid by gossamer wrinkles –

The topography of time.

I don’t feel fragile, but my hands are beginning

To look like my mother’s.

A peculiar beauty reminiscent of crackled glass.

Young eyes see old hands as a fading,

A metamorphosis toward the grotesque:

Delicate care-worn claws.

Old eyes see old hands as incandescent

Lighted by holding babies, turning earth, soft caresses.

Burnished by love.

Gravity

This was a day to be grounded.

This was a day to slip on elephant shoes and drum the earth.

This was a day to be a boulder perched on a mountainside.

This was a day to slip down and kiss the floor of the valley.

This was not a day to glide on the wind

Skim waves

Froth milk

Tip-toe.

This was a day to be a snake.

Be all belly smoothing the earth.

This was a day to be a sequoia mining the earth with strong roots

Gripping worms

Breaking stones

Holding fast.

This was not a day to let go.

This was a day to let gravity keep me close.

Crazy and Mellow

I have one cat
made out of feathers,
the other
forged from steel.

The one dances on tiptoe,
as light on her feet
as on the eye --
a shadow
barely visible.
Was that a cat?
Let me blink away the blur!

The other plays gorilla,
muscling her way
through space --
her forward thrust
so deliberate
you'd think
air was made of lead.

The light one, Crazy --
A riffle
mincing
delicate
teasing perception.
My hands close in
on a Cheshire grin.

Mellow, the dense --
a waterfall
tumultuous
demanding
defining her reality.
I've captured a panther,
not a cat.

I pick them up --
A scale would say
they weigh nearly the same.

One floats in my fingers,
a ball of fur and purr
suspended in midair
lofted by her desire for
minimal impact.
Her footprints a whisper.

The other sinks earthward,
tightly knit muscles
grabbed by gravity
atoms compacted
by attitude.
Each step
commands attention.

Night Trees

I think trees contemplate the stars at night.
They reach across the sky with tree minds
to acknowledge oneness with their source:
a star's explosion
sowing atoms of carbon like seeds
in the furrows of galaxies,
sprinkling iron like salt
to flavor life.

That's why trees grow upward
in praise of light and order.
Visible proof of the unity of polar opposites --
At once rooted in dark earth,
immobilized in soil,
while branches dance on air,
catching sunlight and moonlight;
weaving dazzling shadow patterns
on the ground beneath them.

Autumn Leave-taking

Long golden tongues --
The wind chides them,
but they are reluctant to lift
from the grass's green palette.
Remembering their tree-born
freedom of articulation,
they heave and shudder gently --
a slight yielding to the coaxing breeze.
Tongues sigh in unison.
A chorus of soft murmurings
muted by dew.

A week passes, and the tongues
become dusky curls
whirling giddily with any breeze
that happens by.
Like nubile girls,
they tempt the wind,
lifting their skirts
then scattering to the safety
of a cloistered heap.
Their laughter rasps sharply
as they play at hide and seek.

A snowfall, heavy and enduring
stills the dancing of the tongues
to demure quiescence.
They darken,
elongate once again.
The syllables of their hushed
conversations slur.
Numbed by cold,
stunned by winter,
the tongues melt into sleep.
There will be no awakening.