Transforming the Dawn

Dancing in the predawn grays

eastern sky awakened

in a blaze of pinks and purples

after a night of rain

As if she herself

was calling the dawn

by her dancing;

everything melted away

There was only

this moment,

only these seconds

before dawn burst forth

Feet moved lightly

leaving glistening footprints

in dew covered grass

Fingertips stretched upwards

against the sky  

for a brief pause

Before the dance brought

feather-light hands

arcing slowly downward

momentum carrying her forward

Pinks and purples faded

as shades of orange hues

streaked unhindered

across the heavens

Moved by Divine grace

dark faded to light

and a brilliant orb

crested the horizon

She continued to dance

to a tune only she could hear

floating across the meadow

as if on the clouds themselves

A last twirl, movement ceased

in stillness, she waited

face raised to the dawning

silence engulfed her

A cresting of the horizon

and wave upon wave

of wondrous, glorious brilliance

filled her soul.

Incoming

In gradual slowness

pale grayness crept in

silencing the sun

its steady movement

sometimes silhouetted

by darker steel gray

Wind strengthened

acorns slammed

on the roof, deck, ground

making me jump

setting my heart

to pounding

Rain sat in the heaviness …

waiting … waiting …

waiting for the right moment,

for the right darkness

before releasing its weight

to pummel anything below.

They Will Never Write Songs About Me

Summer River, pastel painting

I call this poem below my signature poem. I wrote it back in 1994, and I still can't read or recite it without tears. I remember as a teenager being at a concert with friends and right up at the stage, and the lead singer dedicated a song to my friend. I knew then, I would never be the kind of person people wrote (or sang) songs about. 

Years later, this poem emerged after a three-month depression after an intense three-week teacher-training workshop. And while the poem has sadness and a bit of despair, it's also a freeing moment of accepting who I AM!

They Will Never Write Songs About Me

Sometimes I feel so insignificant

so useless, so unimportant.

I am certainly nobody’s hero,

never one to be looked up to

never to stand out in a crowd.

I will never BE somebody.

I am destined to stand in periphery

and they will never ever write songs about me.

Sometimes I get a glimpse beyond;

a glimpse, a fragile glimpse

of parted curtain, thinning veil.

What is it I see beyond the beyond?

clouded view of what could be,

cannot tell if it’s really me;

fear pulls the shade, no longer free,

and they will never ever write songs about me.

At times I am uncomfortable

when I look upon myself.

Who do I think I am

to dream I can be different?

So I continue to live in shadow

hovering between fear and wanna be.

I know that no one will ever see,

know too, they will never write songs about me.

But, to know I have a purpose

in the Greater Scheme of Life,

to dare to make my stand,

to know I have a choice.

I am One who lives in both worlds,

I guess it’s my destiny

Living in the periphery

is why they will never write songs about me.                       

Out of the well of darkness

of heartache and despair,

comes words to release the pain, the grief

and it’s these I wish to share:

Fame and Fortune care not for me.

Open heart, open hand for all to see.

Letting everyone know it’s okay with me

that they will never ever write songs about me.

Lightning Strike

Writing the morning pages was put on hold as I typed up the poem I’d written after meditating last night. “Lightning Strike.” I’m always amazed at how the words come through me and up out of me. It IS just like a lightning strike! There’s a kind of coming down or into me and also a coming up and out of me – just like lightning when the electrical charges in the earth rise up to meet the lightning strike coming down.

Lightning Strike

The air shimmers,

tension builds

It boils … It simmers …

SNAP!

It flashes down

before I can blink and

arcs through me

striking the ground

in a glorious array

of unseen color

I can’t breathe

Reverberations echo

through my body

trapping me

in mind-numbing shock

Glued to this spot

I can’t move

my body tingles wildly

in the exploding power

vibrating in silence

around me

I can’t breathe

In this microsecond

of time

I’m too paralyzed

to even think, and

as I struggle to comprehend

what just happened,

the earth erupts

with a soundless deafening roar

blasting through me

once again

I breathe in

I can do nothing

but wait for release

as the residual energy

rains down on me

wrapping its charged essence

over me as if draping me

in a new warm cloak

then dissipating

into the dust

at my feet

I breathe out

With the charred smell

lingering in the air

and fingers still tingling,

I slowly pick up my pen

A poem falls onto the page.

And so, my morning took a detour, as it does so often. It never ceases to amaze me that my first thoughts of what the day will bring seldom stays true to the original plans. At the end of the day, though, I am satisfied with what I accomplished, and I don’t regret what I didn’t get done. I guess my days are not about staying on a straight, paved sidewalk, but they meander wooded trails over rocky and bumpy terrain. It makes life interesting, that’s for sure!

I love that I don’t have an adrenaline-pumping need. I love that I find excitement in the seemingly simple things. I love that I see beauty everywhere.

“Interesting” is my favorite word and “journey” is another. Life is an interesting journey if we allow ourselves to see it as such. Even a simple life isn’t really so simple when you’re living it, and what we allow ourselves to experience and acknowledge open our eyes to the beauty of life. And practicing living wholeheartedly makes life special and soul-rewarding.

The Muse Demands Attention

The Muse comes in

fills my senses

takes over

my entire being

‘til I can’t think

of anything else

but doing my art

Paintings call me

words tumble

out of me

I’m torn between

following the demands

or doing mundane chores

which need to be done

"Rose of Sharon" work in progress

A quick trip

to the studio

has me on my feet

over an hour

Every time I try to walk away

She pulls me back

more … more

fix this … touch that up

Even after I return

to the table

She’s still there

poking, prodding

pushing to keep

the creative fire

burning brightly

It’s hard to ignore

but I have other work to do.

Limbo

Little brain chitter

like bird twitter

taps on the edges

of my mind

But the words

roll off my skull

and fall into the ethers

before I can hear them

Nothing feels important

I’m in limbo

until I can get home

where the muse

Patiently, or maybe

impatiently, waits.

She wasn’t done with me

when I left.

Creative Muses

The Poetry Muse

strikes with no notice

words pouring out

like beer from an open tap

The words

in its frothy head

slowly sink

into the dark brew

With each sip

of the creamy, bitter stout

they slide down my throat

then slip out onto the page

The Painting Muse

hovers on the sideline

silently prodding

my consciousness

“Paint,” she pleads, “Paint!”

as she fills my mind

with visions of beautiful

landscapes and flowers

Pink Phlox Purple Post

She pulls me

to the easel

shows me scenes

full of pastel brightness

Soft colors over dark

blended edges of vibrant shades

I feel my hand lift to the paper

give over to the passion

Until the Writing Muse

demands attention

and words vie with color

overflowing my mind

Write, paint, write, paint

becomes the daily struggle

with both muses screaming

to be heard

Wisps of color

swirl in a sea of words

and I give in

to whatever is strongest

leaving the other

to pace the misty shorelines

awaiting her chance

to jump in.