which explains the silence...

The monkey and the muse
were in the
den
together
waiting for one
to speak-

The muse sat,
arms crossed
across the locked up chest
and the monkey just
gesticulates
in wild attempts
to aggravate
a predicted response-

whereby
two arms finally fell like pillars
allowing a plumage of smile to seep out
of the rubble-

You don't need a hand-
were the only words
I heard
eavesdropping
I struggled
to recognize the voice.

While trying to listen in
I lost sight of where I stood
momentarily,
and then the den was silent
while the world
was deafening,

when I could not
help
but find focus
there seemed only one-

source of the sound,
and only
one shadow
emerged.


Painting by Janis Rozentals, 'The Princess and the monkey' c. 1913 in the Latvian National Museum of Art [Public domain].

Greening

Green horses
are aptly named.
Even I wanted to leave
the pasture
for that verdant expanse
beckoning through
the fence.
I could see the meadow flowers,
the sun stretching its arms
in arrays
of energy,
a warmth I was drawn
toward.

And yet bask
on the soft earth I have stood
atop so much time,
admiring a glint, leaning on
the weather-beaten stall wall
as if support should have so many
splinters.

After all,
longing is a look
that is eventually met
with a reflective surface,
like the well, green
also.

I thirst when I see the silhouette
of horses leaning against the sky
knowing I have much to learn
from that which is unbroken
and such.




Image by Bethany Legg bkotynski, taken 11/2014 [CC0].

Belighted i Be

It may be a silly rule,
none-the-less,
the law against
picking poppies
makes me want one
all the more.

We should have been taught
as with butterfly wings
the word Love
should not be handled
without recognizing
the salt of our fingertips
inhibits flight.

And where the suns rays
first find a full beam,
a red tailed hawk
screams
in delight
for the day
is coming
and he will feast.

Seeming forever
fields of wildflowers
Spring in every nook,
gently coloring to the corners
and reminding us
that pollen, like Love
exudes itself
as every living thing
under the sun
became belighted

to break free
from the salt of the earth

despite the inevitable
returning,

Our seeds are always being
sewn.

Graciously greening

Grateful grew
a waterfall-
when it seemed
dry
the stream had fallen into
a lull
a bye and by chance
a babbling brook broke the silence,
the banks exhaled
a warm chill
mist its forests
and swelling by providing
encurrentment
to every atomic bead
aligned inside sealed springs
to thaw and draw
themselves
forth
by means of appreciation
to rise in a flood
of movement
for no means other than
most simply Being
drawn willfully to the sea
of Eternity,
a wash in tranquility
when the thirst
for refreshment
all but evaporated.
This atmosphere
was everything we needed
to thrive.


Painting by Marcus Larson c. 1856 in [Public domain].

Fond

Pink of dawn,
the rosy day
positioned itself
precisely between
love and light.

As day breaks into
warm undulating prisms
through angular concentration,
you may find
yellow
swirls through blue,

Let it grow

as Indigo
will remain underneath
and eternally holding stars in a place
we have said is filled
with dark matter
but it felt lighter
to some
and held-

ever so gently.

Painting by Alfred Heaton Cooper, c. 1905, titled "Dawn, Coniston" in [Public domain].

wait less ness

It bothered me
    so much looking down
                   noticing the tangled web
of weeds and picturing the worms
when
I felt a finger
             lift my chin
Up
     to the words
     floating
Up there
      across the tops
                 blooms and light spread
freely
as they have all ways
been
not needing to be
seen

Up here.

Image of floating leaf taken in the Superior National Forest, photographer Unknown in [Public domain].

soft-ness

It was not evident
at first
how special it was
to Be
good.

I said soft
and meant
landing.

The cats saw
around me
and fixated themselves
under each of my most careful
footfalls,
short of floating
they weave comfortably
vibrating.

The hummingbird
held himself back
from resting
atop my crown,
settling instead
for a golden thread,
with a tip
of nectar.

I reached inside
my treasure box
and felt
enjoyment
in my collection
and it was greater
than my own

goodness gracious
to hold on to softly.



Photo credited by Francisco Enríquez, 2001 [Public domain].