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Leaven, Part One


Transfigured from within, though I don’t know
The moment when the sponge infused the dough.
It must have happened, though, because I see
The end result, as different as can be
From flattened lump I mixed not long ago.

Exposure to the yeast began, first slow
‘Til I divided and commenced to throw
And knead each piece, and then to watch all three
Transfigured from within.

Was it the pounding, shaping, every blow
I worked into each batch that made it grow?
Or was it just the presence or degree
Of leaven in my pastry that was key
To making lifeless mass now overflow--
Transfigured from within.


Leaven, Part Two


Transfigured from within, this lump of clay
But not because I made myself obey.
Instead, the difference that I see outside
Came when that kingdom started to reside
Inside my soul, as I believed the Way.

I cannot tell you minute, hour, or day
When leaven from Above suffused to stay.
I only know that I’ve been modified,
Transfigured from within.

Was it the pounding pain that made me pray?
The kneading, shaping, Holy interplay?
Or was it just the presence, amplified,
Of Word expanding where my old man died?
This loaf, when proofed, those workings will display:
Transfigured from within.
This two-part rondeau is inspired by one of Jesus' Kingdom of Heaven parables: this one about a woman making bread.  Here is the passage, from Matthew 13:33: “Another parable spake he unto them; The kingdom of heaven is like unto leaven, which a woman took, and hid in three measures of meal, till the whole was leavened.”
 Feb 2017 George Krokos
Ashlea
Yoga
 Feb 2017 George Krokos
Ashlea
Breathe in,
Rise up.
Down dog,
And twist.
Serenity washes over you.
You are strong, you are complete, you are able.
Breathe out.
How can I stand
In the storm of emotion
When my eyes
Has been blinded with deception
How can I be blame
For the ultimate destruction
When my trust has been shattered
Weakened by the foundation
Giving up darkness
To seek peace on the other side
Yet being betrayed by the light
When truth refuses to hide
Illusion becomes torment
Miracle turns into madness
Keep reciting the same old chant
Until this space filled with sadness
I cast you out my dear one
And leave this heart of mine
Let it burns under the sun
And you shall be perished from my mind

-Mary Elizabeth Graham
Some para-normal practitioners
Claim to have Out-of-Body Experiences.
They say they're left
Feeling beside themselves.
I concur,
They could be next to an idiot.
Clearly,
There's something wrong with me..
Don't know what I did
To have such rotten luck in love..
I tried, I tried.. I tried
But they're all hurt or they don't care..
I'm as alone as I've ever been.
Whoever you are, better come along
Before I destroy myself
Piece by piece
Trying to fit these puzzles
That supposedly make sense
I don't believe, I don't believe
It's hard to look okay
When everything inside you
Is screaming you're all wrong
you're not strong or brave or patient
You're just a pathetic coward
Holding onto people
Who clearly do not love you..
Pushing away the ones that do..
So whoever you are, do you see?
I need you to show up
Before all this
becomes who I am..

I can't take it, I can't, I just can't
I tried, I tried, I really did try.
I'm humbled by the storm
It's a reminder that I am not in complete control,
That there are forces that shape my destiny
And outcomes in which I do not plan for.
I close my eyes listening to the pitter patter on my porch
And check in on the water flow that fills the trenches.
I surrender to Mother Nature and bend to her will,
I am grateful for this magnificent life I am blessed to live.
Sun rises in a dry sky,
we walk a dirt road,
the dog and I.
Rounding a bend
little Mickey halts,
one paw lifted.

Three deer—a buck, a doe, a fawn—
senses ablaze with the twitch of ear,
quiver of nose, blink of eye
take our measure.

The buck has a handsome rack
but I can see ribs, count the bones.
I once saw a doe maul an Aussie shepherd, cracking
the skull with her forelegs to protect a fawn.
Mickey with uncommon good judgment
stays frozen by my ankle.

A moment, mild,
of silent negotiation,
the domestic and the wild.
With such hunger the fawn, at least,
might eat from my hand
before the buck spears me.

The doe breaks first, up a hillside so vertical
her hooves can’t hold. She slides back,
then on a switchback leaps again
followed quickly by the fawn
as the buck remains, impassive and supreme,
gentleman and protector,
what you wish in your own father, frankly,
and then he follows with that head-bobbing walk
balancing antlers into the parched brush
holding our gaze until vanished.
First published in Plum Tree Tavern.
With the Oroville Dam about to burst, obviously we are no longer dry in California. I wrote this poem last year when we were suffering a five-year drought.
When the subject is rain, be careful what you wish for...
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