The temple bell stops -
but the sound keeps coming
out of the flowers.

Matsuo Basho

each word hangs on
it's own rope


how to help them
intertwine
to lift from dank jungle floor

climb through the canopy

show monkey eyes the
wood amongst the trees

They mistake my softness for weakness,  
Like petals scattered in storms of hurt;  
Not seeing how deep my roots extend  
Through layers of wisdom and lessons learned.  

Each kind word I choose to speak  
Is backed by mountains moved in silence;  
Each tender touch I dare to give  
Springs from battles fought with resilience.  

I've learned that armour weighs down the spirit,
Thorns can wound the hand holding the stem;
While my quiet strength flows like morning light,  
Warming others without consuming them.  

So let them wonder at my gentleness,  
Let them question my peaceful stance;  
Because I have found that mighty rivers  
Flow with grace and not arrogance.  

In a world of sharpened daggers,  
I choose to be the sheltering tree,  
Not because I cannot withstand the storm,  
But because I’ve learned to just simply be.  

My strength lies in understanding  
That my heart does not need to prove,
The power that sustains its caring beat  
And the quiet force that dares to love.  

©️Lizzie Bevis

You can
deactivate your mind
you can numb your senses
you can plant flowers
where the weeds have died
you can look out across
your summer vines
and smile at the good work
your hands have done
but deep down you know
that the sun will turn to butter
and will no longer be able to
push away the heavy rain
you begin to listen to the
ugly cry of the black crow
and you see the wings of
small birds becoming tired-
tired of fighting against
the angry wind
you sit down and you feel sad
and it is your sadness-
you own it-
you take a deep breath
you hold it for a while
you let it go
you feel happy again
happy that you are
still able to feel...
Clay.M

~
the night starts here,
the night starts here
in the dunes,
fixed in time;
incipient waves falling into place,
their subtle purpose
to roll over and sing;
the fountainhead above us,
like it's above the shore,
attaching softness to a shell.

we blew on a dandelion
and the whole world disappeared;
love is a mysterious shape,
love is a remembered rhythm.

I have trembled
my way deep,
I'm a guest in here,
drinking at the stream,
seeking bliss in
the plural homemade kiss:
peppermints and orchid rain.

we please the night,
we please the night in interlude,
and it merrily leaves us that strand
of pearls called "good morning."
~

I rollover on the bed
face the wall
stare at the lines and cracks.

I give the wall a talking to,
tell me lies. I'll tell you my lies.

and i'm telling the wall,
the future looks bright. i'm planning
my own crazy, this time,

i use a black magic marker,
draw a wide rectangular
picture window across the white wall, then

sand, seashore, and sea stacks in the ocean.
can you smell the salt air?
i'm asking my wall.

don't look at me cracks,
like that.

the wall sighs,
and the bones of this old building
reply with a moan.

i'm inventing my own madness, so

look,
the sand pipers
are darting here and there
across the sand
avoiding the gentle lapping of the waves.

and the long wing shearwaters
flying low, gliding,
just barely above the tips of waves.

i'm planning my own foolishness.

some loves last for so long
like a song without a name
and you never know
when love will walk into a heart

and I'm going to run
far away
from sidewalk ledges
rooms with cracks in the wall,
far away from here.

and, Oh, wall, hang not the albatross around my neck.