The Last Meditation, Hour 4

He sits,feeling the physical
Hands once callused now soft and scarred
Strong arms weakened, joints arthritic
The youthful drive throttled back by time

Body deteriorating, he retreats back into the mind
Sits on crossed shaky legs
Back aching
But despite body’s entropy, he smiles, satisfied

Each scar on those once callused hands a testament to his sacrifice
His willingness to pit muscle against stone
To set brick and build foundations
To fell trees and mill lumber
To build shelter for those caught up in the storm

The legacy he’s left behind
A reminder of a life well lived
He closes his eyes, smile widens
Reflecting on every fortunate moment granted
Every goal accomplished
Every heart touched
Every mind expanded
Every being loved

He sighs

The work in this realm finished,
Without saying goodbye,
He drifts back to Source
And begins to build again

Ansuz

Ansuz

 

“Can you speak your truth?”

 

By bringing forth expressed energy

In poetry, prose, and art

One is gifted communication

From more than just the heart

 

Ansuz sees beyond the apparent

Tapping into the innermost self

A higher form of deliverance & awareness

 

A Rune of Sacred Knowledge

Invoke this divine power for help

Release of energy blocks and mind

Found within thy self

 

L S D

L S D

Once in 1973 sipping
not gulping my tea
I felt my death sure
as if my heart stopped

Yet I could see across
acres of flowers below
as I floated touching
butterflies and kissing bees

No fear as I feared nothing
and no one feared me
such was my trip to heaven
once in 1973

(c) Diane Morinich
All Rights Reserved

Planted Flowers

I planted flowers seeds, and most of them didn’t grow

never broke through the dirt, though I willed them so

I gave them water and even a dose of Miracle Gro

 

I picked the best places all around my yard

Broke up the ground, it was dry and hard

pulled all the weeds, told them they were barred

 

I gave them every chance to reach for the sky

and most of those seeds didn’t even try

One look at my yard and I just have to sigh

 

a tiny bit of them sprouted, new and green

a pageant to crown the summertime queen

maybe they will bloom and help the scene

 

I hope that everyone who passes by can see

I’m doing my part to help them to grow and be free

The way that so many people have done for me

 

 

Farewell to You (Hour 4)

Molasses eyes, vertiginous depths, tender in gaze, opened to me,
abated my fear, born inside.
Velvet hands of strength smoothed my tears; you spoke of hope and held me close.
Distance called, left me cold, until heaven claimed you, and the earth kept you.
Scarring my heart.

Day breaks, the southern orb of light.
Sent to a new world. Red dirt, blades of emerald, mountains and valleys,
Egypt out my window, the Sub down the road from where I slept.
Faith our life, integrity our choice.
Relationships made, honor and excellence our oath.
The creed of our breath, our heartbeat, lived to the hilt till that world just a memory.
Family you were. Love you, I did. Love you, I do.
But too different was I for you.
My face hidden in the shadows, slapped cold with rejection as you lived on.

On butterfly wings I flew, from roots to you.
Creations waiting, new lives budding.
How much I loved you. How much I still do.
Did you know the battles I waged and lost for you?
Did I fail you?
Close my eyes, and feel the loss of the hundred smiles, the thousand tears,
the adventures of wilderness and trails.
Night time songs and hugs forever gone.
Grew wings, you did, and moved on. My hand and smile waving you on.
But I still miss you.

Turned the corner, graduating from war.
New hope, completely whole, till you.
Draining the poison of you from my veins,
Can’t bleed fast enough, years move too slow.
Raped my heart, sardonic laughter in your eye.
Sadistic, sociopathic revelry in your lies
tore at the scars in my heart.
I wait for hell to claim you, and the earth to keep you.

Sharp, cold steel, cut my body new.
Surgical hands, deft and soft, heal what is broken.
God gifted hands, take back what was stolen
And let me mend in the warmth of compression.
Quickly, without delay. And life will renew.

Memories I see. They do not fade.
Moons pass, suns rise, too many lunars and solars have gone by.
I see your face. Though you see not mine, I love you.
If apology is needed, forgive me.
I could not be perfect. I could not be more. I could not be less.

Oh molasses eyes, visit my sleep, hold my heart.
Honor bound friends, I forget you not.
Butterflies of creation, the jewels of my night sky.
Poison purged, I breathe again.
Surgeon hands, I wait for your elixir.
If all fails and goes awry,
I’ve known you. Loved you.
If all fails, then farewell.
I will remember you into eternity.

Responding to Image 3

(Responding to image 3)
THE PATH OF LONELINESS

I lay under the midnight stars
And dream of a life I have never known.
I am not sleeping, nor awake
As the coyotes howl in the distance.
Their haunting cry echoes the pain in my heart.

Because I chose the path of loneliness.

They are summoning, perhaps,
Another lone heart to share in their sorrow.
But their union is not a ceremony of mourning.
It is a celebration of mutual and subtle joy.
They have found comfort in each other.

Yet I chose the path of loneliness.

As the two are remembering together
The shadows of their lives are forgotten forever.
The howling dies.

In the silence of the late summer night, another suffering can be heard.
The sound of a human heart breaking.

Because I chose the path of loneliness.

In reality, the sound is but a memory,
It’s shrill tone heard only by me.
Once I loved.

Still I lie beneath the frozen stars
And dream of a life that could have been.
A life of meaning, a life of hope,
A life of knowing who I am.

But I chose the path of loneliness.

The Writer’s Desk Prompt 3 Hour 3

There it stands, against the wall
Dark brown and piled high with
All things NOT writing
I stare at it, against the wall
Neglected, it has been
Covered with papers, books and magazines
Literary journals lie, piled up beneath it

I stare at my creation
A desk, against the wall, showing
me my own procrastination
At organizing, at reading, at writing
Neglected, it has been
My writing life, like the desk
Piled high with excuses

4. The Messenger IV

That book I wrote has now been published

It’s a success and I am so surprised how easy it has been

Simply because I wasn’t attached to the outcome

And that I simply created this habit of writing every day( in the morning )

So much so that I didn’t stop writing

Many more ideas for books come to me every day

While I was writing the first one

I have now a creative habit and a system in place

Not a single idea, good or bad,

Is ever lost now

Everything is kept in a precise place

So I can find it again anytime I need or want

And with the distance on them,

I can now easily tell if it’s a good one or not

Same with my artworks: when I look at them

6 months or one year later, I know ( let alone my agent guiding me )

I am featured on TV ( yes that still exists, I cannot believe it myself )

And in online programs, which attracts even more people

And inspire them to awaken the artist in them and

Take action on their dearest dreams