Each day the sky tells a different story
each moment a new horizon arises
today, here, the sky dresses herself
in glorious gold and regal, dusky blue-grey
and brilliant, bright light-blue
using clouds to accent the best parts

every morning the sun paints a fresh masterpiece
to inspire my view
on a morning like this
though, there are no mornings alike
each one is the same and
each one is unique
on such a morning one will be born
and one will die
one will fall ill and
one will be attacked
one will force himself on another and
one will offer her best in sacrifice for love
one will starve and
one will die of a heart attack from too rich eating
one will fee love and another loathing

the world is a grand paradoxical scene
how can we continue this way?
and why would we want to?
I deny so much of myself
just to get along in this world
I see just my own light now
weeding out what isn't nourishing
sifting out what won't rise

I forgot who I was along the thread of lives that hold me here.
Now, I can begin to remember.
Now, I can call all the lost pieces back home.
They fly back, as if waiting – held in suspended animation –
until the right prayer is chanted, the right spell cast.
We call to each other, all the scattered fragments of this soul.
Even the ones that seemed to betray us.
We welcome them all again
with warm heart and wide, open arms.
The child shaman, the nurse,
the chamber maid, the *******,
the revolutionary, the teacher,
the old witch, the mother:
We see each other one
as the one we are also.
We are coming into oneness with what we are.
We are here. Finally, we are here.

What stories?
People tell a story and think that makes it universal law:
makes the story real and reality only a dream.
This is what ego-driven people do:
why one day they say one thing
and another day they say something new.
Are times hard? We can say this.
We can say times are joyful, too.
We can say whatever we like.
We can reframe a genocidal land grab
as a freedom chasing dream.
We can be real, too.
We can see what we’ve got
here and now.
And we can love each other
despite the stuff that doesn’t line up.
We can acknowledge and affirm
and set intention
that this that we see right here
will not be our road again.

On the night of the lunar eclipse,
by only the light reflected
from the sliver of her face,
I called to her
and she to me.

I pleaded for my wholeness
and she responded with her peace.
I cried upon her twinkling shoulder
as my tears drenched her darkened shape.

She roused me
from the somber place
to hear my prayer.
A shooting star
flashed across the sky
far off to the west
under where she perched;
moving all her pieces,
showing none of her parts.
Not tonight.

May we be free,
says the one chanting to the skies.
May we be free.
And then the universe
flashes through the night of my space
while the sun shone my shadow,
pulling all heaviness away.

May we be free, says me;
the one who isn’t there.
I am here, the moon beams back.
May we be free; and I am here.

the surfacy front of things
is always never the truth of things
when the end comes
it will not feel like an end
later
you will remember
and weep for its loss

It’s exactly the same whether it’s drawn from the bottom line or the top.

Makes sense. As above, so below. As within, so without.

Yes, there is peace now because you wanted peace; to think. And what did you find?

You found that thinking was the matter and wasn’t the solution. You found that stillness and silence and less is infinitely more. And now you want to share it.

And you are sharing it. Though, the mind, the programming, wants to paint a darker picture.

Let’s talk plainly now. What is there to do? One wants to know a future that isn’t real. All futures contain the same unreality; the same nothing. All you can see is right here.

Even looking to history to explain what’s right here can lead to messy futures. I mean, people actually lose jobs over poorly forecasted futures. Can you imagine that?

We’ve really gone way too far. Way too past what could ever be described as a humane society. We have to ask, what’s all the wealth really for?

The sky is purple black;
brilliant, tiny pinpricks of light scattered across.

How is it I feel
the rays of the Sun at my back?

I paint my Moon a deep burnt umber
to match my deeper mood.

She is my bright, lone star; and,
I expose all the darkest woes
for her to see.

She is the beginning and the end.
She takes everything.
What can be left
after the Sun returns
from his hiatus?

How will it be after sharing
such secret intimacies
after so many years?
How can one turn back
from a thing so dear?

In the umbra of my darkness
I open to let you take
what can’t reflect
your pure illumined face.

I cast this umber shadow
as a token of my surrender
to your loving Grace.