Unsung Heroes

At rest, on a dusty, somewhat wobbly,

And unassuming cheap, white, plastic shelf,

A fortnight’s worth of languishing

In the blurred and quiet hours

Must be endured. Like barely

Perceptible shadows on the periphery,

They require even the faintest inspection;

Seeking a sort of acknowledgement.  

As they drift in and out of focus,

The unsung heroes await

Coming opportunities to record

Their deeds on the surface

Of our skin. So frequently

They catch wandering and inquisitional stares

From eyes that can’t help but be drawn

To their gleaming, razor-thin, bent blades.

Full of sharply spoken, hastily-made,

And quickly fading promises.

But, to be held, the instrument

Of choice, in capable hands –

Is a spinning and whirring affair.

Each revolution an act of transformation,

Slowly lowered, brought to the surface.

The angle chosen for maximum ability to tear,

All sides are used for swiftly scraping.

In the removal of excess, while

The curling shards and translucent flakes

Are flung in increasing, careless heaps

A sleek and altered form appears.

It is the essence, emerged from  

Fingers, sponge-tongue, metal grating

Contracting and exploring layers

Clearing space. Intently focused,
Firm, but supportive touch.

A moment of clarity

Courtesy of the glistening, satin

Rays of the late afternoon sun.

Comfort here, before the

Rolling, thick, heavy hanging clouds

Turn this inhaled, upward glance

Towards an opaque, metallic sea.

Then, the world visibly becomes

A vacuous space

We tentatively inhabit. 

Shedding our Skin

When darkness reigns –

An amalgamating, thick

And close shroud –

Seeming to swallow

Our entire world

Without mercy

Without distinction;

We huddle and hover –

Moths – unable to resist the

Nagging desire to

Give our selves up.

Some of us are willing to

Lay down our lives. To

Scorch and burn and

Visibly writhe in pain;

If only we are allowed and

Able to bask in the

Eerie luminescence of the neon flame.

It is then, that we would be wise to 

Remember that we are

Breathing, human bodies utterly,

Indecently covered in dead fibers.

The juice long dried up.

We must look like moldy, shriveled fruit

Rotting on the vine.

So much potential that we

Must not see as squandered.

Instead we learn from

Our fumbling and groping towards

An accumulation that initiates 
The ability to

Shed our skin.

Stretching our sense of self

We may merge with

All that we fear when

The lights go out.

Then we become blanketed by

The twinkling menagerie,

Drunk and lulled to sleep,

Embraced and bathed by

The celestial glow
 Of Aphrodite’s elixir. 

The Trajectory of Falling Leaves

Yesterday, you asked: “tell me, what does ‘freedom’ mean to you?”

And, for several minutes after processing this question,

I couldn’t speak.

Caught between who I aim to be, and

A past that doggedly, somewhat relentlessly

Pesters this present

Version of me.

Answers appeared, when

Suddenly I found

My selves walking, breathing,

Supporting all the

Peace that is possible

In these imperfect

Moments of being.

When you realize

There is no

Missing tile, in

The mosaic of

This pulsing stream –

Except the one

You habitually seek –

Then, you are ‘free’.

When you stop

Trying to predict

The trajectory of

Falling leaves, and

Instead notice how

They burn like shooting stars

Spreading their light, and

Gaining speed. Even,

At the brink.

Then, it does not matter if

They float or sink;

Or, are swept away

By the stream.

Just inhale the intoxicating perfumes

They release.......Ah, 

Death never smelled so sweet.

Then, it all unfolds like

A Golden Bowl of Love : 

Brimming, with

Plenty to share.

(*For: Salsa Sarah and TJ Rogers: Two giving souls, brimming with so much goodness that they are willing and eager to share. You bring so many blessings. The world needs the work that you do. Thank you. <3 )

Bound to This Wheel

Wrapped in an

Uncomfortable, plastic shroud

Leaving empty seeming rooms,

Pacing halls to avoid

The stare of clocks.

Trying to escape a darkness

That threatens to eclipse

All the rest of my time.

Finally, I break down –

Accepting, acknowledging

This presence with

A resounding, “Yes!”

Then, I wonder:
How you respond

When you are called.

Because we live,

Bound to this wheel,

Between now

And infinity –

An intimate initiation

In the art of transformation.

On our way to becoming,

We must prepare our selves

As vessels, ready to receive.

Often, we fail to see

Even that which is

Happening in front

Of our eyes.

Language, for example

Is merely an approximation,

An alternate version, a

Reflection of the reality

We, personally, perceive.

Why trust some thing

That exists only skin deep?

It is my fingers that

Keep seeking

Primordial materials.

An insatiable desire

To experience

This flexibility of form,

Reminds me to remain both:

Durable and impressionable.

The potter knows:

Clay, like life,

Is not just

Some thing

You are shaping;

It exerts force,

Commands a will,

And channels energy

That is capable of

Touching you, too.

It clings to cuticles,

Seeps into all the

Endless cracks, and

Lives in the layers.

Eventually, it starts to distort

How we measure distance,

Our ability to defend barriers.

But, losing certainty

Isn’t a reduction –

It’s an expansion of

All things possible

For us to be.

In letting go,

We create space

That allows for healing:

Rinsed,

Re-newed,

Ready to be,

Re-used,

Re-purposed,

Re-leased.