Pluvia

leafand raindrop.jpg

 

There’s something
about the first rain of fall
when it comes, finally, to fill
in the cracked earth of
summer’s heat

A mollifying, reminding one
that change will come,
regardless, and without
our doing, or undoing

As we circle and spin,
we transform
by our living, re-shape by
what passes over and
around and through us

There is no control, none
really needed, just patience
and some stillness
to sanction the interval
until drops upon the roof
announce their arrival

9 Lines Disparate

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Day Nine

Tulip.jpg

 

1.
Overwintered cattails lie down
under spring rain’s cloak.

2.
Ten boxes, three bags, trappings released,
that which no longer serve.

3.
I yearn for open space where
the only music I hear is of bird and beast.

4.
My knee swells and pounds
as I walk with dog, twice daily, regardless.

5.
How many pieces of cloth needed
to cover my nakedness, not highlight my ego?

6.
One red tulip awakens.

7.
There is food in the fridge,
what other is there to feed me?

8.
Why do I need to know the why,
may I reside in knowing it is so.

9.
Not so disparate, really, liberate the old,
not acquire new, just leave pause to grow.

Author’s Note:

Prompt for day nine of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“Finally, here is our prompt (optional, as always). Because today is the ninth day of NaPoWriMo, I’d like to challenge you to write a nine-line poem. Although the fourteen-line sonnet is often considered the “baseline” form of verse in English, Sir Edmund Spenser wrote The Faerie Queene using a nine-line form of his own devising, and poetry in other languages (French, most particularly) has always taken advantage of nine-line forms. You can find information of various ways of organizing rhyme schemes, meters, etcetera for nine-line works here. And of course, you can always eschew such conventions entirely, and opt to be a free-verse nine-line poet.”

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.

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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

Night Season

Night Season yieldsIMG_3039
an interval, a time to peel
away layers, winter clothes
stratified around my being
stripped off in complete
namelessness,
leaving me tender, naked.

Night Season.

It furnishes still space
to be without shape of being,
ego unable to structure
itself around, within my
unformed substance.

In this hallowed dark I release
all that encumbers me
to see your glow, feel the
shine of your precious face
conscious that you matter.

There I watch your hand hold
something so dear, so full of trust,
I fill with Unbearable Light.

Night Season.

You demand of me
what I cannot do alone.
In You I surrender to
Your proposal of radiance.

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Author’s Note:

If you would like to see the entire reflection, it is available in my weekly newsletter. Sign up here. There is no cost and is usually sent on Saturdays. Thank you, Lex.

Lady Wisdom

Bridge-Bond-Monuments-Places-Fog-Golden-Gate-Pacif-7748The fog is anxious

but the clearing,

slow may it be,

much patience required,

the opening ravishes.

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Author’s Note:

The first time I visited San Francisco, we walked the city. We didn’t rent a car but used public transportation. Our first morning out, we took the bus to the bridge.

It was foggy. Just fog and the roar of traffic.

At the visitor center, we asked where the bridge was. From behind the counter came a point to the picture window, “It’s right there.”

My husband and I looked at one another and shrugged.

“Just take the steps up.” The finger returned to the newspaper on the counter turning to the next page.

And an afterthought, “Watch out for traffic. And just keep walking.”

So we walked up the steps and the traffic noise grew, surged through the fog without showing itself.

As we continued, we began to see ghost cars melting into grey. There was one lone figure ahead of us on the wide sidewalk with just enough clarity to make out his form. As we approached, he stopped. The three of us saw only the faintest outline of the bridge, a picture frame flat and almost nondescript.

When we reached him, he turned and handed us his camera. We obliged. He reclaimed it, bowed slightly, and began to walk back to the steps. We shared what we were told: just keep walking. He hesitated and without a reply disappeared down the steps into the soup.

We looked at one another and just continued walking.

It wasn’t long. Rather quickly, as a matter of fact, that as we passed under the first arch we could see the fog clearing. We kept walking. Cars became sharper to match the bluster. I could now see across the traffic to the opposite side of the bridge opening to the ocean and began to distinguish waves roaring in harmony with the rush hour madness.

My husband tapped me on the shoulder in our pause. He whispered, “Turn around.”

There it was, the city of San Francisco, the bay, and the bridge with the fog falling away, candy-colored in the bright morning sun.

Wisdom is there, always.

She waits for me to simply listen, press on in the present moment. There I will meet her.

If I release my worry, my need for control, my fear. If I sit with my choices and understand they are past done, I see her opening the door for me to make new choices to live the life I’ve been given.

I can choose to continue on, or turn back.

I choose Lady Wisdom.
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And More:

Thank you, Scott Jenkins, for Celtic Conversations this past year at a Church of the Holy Family, ECC. I have grown and changed and learned to release. You’ve given us time to rest and question in a place of safety filled with compassion. Thank you, Padre.

A bit of synchronicity for this week. Our Celtic Conversations and the Lectionary Readings for Sunday, October 11, 2015, from the USCCB.org:

Reading 1 WIS 7:7-11

Reading 2 HEB 4:12-13

San Francisco Bay Bridge Photo courtesy of: Bridge-Bond-Monuments-Places-Fog-Golden-Gate-Pacif-7748

Diviation

It was a mud pie, dusty ground swirledDSCN1255
into water from a brass nozzle. I mixed
a thick concoction to please my eye.
Delicious would never be an
accurate description.

I found the ones that sparkled
hidden among plain granite pebbles,
quartz chips, slips of mica, only those
that caught my eye were treasure
for my pocket.

I peddled hard uphill, long
and slow, patient for the payback,
quick though it be, a fly down,
foot push paused, eyes squinting
against summer air across my face.

Ease of childhood’s wonderment
weeps efficiently through my grasp
to leave behind hardened opinions,
germane novelties, stilled wheels.

I set aside wide-eyed wonders
where magician coins awed,
grass stained knees scouted out
crawlies, tender arms rocked
a goodnight tale. I forgot
there is no need to orchestrate.

I turn back, shake off the dust,
open my palms,
liberate my tunnel vision
to meet your sweetness
once again,
eternal anticipation
of my return.

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Author’s Note:

“Truly I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it.” Mark 10:15

As I grew into adulthood, I left behind something dear. The wonder of play and nature became a frivolous activity left for vacation time. But the more tragic part of growing up was assuming that I needed to control my life. I forgot the freedom of leaving my worries in the hands of someone more compassionate and wiser and loving than myself. I forgot there is Someone who knows me inside out, my needs, and what I can be.

I believe our Holy One gave us our child time to get good practice in surrender, leaving worry to itself. It was the time to trust and learn to live with abandon the gifts we’ve been given.

May I fall back into childhood simplicity,
that I may see your face, feel your embrace
and know all is well.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

Lexanne