Genesis

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Day Nineteen

 

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It’s odd
and
I don’t know for certain
yet,
deep inside
there is a kernel of recollection
of my beginning

a breath, a gentle
wisp, and I
came into being,
no more important
than rock or star,
dandelion or dewdrop

and

I wonder
if I catch how true
rock and star and dewdrop
tender their design

while

I dissolve
my gossamer filaments tied
to the quickening exhalation of genesis

 

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaNoWriMo/NaPoWriMo:

“And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always!). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a creation myth. It doesn’t have to be an existing creation myth, or even recount how all of creation came to be. It could be, for example, your own take on the creation of ball-point pens, or the discovery of knitting. Your myth can be as big or small as you would like, as serious or silly as you make it.”

 

Amalgamation

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And Old Rock Man
titling to sleep, slack jawed,
eyes hallow, blue lichen
dotting rims and ridges,
I hear him laugh while years
speed as he attends, baked
under sun, iced with snow,
quenched in spring drizzle

Open palmed, eyes closed,
I feel the patter of your elfin
droplets yield their kisses,
then race to become more than I
can grasp, finally a watercourse
running through my fingers
unable to bear your presence

While braggarts and buffoons
hold court on stages
dealing fear to anyone
who will take the draw

But you and I ask,
seek and find the open door
where you and I and Old Rock Man
dance under skies harboring
moon’s extravagance and
stars’ wildness as rain
washes us away

.
.
.

Author’s Note:

 

These weeks roll on.

And I wonder what the outcome of this political season of fear will produce.

But there is always hope, tenderness in the smallest of gestures.

In the madness of this week I was presented with a gift. There was a sweet and gentle apology that maybe it should have been more colorful and soft, maybe sparkly. But what was given is rough and worn, aged with wisdom.

It holds ancient stories.

It’s been a while since I’ve regularly visited Sunday scripture readings. For this Sunday I again find that the words surround me with pain and fear, all of that which I chose to leave behind. But as I dig through, I find the much needed balm. Maybe the simple voice that needs to be heard through all the words, the words that declare we are sinners. Within peaks out the real nugget. From Sodom and Gomorrah to transgressions and uncircumcised flesh all the way to the final test and selfishness, somewhere within all that hurtful dressing, I find the wisdom of our ancient but ever present shaman, Jesus.

I must open my heart enough to set my agenda aside and simply ask for what I need. When I ask, I surrender myself. I depend on Someone else. I wash my hands of trying to do it all, to be perfect. I let down my guard, release ego from its post, relax into Spirit’s arms. And once I am there, with a great deep inhale filling my lungs to capacity and then blowing out my designs, I make room for truth. I clear the smoke to be able to see.

I am loved, always have been, always will be.

I don’t need the facade of dressing up. I don’t need the filling of my ego’s bottomless cup from other sources or even with my own deeds.

I am simply enough.

Rough and worn and a bit ragged, but wiser for the wear. And stories to tell, ancient and wonderful.

May you reach to the ancients
for our Wisdom, digging
through the trappings
to find our Beautiful Mystery.

May you reach into your heart
for there is our Light shining
to illuminate our way together.

May you reach to another’s hand,
join the dance with those
who have gone before on a path
well worn but resplendent and
wide enough for all.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Happy Full Moon Blessings,

Lexanne

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Amalgamation Choir | Live at the Library – Ksenitia tou Erota

Inked

During the blue hour before sunriseebfb7717b473789c37482ed2001b7635.jpg
when endings come, it’s easy at first

to explain them away – he really didn’t
love me, it was time to move on. Easier

than acknowledgement, a needle
inked with black, a road forged in

memories, cleansed in tears.
Each prick joined to the next creating

an indelible canvas ready for pigment,
deeply etched into tender soft skin,

first a wound, then a healing, finally
a brilliant map to somewhere fair,

all designed from an end point.
When death holds out her hand, I draw

her near to me for balance and plunge
into untried genesis with the rising sun.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

I grabbed death’s hand much too often these past few weeks. From the passing of a child in my school, to the loss of a husband of a dear friend. The one-year anniversary of my father’s journey through the veil and several more, I am a bit numb.

And it is not just physical deaths that bit me. Loss this month in many other ways has, strangely enough, kept me balanced. I am learning that there will always be an end. An end I probably won’t see coming. But when the night fades into daylight, as it always will, just as the moon waxes and wanes, I can move ahead knowing the cycle will repeat itself and all will be well.

Surrender, release, being present in the moment, have been themes here for a while now. It must be the winter, the dark, a time for solitude, reflection, and rest so when spring comes, there will be clarity.

Namaste, my friends, you are the Light in this world. Shine.

Lexanne

P.S.

I’m turning sixty in May. The above image is of a tattoo found on a Serbian ice maiden who was found fairly well preserved. It is a powerful image for me. My Slavic genes find it stunning. I’ll let you know if I take the plunge into a new genesis.

If you would like to receive a bit of my poetry and reflections each week, please sign up for my newsletter JOURNEY/lex. I would love to share with you.

Sunrise by Brian Crain

Curry

Cherry pits gather in the bottom of myIMG_4898
plate of what once held a curry
with dal and rice, a saffron backdrop
to burgundy globes gobbled.

Stems askew, some attached,
others abandoned by their seed,
the memory of spring orbs lingers.
Some sweet, others tart,
tight skinned, some softening
to a wrinkle.

I throw the away the jumble
after coffee. No point in planting
these seeds. They have served
their purpose.

I wonder if I were to take them
to my garden, make room for them,
would trees grow. Would their genesis
allow for such possibility.

Outside my window plants thrive
where I planted not. Volunteers
push through earth. Hail pelted petals,
confetti sprinkled beneath new buds
burgeoning. None of this my doing.

There must always be time and space to
gentle something into new being,
make room for You.

My Genesis

Tonight rain scented air
greeted me as I walked under your gaze

It was not an opening of the skies
downpour rushing over curbs into gutters
brimming the sewers

Nor was it a light sprinkling
glistening petals of blooms closing for the night
content with their daily engagement

It was simply rain-scented air
nudging me to think of you

Not a loud bellowing voice warning of misfortune
if rules are broken

Nor a constant tapping on my shoulder
making me second guess my labor

It was simply you showing me a bit of your soul,
your pleasure in my genesis,
blessing your beloved one.

.

.

.

Author’s Note:

I am not a rule follower.

I hide it well.

I am learning that it is okay not to follow rules.