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Posts from the ‘poetry’ Category

the eleventh hour haiku

procrastination
is keeping me up tonight
oh why do I wait???

Rumi Rumi Rumi

THE GUEST HOUSE                        Jelaluddin Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.


This being human is a guest house“…How beautiful is that, and true.  Would that I welcome my emotions like guests.  Invite my sorrow to soak in a warm bath, with Satie’s Gnossienne playing softly in the background.   I would fix a feast of comfort food for all of me that is tired and lonely.  And anger, I would sit her right beside me and listen until she had nothing left to say.

I  imagine this into my living now as I have never once considered welcoming my emotions in such a way.  Instead I’ve turned the lights off , kept quiet and waited for such guests to leave like too late trick or treaters.

I will be grateful for all that arrives at my doorstep.  I have done this so often for others, today I will give myself the best of me.

neap tide

i cannot keep up
with the tides
of two moons
too much push and pull
high and low
i want to be
still water

in a moving river

since feeling is first……e.e. cummings


since feeling is first
who pays any attention


to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,and kisses are a far better fate 
than wisdom 
lady i swear by all flowers. 
Don't cry--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


 
 
when i first read e.e. cummings i felt i had found a kindred spirit...
it wasn't his words so much, but his preference for the lower case letter
 and his indiscriminate use of punctuation 
... his words soon followed into my heart

&

I am an ampersand

in a geometric equation

odalisque

I have long forgotten
what it is I am afraid of
I have lost
objectivity
to simply become
the object.
I buy in
because
it is easier.
I can even follow with
my eyes shut

If I were braver
I would pad my bones
with rounder flesh 
and move new found
curves
in defiance of 
the geometry
of what is
but habit
has been hard to overcome
what is familiar
becomes like a groove
easy to stay in
with sides to pad and comfort
until it is a rut.
my wanting is moving
me away
first in mind,
then in body,
forever in soul

This is February

It is the scent of winter daphne
and the too soon trip to the nursery
it is hope
and apprehension
in a sky so blue
this early in the year
it is knowing that 50 is a
fickle degree…ready to turn and drop
on even less than a dime
it is my daily stroll
with Luka
made without the hesitation
that hounded me last month
it is the quality
of sweet unexpectedness
that is most
what I know
as February