Gentle Lunatics

 

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On the strand
there is something
so small, so diaphanous,
it’s hardly noticeable,
rawboned.
You would think it’s
not there, maybe extinct.
Yet, it is.

A beetle that scuttles
on the edge of garden bed,
a dangerous place to be
where beak reaches
in arrest.

What is left of her skin
snagged on twigs,
dry leaves, leaving
her vulnerable
but new, ready
to grow.

Fox embolden, not so
afraid of people
anymore,
those who pause…
then go their way.

On the fringe are
gentle lunatics who
don’t do it right,
who can’t be perfect,
but cleave to the
beat of their heart.

.

.

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Author’s Note:

New. Moon.

A time for rebirth. A time for seeing with new eyes. A time for finding you.

Frames. Borders. A time to let go. Break apart. Step into new being.

Aho,
Lexanne

 

 

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“ROOM WITH A VIEW”
by MN Dance Company
on 1Day1Dance on Facebook
(click on feet for video)

The Tower

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It is a bit of a walk up to the tower
above green-green grass,
past the high school, past
the firehouse, next to the pool.
It’s worth the trip.

Along the way stop signs post
for those who might not see,
those who need to slow down,
those who can’t do it on their own.
Those who probably won’t stop anyway.

Open space along the artery shelters
strays who in daylight hours rest,
under muted twilight hunt,
in sealed darkness feast.
All on the way to the invincible tower.

I course my tack, not straight and flat,
not always on steady pavement –
the approach my father instructed.
I feel curves and hidden wounded.
I leave before sun or wait until dusk.
I cede bright light to those whose
wrinkles tell of their own journey.

It is not the tower itself that tenures
the answer, high above, vista of the whole.
It is disruption of orange cones pushing
me aside, upheaval of sidewalk
buckling under pressure of rooted
tree, sudden movement within
stogie-spiked cattails.

It is revelation along the measure,
epiphany bursting open
as I somehow make my way
to the tower.

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Author’s Note:

My sacred space.

Here I walk with Benny before sun rises. I never thought I could experience sacred space in such a simple way. It seems now the only way.

Here I walk at sunset, again with a dog who is my soul companion taking me into our open space where fox greeted me unseen by Benny. It is where dragon flies flew so thick in spring I stood in awe. They still great me only less in numbers as the season wanes. Snake sprawls across the sidewalk warming itself in sun. I am told there is a bob cat. There are cicadas and crickets and katydids as my choir. And then there are the skies. A glorious backdrop with stars sprinkled across midnight blue and Moon in all her moods.

It is the simplicity of this sacred space, a tower that draws me.

A year ago I discovered another Tower – Magdalene and the root command that drives her – love one another. With that my life changed.

I learned through the simplicity of this command, I must start with myself because I am loved and am Love. It was in stepping back and discovering the infinity of this love that I now understand that I am worthy and I can, no, must give the same.

I learned that Divine revelation is not given only to a few men who hand it to the rest of us if we prove ourselves worthy. Divine revelation comes to each and every one of us directly. We don’t need interpreters.

I learned I am not only fully capable to bless, but must bless. As our Holy One flows from me and from you and from all – this our blessing. We are ordained simply by our creation.

May the simple joy of sky and earth bless you.
May the simple song of night insects bless your journey.
May you bless all those around you each moment,
for you are Love and Light and Joy given for all.

Munay,
Lexanne

Hierophant

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I slipped my harbored feet from shoes contained
for sixty years. Rough earth is ruthless where
calloused barrier was never ordained.
I walked on soles that burned and bled, a dare
to turn retreat. Instead, I asked for help
to bandage cuts. I praised a course fresh of
deliverance. Sores closed. Skin grew. A whelp
now strong and fast. I met cool shade, green grove.

But there I didn’t rest. More called to me,
unfurled a passage to my Beginning.
In confidence I accorded the plea,
Within myself I captured my bidding.

Not one holy man’s word over another
will heal our wounds, the pain we embrace.
Here in Creation we’re bound to each other
as we dance through the veil in grace.

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.
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Author’s Note:

I truly believe it is the journey that is vital, not necessarily the end product. I like to share how I arrive. For those of you who are interested, below is the path of the end sonnet, Hierophant.

On August 13, I participated in the 2016 Poetry Marathon. I signed up for the 24-hour contest knowing that this was the end of the first week of school and I would probably not make it. I didn’t. But I did complete the half-marathon.

Each hour, on the hour for 12 hours straight, we received a new prompt. We had an hour to write to that prompt and post it before the next one showed up in our in-box. It is a wonderful challenge. Learning to let go of that inner editor, that ego who wants everything perfect. It’s a wonderful thing. That is what I also love about my writing group. We write knowing we are not going to be perfect, the importance of letting go, and the ability to chuckle at oneself.

To the prompt from the Poetry Marathon, I added one more piece. I keep a lovely tarot deck on my desk next to my computer. It is the Pentimento Tarot by Joanna Powell Colbert. She is an artist, Celtic spiritualist, and goddess who created this deck using the medium of beeswax encaustic – a layering of wax – a pentimento:

“An underlying image in a a painting, especially one that has become visible when the top layer of paint has turned transparent with age, providing evidence of revision of the artist. (American Heritage Dictionary via http://www.gaiansoul.com/.)

She only created the Major Arcana for this deck but it is stunning. It is of our ancestors looking back on us, giving us hope and support and wisdom. Take a look:http://www.gaiansoul.com/shop/pentimento-tarot/

Also, this month I wanted to do a study of sonnets. I did. I completed two. I shared the early one after my visit to Orlando’s Wizarding World of Harry Potter and the sea.

Here is the process of Hierophant:

The prompt from the Poetry Marathon in Hour 11:
Write a persona poem from the point of view of a person without a home. You can have a specific person in mind, or they can be entirely imagined. This person can be a homeless beggar, or someone who drifts from town to town, or someone who just can’t imagine settling in one place, so they don’t.

The Pentimento Hierophant card:
Of this archetype, Joanna asks questions such as “What do you have to teach?” “What do you have to learn.” “What is the place of religious tradition or lineage in your life? “Who do you trust as a spiritual teacher?”

Below is the poem as it appeared as I wrote it for the marathon. Above is the transformation of it into a somewhat sonnet form.

The Hierophant

I took off my shoes.
The ground was rough and poked.
I wore those shoes for almost sixty years.

I walked on feet that burned and bled.
I asked for help to bandage raw cuts,
was offered new ways of treatment.

Sores closed, thick skin grew and
my feet held me strong and steady.

I walked on legs that swelled and
I asked for help to ease the pain.
Good remedies followed and I
moved on.

In time

I took off my shoes to feel the earth
I knew the ground was rough
they burned and bled but I walked
to find soft grass and cool of shade

No roof above, I left it behind
No friends to share my sorrows
I looked for answers from voices
just shadows merging in darkness

But when I sat down, stopped
searching for the right way,
I stilled myself  and found
your voice inside.

We come to this place, a stop over
to ponder, to rejoice in each other,
and dance with abandon.

Not one holy man’s words over
another can heal the wounds
we bear, the pain we embrace.

We’ll move on, through the veil,
but for now we must play in
Creation and unmask one another.

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

In Your Light

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When I look at you
delicate unfolding
there is more, always more
a breath of flight
alights unseen until
I exhaust what I only
choose to see

You unfurl not in
beauty as I would define
not in softness but
in strength until I move to
see more deeply
beyond what I think
You are there, also

In wind I
watch you bend
air passes over me
through me
fills me with grace
until all I can do
is bend myself
to the ground
in reverence

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From Your hand 
sky to dust
air to earth
rain to sea
Your face passes by
each moment
an invitation to be
held in delirium
if I choose
intoxication
over pride

May I
launder my soul
in Your clemency

May I
rush into Your arms
cowardliness relieved
of its stand

May I
be the Joy that is me
Your gift passionately
entrusted

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.
.

Author’s Note:

Je suis epuise.

Before this line came across my Face Book page from Huffington Post earlier in the day I wrote:


 “I am exhausted. The killing, the violence, vicious and unsympathetic politicians, lost souls who don’t know how to love themselves so they wound others – I must step away from this or drown in the mire. We must move forward in love – love all – even the vicious. It’s the only way out of this. There is no separation. We are all One. Until we put down our own wants and needs and demands to have it our way, we won’t see that we must release into the unknown with trust and love the beautiful souls we are so we can see that Light in others. There is no other way. Put down fear, hatred, condemnation, anger, the smugness we Americans seem to think is our right. There is nothing to “win”, no need to be the “best” or “right” or  “number one.” Be love and sweetness even when people say you are crazy. You aren’t. You are simply following the root command – love one another. Period. And your ripple will join others. And the world will change.”

Until we truly see the beauty in the world and know, really know and understand, that it is within us, we will continue to harm others as we walk through our day. From small quips, to manipulating others, to killing someone because they don’t believe what we believe, the world will continue to turn this way.

Instead, look deeply inside yourself. Blow away the smoke. Spirit awaits you. Forget the books, the mentors, the words, words, words, words. Put down the study. Still yourself. Listen to your Heartbeat. It’s the same one inside ALL of us. Do no harm to yourself, and you will not be able to harm others.

Amen.

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smoke
choreographed by MATS EK
performed by SYLVIE GUILLEM e NIKLAS EK

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en pointe

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I watch her rise
stillness in breath
held without fail
lift entrusted
free as if ground nor gravity exist
deeply rapt within her belief

as my garden grows
released to its wild self
sweet peas braid delicate arms
around iris faded
flowers of sun gold reach
unbound while white trimmed
daisies sway underneath
each melding into the other
no circumscription set

I am not given to order
or rule, I am made for feral beauty
I wish to voyage with you as equal
each of us rising to the sun
witness rays given in time
each in our own time and liturgy
welcome wisps of wind
consider kiss of raindrops
knowing all is right
as long as all
are fully honored,
you and I and All

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.
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Author’s Note:

I have a strong urge right now to turn off the news, shut down social media, and hide away until it gets better. It is tempting to close my eyes and say, “Enough, I cannot take it any longer.”

Then comes the phone call and I realize I cannot hide. More tests are needed. I have been given a pause. Again, I don’t know why I am spared and not others. I do not have breast cancer. In those dark moments of this long week I was able to stand still and strong knowing to hide is not the answer.

 

May we fill the world
with our stillness
so strength is gathered
and ready when needed.

May we fill the world
with a touch so gentle
that pain is eased,
even for a moment’s rest.

May we fill the world
with something beautiful,
so Beauty is remembered,
not forgotten in smoke and haze.

May we not hide,
but stand tall, stand still,
as hopeless as it may seem,
we are a mighty ripple in the pond.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

 

Munay,

Lexanne

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Sting and Alessandra Ferri: Ageless Grace

Bowl of Sand

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In quiet of morning pause,
growling its mission,
the recycling truck moves
steadily toward our house.
Benny snoozes secure
somehow knowing
there is no worry.

I went one day to the edge
of big water flowing in from
the sea, like sky turned
upside down, I couldn’t
tell if I stood on land
or in clouds.

It is all perspective,
a matter of turning in
to realize the angel-winged shell
or five-ordinaled star,
the bubbly huntsman
or petite pebble configure
myself into the Mystery.

Upside down or inside out,
not growling nor in slumber, 

at edge of ocean
I am hushed 
as tides
brush my feet,

a gentle nudge to affirm
my Heartbeat sanctuary.

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.
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Author’s Note:

I have a bowl of sand from my recent trip to the Seattle area. In it I keep the shell of the lightest purple. And a stone of black spiraled with white. I don’t know how it was formed, but am in awe of its simple beauty.

Puget Sound. I call it “big water.” It’s technically not the ocean, but it is. Just like I am not technically Spirit, yet I am. The Mystery.

e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets when I was young, mostly because he went against convention. I guess I’ve always been a quiet, stubborn rebel. And he used whimsy. Most of which I really didn’t understand when I was young, but laughed anyway. I love to laugh.

That’s my delight in poetry by ghosts of the past. It takes time to mature and understand them. However, they are always there waiting for me to realize that whether I stand on ground or in clouds, they are there for me to see more deeply the more hush I allow.

Just like Spirit.

Aho,

Lexanne

 “Ghosts, right, have nothing to say to us,
Obsolete. Gone. Not so.”
– Natalie Merchant, Leave Your Sleep

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and        

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

                     – E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962