the urge to Be compels
realization of landscape
in a soul
landscape made of
faith
lines on a graph made
natural by Love
moving those lines into
infinite
          coherence
infinite
          expansion
in­finite
         depth
an art beyond the known
a Love beyond the known
captured within the
landscape of the wing
and the dancing flight
of the butterfly

how is faith, Faith?

Faith is Constancy
from egg to worm to flighted
being
no matter the changes
Constancy abides within each
remarking the moment when
coherence meets Coherence
when
movement meets Movement
and the egg expands
into the infinite
inevitability --- its
ineluctable moment of Love
when love meets Love
and Is

how is love, Love?

Love is Knowing
from egg to worm to flighted
Being
it is knowing which flow
contains me
which flow is mine to express
and which expression ---
each minute expression ---
has precedence in any moment
and thus I eat
I fulfill myself
until the leaf has been
finished and I am full of
the Knowing to stop ---
to allow the expansion of faith
the expansion of Love
into another coherence
another flow
another containment within
Love
expanded beyond my present
into Presence
into a Being unknown
by any but Love
as Love
each coherence
carried on the wing

the landscape of the butterfly
painted on its wing
by Love


c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater

Where the sunlight splashes through
The barely moving branches of the Magnolia tree
It makes a fascinating pattern on the patio.
Amy Lowell wrote of patterns in a lovely, angry verse
When she was writing about how she hated war.

I bend to trace the patterns with my toe
And focus on the possibilities of now
With monster canons rolling down the boulevards
And goose-step imitators marching by
While in the stands a devilishly evil Buddha smiles.

A zephyr gently stirs the leaves
And all the patterns rearrange again
I look at them with half closed eyes
And I can’t find the symmetry
That I saw just an hour ago.

The Kraken still is held by chains
And though he gushes fire and venom
The patterns on the wall contain him
As he thrashes to replace the sun
With a new one of his own creation.

Amy walked a peaceful garden path
In dappled sunlight long ago
Creating lines that live today.
I trundle down a brick-lined walk
And hope that I will have tomorrow.
                         ljm

i.
breathe your heart words
into my heart’s ear
say it all
my heart is a trunk
to fill
they fall into and
become
treasures
--- your words ---
effervescent with love
never dull
ever soft
forming a me
unknown to all

but you

ii.
I flew into your sky eyes
never to return
refracted by your heart
back to myself
a prism
unknown to all

but you

iii.
move your heart hands
over my heart's body
play the harp of my soul
heartstrings unsounded
until your music
made my heart sing songs
of me
unknown to all

but you


c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater

It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived

I had been dreaming
about eating bruised peaches
that grew from a tree
by the river, its water
thick and sweet as sap.

I thought I saw an old woman
shaking her dustmop,
but it was only the moon
and stardust in the dark
that never stops.

In the fields
there was something barren
like a journey
and echoes of salt
sprinkling on a table
with food laid out for a wake.

The fog from the dream
by the river was smothering;
I was suffocating lying there
where it is said a young mother
once walked into the water
with the pockets of her dress
stuffed full of smooth rocks.

I woke when I heard
shouting that tore out the light
as night came flying by
like a bird dressed for a feast
wearing his finest black feathers.

She stands where the river blows her hair wild

no youth and no favor for her
no hands to clean the salt licks on her skin
her palms are dreams wrinkled dry
yet craving an offer.

You come from a distant land, she says,
heavens bless you.

I got no small change, I respond,
my mind drifts to ponder,

a small change, I need that too,
always hungered for
and faltered through
like I missed the vessel narrowly
to be on the river's other side.

Maybe when I come back,
I turn toward her.

She was gone.

"She was an
unusual dresser.
Every night,
she wore bruises
on her heart,
love on her lips,
pain in her eyes,
and ink on her fingers.
They called her poetry."