Pray, Prey

"Praying is asking; meditation is listening"

At what point-if any-does saintly
become so sacrificial
that death is its ultimate end?

When, if ever, does the heart of an angel,
hit with its own dart,
concede this too
must be divine?

Whence and why does Spirit
move energy so intensely
it reverberates into the material
realm?

Maybe the middle is maddening
to mock me
for the time
I put into making such massive
messes.

I have studied for this test.
All of the questions cannot be known
before-
I have learned
only enough to get by
and yet I try
anyway
I can
to pass-
to move on
to the next question.


Painting by Margaritis Georgios, 'Sappho praying to Aphrodite' before 1843 [Public domain].

Whyte light

Lean out,
breathe in.
Step off,
take it in.
You will fly
they praise.
My wings must be wet.

Whyte, white light
from acme to abyss
this mountainous
poet dragon
echoed across
my blood river valleys

and Up
I aimed a gaze.
My eyes-directing
my eyes where I wished-

Like the flower
happy to bloom,
in bloom
noticing the ever-changing
view.

Left with these notions

what must come down?
Come down
what must,
what must...



Painting by Thomas Moran, 'Mountain of the Holy Cross', c. 1890 in [Public domain].

Chalk

Green, oh so serene,
            awash in heart
and yellow glow,
            gentle evening strength
And absorb
            the black smoke
and fireballs like shooting stars
             hurled in my direction
observing
             the energy, only-
I scoff-a slip-and then correct
my posture-composure-and breath
                   from inside the top of my
skull, I wait,
                   presently
for revelation
                    to show
nothing is real
but the indigo
                    I know.


Photo credited by Ross Burgener 2013 [Public domain].

green light

Now

each decision

a-way, option

verb tension-

The signs were all re(a)d.

Painting by Edward Mitchell Bannister, c. 1882 in [Public domain].

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.