Center

stretching down, my consciousness swims

straight down through earth and water

an arrow reaching lightning speed

just as perfect toward the target

the heart center of Mother Gaia

full aflame as red, molten rock can be

and I pause there in this well of energy

allowing it to wash over me, recharge me

from beside me appears the red dragon

the power of the flame and I climb on

to ride back to the surface, the physical me,

the energy, like roots, growing through my feet

enlivening each of my chakras in turn

sparking open the thousand-petal lotus

with a flame of pure white fire

the connection to healing and I send it out

to all the world in grace and love,

a gift to all the children from the Mother

Pages

Who might be the stranger foretold to be grey:

a visitor, a suitor, a magician, so they say,

what is his destination or his time frame on his way

where will our paths cross and why, come let it may.

I’m not tempting fate to see someone, something,

I wearied long ago to expect a lover with a ring

my debts are handled carefully, in spare time I sing,

and my heart is light and airy seeing butterflies awing.

My crystal balls show pictures but foe or friend is it?

My goals are grand and challenging, so with them I sit.

If anyone has dreams to equal mine, lift me from the pit.

I would engage all concepts, to the planners flit.

But long I’ve heard the tale of this stranger as I age.

I wish it all came to fruition, ’ere I turn my final page.

Vision

Vision through the eyeglass sharpens

Look where you will and find a blessing

For what you bid is where you’ll go

What you seek is what you’ll know

Beauty, grandeur, wealth, what have you

Even in modest places the heart speaks volumes

And while you ache for more, you’re blinded

Lack, denial, poverty, it all comes ‘round

For death leaves only the dry, hard bones

And what is it to anyone to be buried with gold?

Vision is seeing the end in the beginning,

Looking beyond the moment, being patient

Enough to accept we are where we’re meant to be

Else we find ourselves ever on a merry-go-round

Vision through the eyeglass sharpens

As we watch from sea to find the shore

Wisdom

the Harp Gate is green with moss

I sing the key and it opens slowly

to reveal the ruins covered in eternity

but I climb the stairs to reach

the labyrinth of answers to life questions

inside is the passageway once brightly lit

now more a cavern, a tunnel into self

the going is slow, must choose the right path

turn to right or left to find the center

the fount of knowledge that brings wisdom

I make my choices and arrive at the heart

a platform with the lavender crystal skull

I sit cross-legged and watch as the skull glows

emits a rainbow of colors, spectrum of knowledge

I ask my questions, my course of life,

it presents a panorama, a cinema of the future

going on for ages in shining detail, beauty

I thank the spirit of the skull for its wisdom and return

Wisteria

a wall of pale, purple cascades

across the front porch and onto

the pergola that shades the patio

where Alex and I sip our tea

and reflect upon the weather

such sweet scent borne on the air

drying the beads of sweat that form

on my forehead on this midsummer day

chores are done, cleaning is done,

and we are content to put up our feet

and swing gently back and forth

no faster than necessary, like a lullaby,

and with the sweet perfume of the wisteria,

we can go gently into sleep

Tuscany

the symphony horns punctuate the strings

as they overturn their phrases with grace

I absorb the sweet lines of energy

and watch a slideshow of Tuscan beauty

orange roofs, rolling hills with grapevines

men and women dancing through the fields

tending the vines and harvesting the grapes

in baskets that grow heavy, but burden not

it all seems a lovely enchantment

a ritual of the season as the grapes

are transformed into juice and then into wine

such a happy tradition, this grand harvest

afterward comes the party:  dancing, singing,

the strolling mandolin player who flirts

with all the young girls flashing their skirts

in broad swirls and fluttering their eyelashes

and still the symphony plays out a flute solo,

the strings echo the allegro tempo

and I withdraw from Tuscany for now

Why?

Turning, churning, swirling of the mind

goes far into tomorrow leaving all behind

bullets fly no reason why, so many die

we are left to wonder why

blank stares as victims, everyone on parade

the stories in the news keep climbing

is everyone going mad?  It seems so.

Like so many leaves on an ivy vine

the shooters not so easily found

deaths unaccounted for. We ask God

for answers but there are none except

that the minds of men are twisted.

We cry with our hearts and our voices

At least in our town no mass murder,

no children taken yet, no not yet.

What can we wish for? Prayers

to stop the madness, hate, destruction

What can we do?  Pray for safety.

History Lesson

curious, mysterious, delirious, oblivious

sincere, adhere, profiteer, how near?

woes, below, does it snow?  do we know?

achieve, relieve, believe, reprieve

we consume the unnatural with ardent fire

explosions last beyond our desire

the things that make us question are erased

at times to be locked up and encased

in glass where they can no longer breathe

and their people roar and rumble and seethe

so much twisting, turning, twirling to go

where we can find peace in what we know

and after all, isn’t that the goal: to live

in harmony, loving one another?

let us all try—that much is no mystery

let us make it work before we are history

Wee Folk

where faeries flit on garden paths

and gnomes protect the flowers gay

the wee world in puddles take their baths

‘neath mushrooms avoid skies of gray

so grand the vineyards, too, they thrive

in terraces and arbors’ giant arches

spreading nectar as dew comes alive

and the tiny ones parade in marches

their lives to bless the harvest and crops

to make the green world grow and shine

until the frosts of winter make it stop

but first the grapes become fine wine

and then the faeries and the gnomes

disappear from gardens to winter homes

It Is Good

Just when we thought we understood

the words and the message inside The Good Book

we are beholden to take yet another look

for there is much enlightened science food

therein.

For each time, “God said,” the message changes focus

and if we are to reveal the mystery is must invoke us,

to travel through the various magical events

from birth to deaths to things more recent

are foretold.

Imagine, if you will, that all we need to know

is inside this grand book:  survival, revivals

if and when the mountains will blow

and how our lives are meant to be in spiral,

not a straight line.

Look not to your own understanding, not another’s words

but have faith in things not seen, as Moses did

take up your hands in saintly hugs, not the sword,

and well wishes to all you meet, love all ye bid,

and it is good.

Little Dogs

little dogs like to think they can

take on the world and buffalo the big dogs

they think they stand ten feet tall

and walk in the clouds, they do,

but for all their noise they’re just cream puffs

a sweet snack when the big dogs come to roost

so I keep my little guy on a tight leash

and hope he never gets loose from me

if he does, I know he’ll find the meanest

dogs in the neighborhood to challenge

and they’ll have a barking match through the fence

and by the time I scoop up my ankle biter,

he’ll have told those big dogs where to go

and maybe how to get there and I’m just thankful

that he doesn’t get any further down the road

Fireworks

the grand ol’ flag flies on the Fourth

celebration gives an excuse to make more noise

than see sparkling lights in my neighborhood

I guess I can stand it for three days a year

the legal allotment for the frivolous to disturb

the normal calm and quiet as everyone goes about life

but don’t let your dog bark, because that’s too much

you can expect and plan on the revelers

so it’s not distressing and for the most part

they shoot off their cache of explosives all at once

I don’t understand the excitement with destruction

and the debris as the ash falls back to earth

even the glittery mega-stars hold little thrill

it’s more fun to see the sparkle in a child’s eyes

as they take in the newness of it all

I’d rather read the Declaration of Independence

than deal with the booms and bru-ha-ha of fireworks