Somewhere in the realms
between transcendence
            and desire
where the power of change
always takes us higher
there walks a poetess,
who writes in spirit's muse
her words curling up and out,
                    wisps of smoke
                        in celestial hues          
She walks slowly
through the heavens
bringing down
slices of enchanted spells
and we can feel the pull
of her grounding chants
right down to
        our very cells
Her words reflect the workings
of a potently spiritual mind
connected to emotions
in a binding so divine,
into darkest ocean depths
she brings forth points of light
and wherever she steps
no matter where she goes
one feels her soul, so bright
as it lifts us up into the spheres
of music and words,
spiraling in whorls
where dust
             and magic merge
and as she walks through green,
through mountains, rivers, forest
her essence often glows
in heat and coolness,
in rush of creative flow
And yes, while we feel
this journey, these seeds
being so beautifully sown
we can take those
words of wisdom
and apply them
         as our own

I won't be on site for some time. I'm writing the story of my father's life. He's 91 years old. In a power chair due to severe arthritis. Almost completely deaf and going blind. He can't read properly now and, being a very bright man, is filled with ennui. He doesn't know what to do with his time. I want to find out about his life. I know parts which I will put in this poem you are about to read...

My father's not a nobleman
Born a farmer's son
He has not the title Prince
In my heart he's surely one

My father is not tall of build
He's not a rugged man
But on his shoulders as a child
I saw the Earth's full span

My father is not wealthy
Has no Goods to share
But in my heart I know his worth
He is a billionaire
He is not a Wise Man
Has not those gifts to share
But he has a high IQ
Is bright beyond compare

Raised in the Great Depression
He ate the slop for pigs
Now he's a survivor
His grave cancer didn't dig!

He saw Okinawa
Eniwetok's grim atoll
Code named "Ivy Mike"
The Bomb landed on it's shoal

He went to MIT
Far 'above his station'
And he did it with a handicap
A 7th grade education

He is not a saint
He is far from 'pure'
But in my mind he's worth it
His tale should endure

So I will write his story
I believe it should be told
He is a curmudgeon

But he has a heart of gold


♡ Catherine

Memories
of what I never had
lurk in the back rooms
of my mind
silver-tinged
with coolness,
their icy edges
     melting into tiny
colored fires
intensity of emotion
that becomes an endless,
                 lurching ocean  
                        with the ache
                       for the close,
                     rolling folds
of deep saline whispers
a merging of souls
without drowning
            a submerging
without getting
carried out
to raging sea
identity rescued
from certain
little death
          maintaining clarity
allowing for
the lasting wonder
of seeing through
each other's
eyes, hearts in
tune beating
                   strong
always keeping me
on the edge of
the most sumptuous,
delicious repast
that even in
the most heated
moments
will not burn us
to a mere crisp,
not destroy
yet also will not just fill
in limited surfaces
a cup half full,
a mind, half alive
Instead of shallow,
quickened afterglow
     I simply know
    what I  must have:
that deep, s lo w  d i v e
to the depths
of that aquatic
rhythmic wonder
the soft, liquid crystal
                       of reflection
that is in my core
and now,
as I send
        prayers to
           the winds
        of hope,
  yes, how
I bleed,
             for
               this heart
              needs
           so much
        more