little bags of temporary peace

theology, therapy, scientific explanation

holiness cannot be spoken into these hand bags

but-but

you can hear a gentle whisper

with an evening’s bird song

watching clouds for hours

when children play

but-but

you cannot seek this out

it is when the (moment / holy other / universe) chooses to present itself

and you are vulnerable enough to open your chest

It always feels
forever out of reach;
the finish line,
that momentous victory speech.

I open my curtains to the world outside.
Leaves trembling in the frigid air.
As they drop, to the earth, by-and-by,
Narnia’s Ice Queen’s power does declare:
Time for hidden places where I can etch new traces.

I remind myself: everything has its time and place
Even loss to make way for more.
Opening my wardrobe, warm winter jackets I embrace,
Grateful for their voluminous puffs protecting my core.
A new season evokes new faces.

Who will I become
In the ticking time,
Leaving behind all that is unwelcome;
My limiting beliefs and the voice of compunction,
So I can reset homeostasis.

Whispers deep within, cry out “hear me, here in,”
I desire to be heard,
I desire to be seen,
I desire to be acknowledged, as something more than what could have been.

You’ve tried to ignore it,
You’ve tried to do what’s right,
What’s sensible, what’s to be applauded,
Rather than what your heart yearns: to be revelled in delight!

Pure indulgence,
Disdainful scorn,
Narcissisms decadence,
All that should be off-sworn.

But denial has only left me stuck,
I have lived a cognitive dissonance existence,
A state of **** and muck.
I wish for more, I want to rise above the resistance, insistence and self-persistence…

I wish to be MORE curious,
I wish to be larger,
I wish to be more spontaneous,
And live a life full, but not “full” of what ifs, that’s what I rather.

So here I am,
Now, what do I do?!
.
.
.
.
Take the next step…

into the dream,

For there, I hope,  will be the next clue!

and that's what I just
don't get
what makes a poem move?
make someone wet?

I try to be deep,
To be funny,
I try to be whimsical
And visceral so that you can taste honey.

Sometimes I rise,
Many more times, I collapse.
There are pages upon pages I despise,
bored with them, perhaps?


but...

Is it the outcome,
or is it the process?
Does that make poetry?

Help me, please…

Compelled to make sense?!

Mud cakes, sand castles, dress ups and... Make-believe;
Child-like curiosity, awe, wonder and...
Other-world conceive.
Silence, in a busy grownups world gives opportunity for playfulness you can retrieve,
Embrace these moments, seek them out, faith like a mustard seed, oak trees sprout.