Poem: Lying Down


Once young

peeking to see

wispy seeds blow

close-up on

green tufts of hair

while frantic

insects buzz

in summers air

While watching

big blue windy white

marching puffy shapes

swim, float and fly

slowly by

Peering through finger blinds

sun shadow so cool

paints silhouettes

then splits its billow

making miniscule

circle spot dots

to dance blind before

shuttered thoughts

In pastures tiny forest

looking up

with loving eyes

adore

****

Now old

graying curls tossed light

upon pillowed crib

Staring up

at cryptic crack

its hieroglyph speaking truth

of lost and boundless youth

Lying still

now here inside

blocked against wheat

and birds

the sky is covered

with plastered paint

spine pressed upon

the bed

But in the mind

the world is there

floating overhead

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Golden Footsteps


Last night I had a dream about an old boyfriend. Our relationship was odd and rocky–just like much of my life during those years and many of my years prior to my move. It gave me pause, and I began to think about it while doing my yoga and meditation.

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During my meditation I had a sort of vision. One gets in a rather trance-like state at times, and I guess I was ripe. In my mind I saw a shadow woman walking during a dark, stormy street. There were trees blowing, lots of rain and dark blue. But in the distance there were these footprints that were illuminated in the darkness: a path to follow. They lit up as this woman was ready to see them.

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I wish I could paint, because I could see this so clearly in my mind! It seemed to encompass where I have been and where I am now.

My past so often felt as though caught within a dark storm, with my paths unclear and being battered by the debris coming at me. Walking in the gray left me weak and hungry for the light, but my eyes had become unaccustomed to seeing it any longer.

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But somehow I reached the eye of the hurricane–the calm place and from there was lifted out. Those moments allowed me to find the golden footsteps, those brightened by my own need and will. It seems as my eyes adjust, another appears….

So as I follow them out of the tempest and into garden, they may fade into the sun itself. And then it will have to be something else that guides me I suppose, something from within–then again, maybe that something already does….

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