The Poetry Marathon

How do you see with the eyes of wholeness?

What spiritual trick is there to open that window?

No trick that I can find, but perhaps

the most important step is the first:

simply open your eyes and look,

really look, at yourself.

I ask myself if I am acting with integrity and kindness–

hard skills to hold on to in these challenging times.

Am I speaking truth with kindness?

Am I saying what is necessary

for me to hear before speaking truth to others?

Perhaps the most spiritual thing any of us can do

is to look through our own eyes

and into the eyes of another

who sees a different world.

I have never been to Florida–

perhaps I’ll never go there.

I would like to see the Everglades

and orange groves, although there

are some tourist spots I would avoid

like Disney World and South Beach–

far too many people fill

those places, not exactly niche.

The eye of this beholder

Is looking for someplace colder.

Within the patterns of the night

I pull the shawl of soft moonlight

about my shoulders and take my place

to dance the barefoot steps of grace.

My feet are sure enough to hold

me through the years of growing old,

my hands are able to reach out

whenever I am filled with doubt.

My ears can hear the gentle tune

that draws me in to dance the moon,

my mouth can shape the ancient song

that calls my soul to sing along.

From light to shadow and back again,

I dance the steps I learned back when

I was a child, and watched the moon

pour its light into my room,

calling me out to dance the night

of patterned shadows and welcoming light.

I droop through the lethargy of the afternoon Zoom

and stare out the window.

The heat rises above the treeline,

dancing like fireflies at sunset.

I find myself wondering:

would they notice if I shut my video

and muted my mic, leaving Zoom open

as I grabbed my water bottle and mask,

socially distancing myself to an imaginary

cottage in the trees?

Would that be strange?

Perhaps I could find a bowl of porridge

Waiting there, just for me.

I am ignorant of emoji.

I see their scoffing faces

looking up at me, knowing

I can’t distinguish

a plea from a pensive.

The details all swarm together until

they’re rolling on the floor laughing

at my unamused face.

We enter the Season of the Squash–

you know, the month or two when baskets overflow with bounty,

countertops corral the herd

before we pass them on

to neighbors less endowed.

What to do with this harvest

of fleshy protuberances?

Slice and saute,

stuff and bake,

stick and dip,

noodle and sauce,

grind and add to anything else,

or fritter them away,

until the abundance subsides.

Today

sun fills my open hand

with birdsong,

flows along my arm,

tickling fragile hairs awake.

A drift of mint reminds my nose

of dappling leaves waiting for me.

Water flows across my toes

as I share a drink with the garden.

I wander on, until

familiar voices call me home.

You float in stars

beneath stars

poised on a still lake

composed all of one moment

alone.

Would I be able to

ride that stillness with you

and hold stars within reach

yet not grasp them?

can I hold a light steady

for whatever the next

moment may hold

yet not search for

the light that answers

across the still lake of stars?

Dear Mom,

You would have liked to know

that your old home

has an activist living in it,

shown by a sign promoting change

that you helped start

but did not have the time to finish.

More than 20 years have passed now,

and the trees around your home

have grown into a forest.

I rarely leave my home, these days,

holding to familiar rooms

and tending to my garden.

I enjoy companionship

of family as they go about

their comings and goings.

My home is a sanctuary,

sheltering me from change.

I rarely leave my home, these days.

I have designed for most of what I need:

food, comfort, the ability to work,

pets that provide distraction,

but yet, I wonder if I

am drawing lines within myself

setting boundaries between

what I am and what I might become.

My home is a sanctuary,

sheltering me from change.

I rarely leave my home these days,

but if I did, where would I go?

I take walks by the creek,

venture into a store, before

returning home to wash my hands,

then tending to my garden.

My home is a sanctuary,

sheltering me from change.