Social Distancing Dinner

place setting

At ninety
the wicked stepmother
returns
bringing with her delusions
fueled on Fox News,
white bread
and mayonnaise
I can see it in her eyes
right before
she turns

unable to manage
her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and for my refusing
to choke
on the color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
for what else is there
to hold onto
when you want to wash
something other
than color off your skin
like a virus
she’d like to pass on
through generational channels
does she really imagine
peace is made
chewing with mouths open
excusing ourselves
in the Lord
she says it’s not just the skin
don’t you know
it’s their culture
and they should be used
to uncharitable remarks
by now,
anyhow
she adds that his mother
must be rolling over
in her grave
I say perhaps
perhaps that’s true
Mom
because after all
I don’t think racists
get to go to heaven
and I squirt her
with water
just the side of her face
don’t you know
because she tries to fling
her dinner plate
at me
of chicken salad
on baby spinach
with those little, tiny
mandarin oranges
that came in the can
with the pull back ring
but it’s too late
anyway
and it comes flying
at me
across my kitchen table

 

her own fork
she attacks me with words
for being younger than her,
serving healthy food,
and refusing to choke
on the skin color
of my ex-husband’s
new wife’s
brown skin
I hold onto my water bottle
tightly
for what else is there
to hold onto
and clutch
when  you want to scream
and wash something
other than color
from your skin
like a virus
passed unwittingly
from one generation
to the next
did she really think
we would eat
with our mouths open
our unkindness

Masks

yearning
across undivided chasm
keep me close
the power of thought
can it transcend a mountain,
a gorge,
a stream
boasting of its righteousness?
no ~
the power is in the people
who take their lot
and eat it
manifest my own favor
by the power of Love
now we don’t wear masks
to pretend who we are

coronavirus masks 1

Good Measure

age-of-wisdom-1938

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good food
of good words
of sunshine
and rain

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good laughter
of good song
of activity
and repose

none of this
is charity measured
but abundance itself
and sweet gratitude
for the self
and the other

for in the end
we are all the parent
we are all the voice
much like the God
who brought us here

and in the end
we are all the love
much like the joy
and potent wisdom
that keeps the world kind

Reluctant

f6096bde7a5b5cbf556ccb5528edbe46--pale-moon-the-winter

Reluctant,
he slows down
like a well seasoned Friday
approaching
that event horizon

where time cannot touch us

we sit at the edge and wait
for time to also slow
for on this side
time cannot really stop

by the light of the moon

there’s a shack
or a house, or a hut, or a lake
it’s wherever the lovers meet
in their imagined reality

can they see them? I think not

can they hear them?
I say what for?
come with me, my friend, he says
quietly opening her door

can I think it, like a shore?

an idea written inside of a notebook
can I be it, like a book
an idea written inside of her head?

sweet ghost, you are mine I know

elusive in your transparentness

 

Floating Rain

sacred geometry

the universe danced
like a bout of rowdy lovemaking
yet also like a sacred, secret shared
pure
between father and daughter

the universe danced
as if to remind her
of when she danced
besides its still waters
long before the heavens were made

look, I can float the rain
he cried
and she delighted in it
for she was both in it,
and was it

much like the creatures
that played by her side
in that night of gravity upended
to remind her of love’s
incarnation

who am I to be gifted
so sweet
who am I
oh mystery complete

that I would find myself floating

inside the floating rain

Tour of Duty

the spy

she once met a man
who transformed his state

by material means
like a vehicle in wait

oh military,
industrial complex

she again met the man
now he’s transformed his look

not by inner reflection
or that of the book

that predicts his own
tragic destruction

for one can’t protect
a security idol

and one can’t reject
the knowledge one seeks

wisdom is each child
looking out of a window

not the theory 
that men can save millions

the question is not
is he good
is he bad

and the question is not
is she happy
or sad

the question has always been
whom do you trust?

and who would steal I
for material us?

 

Underground Railroads

blog image snow white looking

Guardians of Light
protect us from darkness,
from not seeing,
from not hearing,
from building walls to not know

Protect us from paralysis and fear,
from judgements against self,
and others
that grow like tangled weeds and knots
upon our broken heartedness

Show us instead
signs that lead way
keys that unlock,
and doors that open quietly
right through our scars and cracks

Show us pathways to freedom
turbulent though they may be
t
hat one day we’ll arrive, joyous,
inside grand and inner sanctum
so large, no heart can
contain it

And then we will fall
upon bended knee
to kiss the sweet soil
that births the sacred, the true, and the immortal 

“I”

 

 

Autobiography

Valentine’s Day, 2019

Recently I listened to an author describe how his interior guides dictated a book, that he published successfully, shortly thereafter.

Sometimes my bodily pain is so severe, I can’t even imagine having the energy to write, unless the words themselves are provided like this – and I am practically handed the pen. Automatic writing has happened to me before, and it never fails to astonish, for the language received tends to be very cryptic, beautiful, and full of meaning, even when I feel by myself I am not.

I must have whispered prayers in the night that I would receive another ready-made composition of this sort.

Shortly after 8:00 a.m., I awoke, my clairaudience turned on. Prose started to flow from somewhere inside of me, without effort, and I grabbed a pen off the nightstand to secure the words on paper, before they evaporated like a dream, from my mind.

In reviewing what I wrote, it was, of course, like discovering and reading it for the first time. I realized that “cupboard” must refer to my heart, and glass “bottle” – the body – which contains and limits the soul, until it is released through death, or perhaps enlightenment. I found God’s use of culinary allegories with me entirely fitting, and more than a little entertaining in parts. It made me want smile.

“Onions” are what my mother planted to keep animals out of her garden, but could also mean distractions that keep people from finding out the truth. I  have uploaded pictures of my actual, open-faced cupboards, which I found ready and waiting, as if just to illustrate this piece.

I am calling it Autobiography, because I received it from a Source with Whom I am quite familiar, but One that I also recognize as the Voice that resides within each of us, and some call the Christ.

And I share them, these few, intuited words below,  because I feel they were meant for me to share, like a glass from just such an open cupboard… or open heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

cupboard2

I am taking off a lifetime of pain

When I was twenty years old
the dam broke
the colors colliding,
like an off-put canvas
Household items lined up,
like cracked pots
to take with me

colors

The visions had ceased
All around me the pain,
the stares

What does it take to
believe in a miracle?
they asked with a grin

Finding themselves shoeless,
on my path

Don’t go away
The cupboards will burn
The dishes will fly

2014-09-15-19-47-09

Please,
place your onions at the door

When Spring came
the rains had stopped
and everyone cheered

Like a hen getting out of a truck
I didn’t even know how to drive

Laughing,
they killed me some more

White paper lined the floor
like parchment
with his portrait and portfolio

blog image wedding arms with gloves and dress

Shut the door
The cops aren’t coming anymore

In June the news came
of a city on a hill
glistening with radiance

How do they make those little cakes
that stand up
like needles on their edge?

Further more,
the door’s shut

so how can it bleed?

A raptor,
a pigeon
and a bird


He sees what he knows

like glass in a pan

blog image reflecting rose

What are you thinking my child?

I see you and I love you
I was always with you
my child
The tears flow and this time
they are tears of joy

Walk away from the pain
Walk away from those you love
But don’t walk away from me

For I am the one
who started it all
with a bottle of love
and a plan
laid out like cards
that can’t fail

The bottle has been broken
but the love is limitless
like a magic trick
designed to catch
your deceivers

Put it away in your cupboard
like spices on a rack
Use it liberally
wherever you go

In the end you will see
that was all that mattered

It contains seeds like nutmeg
that grow rampant in the rain
in the snow

Wherever you go
I am always with you
in your heart

Just look inside of it

fiery heart

Night Message from Daddy

f6096bde7a5b5cbf556ccb5528edbe46--pale-moon-the-winter

That pale moonlight

at about a month ago


how bad the food tasted


Daddy thought the young side was chirping

The young side didn’t chirp

Great, at seventeen…

the young side didn’t count

Is there anything?


Not having a will,

I didn’t raise your son

I didn’t tell him to just confirm the good in you


There was a mason jar

Finding it, I cried

Jump


Experience Life


Having free bodies,

we never realize what we lost

It’s amazing how the time flies


Frank was a personable guy

He flunked law school,
but he liked to play
He got killed in high school

They listed him as MIA


Anywhere you lay your head

is home

I’ll always be there…


watching over you.

Good night

Sanctuary Places & Secret Spaces

cottage 7

There’s something special about old houses, whether it’s the nooks and crannies hidden beneath the stairs, the familiar sound of one’s tread on the floor, or a gigantic, flowering lilac bush, encroaching upon a porch with a swing where you sit in the summer time, drinking iced tea from a tumbler.

But the first old house I lived in was in West Point, NY, when I was a little girl, and my fondest memories of it are in winter.

Often I’d be curled up with a favorite book (I re-read the Chronicles of Narnia so many times, the books to my set cracked apart into separate chunks) and looking out the giant expanse of windows in the “sun” room, praying for snow.

Yes, I loved snow, and I prayed for it, because we lived in a valley often neglected for the peaks of the mountains in which it sat, peaks frequently graced and made resplendent in white.

But sometimes God complied with a little girl’s wish, and granted not just the black mountain bear or fox but me as well, some snow in which to play.

icicles off windowbox

I haven’t thought of that old house as much, or been reminded of it as much as I have been since I’ve moved into my own little cottage, which is over a hundred years old.

Yes, it will be the oddest thing, not just the colonial structure of the current home, which reminds me of the one in my childhood, but the heaviness of a door, or the unusual twist in a cellar passage way. And it won’t be so much the public history, but the remembered, intuited, or imagined stories, that will kind of belong to a place, which has become a sacred sanctuary – set apart from the rest of the world.

So the other day at the cottage, after a snow storm in the present, I was walking my dogs, and the way the snow had accumulated upon the large evergreen bushes running alongside the house, had created a fluffy, white stretch of roof top (with meandering open spaces and tunnels beneath) which the dogs wanted to explore. This gave me a familiar, excited feeling, as if I was a child again.

snow tunnel 3

It’s always the simplest things – the beauty of nature, the noticed patterns and symbolism that take me back home, or make me realize, with a spirit of gratitude, that I am home.

Suddenly I recalled playing with a childhood friend that I may not have remembered much, or even ever again, if not for this sudden rush of nostalgia, and the reminder of snow tunnels beneath shrubbery, having explored similar ones with this playmate, outside that old house I used to call home at West Point, NY.

Those were days of great joy, and I don’t recall wondering once, if my all-providing father fretted over the inevitable problems that must have been associated with older homes, of which this military housing consisted.

Back then, I didn’t see the elongated windows of the sunroom through which I manifested snow as “drafty”, and outside I didn’t see overgrown shrubbery, needing to be cut down come spring,  to regimented standard.

I just saw marvelous long, drippy icicles, bedecking windows and rooflines like garland, and mysterious igloo-type tunnels in which I could hide, beneath gnarled, ancient shrubbery so old – it created a sense of mystery. I saw outside-rooms created out of nature in which we could play house, or secret passage way, or create a story of our own making to which mother nature had already provided the fodder.

Who notices the most important things, adults or children, I wonder?

white feather in house
And when we find ourselves noticing odd or shall I say – pausing for beautifully mysterious things – in adulthood, or noticing how the present can be like a teaching echo of the past, is it then that we have really come of age, and read the patterns of our life correctly?

For I do not think it just coincidence that in a time when I am more healed or at peace, having given my own need for home and sanctuary precedence, that I recall a time in my childhood in which I had a father who took care of draft and danger, leaving me free to explore and create, while never leaving the perimeters of a safe haven.

For is God not a God who does just the same, as my father did then?

And is this world not just like a very old house?

Designed to make us recall, our even more permanent, and infinitely magical, home in heaven?