Dragonfly on Lotus hull: image re-posted from Enchanted Nature Facebook page
I am the hull and the seed
The stem and the flower
Dry creek bed and flooded field
Crushed by life I am
Forged stronger than bone
Delicate as web threads in attic room
That dragonfly wings should replace a heart
Thumping wildly as the quiet morn
Aloft with a love from the coldest of fires
I am nowhere in everything
All my sounds in a hum
On fire is my soul to sing as one
Image re-posted from Twin Flame Reunion Facebook page
I touch your spirit
Heart full, open and awaken
To the scent of skin
A study in the formation of frost: Photo by Noelle
Who should sing the song of goodness and well being into the world? The Buddha? Jesus? Mother Teresa? Why are we waiting for a great leader when we each have a song of love in our throat? We sing our life into being through our thoughts. Offer anger and the world is dark. Offer tenderness and the world is soft. We sing by thinking and we are always singing.
The world needs simple lullabys as children need them for soothing and sleep. And like a baby the Earth does not know its mother’s voice as stage worthy, nor if it be heard by one or thousands. The Earth simply knows our voice as the voice of love.
There are no small acts of love and no common voices. You are Mohammed or Rumi or Osho. So sing. Sing as though the world were your stage and your heart should burst with the love it has to give out. For in truth, that is how it is.
The Hog Backs: Photo by Noelle
I am enough. Who I am today – light or shadow – is enough. There is no other “me” skin hanging, neatly and stylishly pressed in the closet for me to don. There is no other moment than this one either. Thus, it too, must be enough. My past has already caught the noon bus, and, as is its habit, my future is fashionably late.
I am enough and my time is now.
Life in Concrete: Photo by Noelle
She asks what I want. Such a loaded question. No exit. I want, I want many things but purse strings wrap at my knees and I feel myself falling into her question. I look up. She wants to please me. Her love a warm blanket, tattered but whole. That moneyless handbag dangles off her arm and it’s not the elephant in the room, but rather the herd. I don’t know why she’s asking when there is no way to fill my hunger. I want to tell her not to ask me anymore for my insides she can’t fill. Best not to ask and let me gnaw on my own wants as dog bones left on the floor.
Still, she waits and there’s the tension. The longing to be true and answer with my greatest heart’s desire, because her love deserves that much. Yet to answer is to darken her eyes with that poor man’s shadow. He lingers with his empty pockets in the hallway jingling keys to fool you it was money. I hear him louder sometimes than I hear her. Still, she’s waiting.
I want to love her with an answer she can meet, but all my small hopes are used up. I got nothing but big heart yearnings left and I feel like she can see them straight up, though I’ve worked hard to hide them in the wood pile. “What do you want,” she asks now exasperated. I shove my hands in my pockets, “Nothin’, mama. I’m good.”
I see her sorrow and I eat it whole, like her biscuits. It’s all that’s on the table.
Work in progress from “The Writer’s Church” writing group, Boulder, CO. Hosted by Marj Hahne
Through the Looking Glass: Photo by Noelle
Ballerinas Off Stage: Photo by Noelle
Fireworks: Photo By Noelle
Seed Sun: Photo by Noelle
Image re-posted from the Mind Unleashed Facebook page
Long lines winding up an aisle in incense fog to papery offerings. A feeding of our soul so sterile I am drifting out the door before my mouth opens to receive. Receive what, exactly? Paper, bread, body, blood of Christ. A distorted figure that makes no sense, as I furtively glance at red dripped cross hanging, hanging, hanging for centuries that is an eternal damnation to a heart stuck on butt-worn bench. Sinner ever waiting to be clean. Sit, stand, kneel, sit stand, kneel. Tongues curling round words spoken in mindless cadence that eyes glaze from the loss of meaning. Cold seeps from stone floors into my shoes and all the wiggling toes will not warm my feet. I cough hard to shake the religious congestion loose, purulent and thick with dust.
Doors swing wide. Light pours in. Air fills my lungs.
Communion is the hunger flowing from my spirit alive and green. Running in open fields and winding up forest trails; exploding like Niagara out of the great northern territories. Communion that permeates my skin with loving rain and grounds my feet in Spring mud, a crocus rising at the equinox. Communion that fills me with such wholeness I can no longer tell where I end and dandelion seed begins its journey on the wind of my billow’s breath. Communion flooding the senses with peach juice down a child’s chin and autumn’s smoke of leaf fed fires the incense that opens the nostrils. Communion so sweet my mouth is filled with its mystical wonder and I sing out, an early morning robin alerting all to a day’s break. Communion that is an opening of the heart into a river that floods the delta with endless meandering trails that follow no crafted, structured pattern or timely release. Communion with the unknown, unrehearsed, unpredictable wonder of spirit. Now, on every breath, bookless hands raised to a midnight moon. For that I am famished, parched and deliciously ready to devour.
Working piece from Front Range Writer’s Group on reclamation of words. Marj Hahne facilitator.
Seagulls at Johnson Lake: Photography by Noelle
“He spoke of very simple things- that it is right for a gull to fly, that freedom is the very nature of his being, that whatever stands against that freedom must be set aside, be it ritual or superstition or limitation in any form.
“Set aside,” came a voice from the multitude, “even if it be the Law of the Flock?”
“The only true law is that which leads to freedom,” Jonathan said. “There is no other.”
Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach
River bank collage in gold and purple: Photo by Noelle
I did not understand the loss
Not the switchbacks in direction
Nor the unfulfilled need
I did not see the change
Or the push of the envelope
The strain to see
I hated the destruction
Crushed and laid barer
Than the hull without its seed
Down to bone you left me
Naked and exposed
Winds of confusion whipping me clean
Standing in dirt
Vines sprung up, wrapping
My naked bones with leafy tweed
Vines bore flowers that brought the bees
That pollinated my blossoms
With your divine beads
Which grew ripe and colorful fruit
That attracted the birds that took up
Nests in my mind to feed
Laying eggs of inspiration
All babies learning to fly
And then I knew I did see
Such a deep appreciation
For having been torn asunder
Destroyed and sanded to a reed
I was never the hull
Always the seed
And in muddied dirt You and I grew me
Image extracted from The Mind Unleashed Facebook page
A great hunger in the heart
Deep in cavernous chest
Pounding drums I hear
Binding me to lover’s quest
No fear of the longing
No weakness in the bones
Courage like a bow
Strung tight, arrow honed
All cells line up
Along a magnetic field
I am the compass pointing north
My love I wield
Awakening a memory
Forgotten in all but a dream
Leaving an illusion
Nothing is as it seems
Passion is the blood water
That traverses the river vessels true
Flooding the body hot
A mind awash with your hues
Pulse racing, sweat pooling
Canyon lands laid bare
A tempo to be sated
In dark hours, boundless to share
The scent lingers on the skin
Hand rests lazy on the breast
Warm are the muscles, mingled
Ah my love I now must rest
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