WRITE ON!

SPRING WRITE ON TIME!

WRITE ON 5 — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 10:52:50 GMT

The Newness of Now,

confusions surround

dog chasing its tail on

merry-go rounds.

In offshoots of routine I

glean for obscurity

to be spread out in the shade

‘neath the foot of the canopy

in a sea rich

of mulch ‘n leaves

earthworms at my feet,

sleeping in peace

for days

weeks.

The Newness of Now

is the death of then

releasing the phone ringing

in a migraine noggin

to let laughter uncoil

warming without any judgment

deeply resounding from
the cave of his stomach.
          Zach Reed/April 5^th 2012

He Let Her Enter His Poem

He remembered her

even though he’d never seen her.

She emerged from the smoke

and fog that ensconced the train.

The sensation overwhelmed him

that she would know exactly

how much to soften and curl

to fill the hollow of his throat

and absorb his pulsing heart.



She opened her lips

to speak and her mouth was ripe;

the tongue languorous.

Had a bee seen it

he would have followed her

to take all the brightness he could.

He wrapped his coat more tightly

around his shoulders

bark protecting a tree

and his feet became roots

that pulled him down to a solid place

where he was nourished by darkness.

He remembered her

in all the times thereafter

as a blossom he could hold in his branches

carnelian, redolent, luscious…

beloved of sunshine and a bright sky.

A perfect fit even though

she had never seen him.

True Heitz   May 11^th 2012

“I want to help someone in distress”—that someone being me. I felt so much stomach pain and discomfort and cramping when I first came here today and sat down. My insides were screaming at me, “I hurt, I hurt.” And all the while I was trying to ignore them and my body ache. It did no good. It’s similar to trying to ignore a nail going through the palm of your hand; all you can think about is how bad it hurts.

We did some breathing exercises and I did some deep yawns and started to let go of all my physical pain and distress in my gut area. Now it feels better, more calm and does not hurt so much. It went from a 6 down to a 3. It is manageable—within reason. Wow! That was some exercise. I challenged myself and my body to do it; lean over towards my knees, breathe and let go. I did not think at first that I could do it. “Surprise, surprise,” as Gomer Pyle would say. I did it. Shazam! It all helped to lessen my pain. Thank you, Robert-Harry. Now I can come back to present time and think about what we are all supposed to be doing here. The music plays softly and melodically in the background, soothing a wounded body and a stressed heart. It feels so good to just relax and enjoy the movement of this pen on paper and feel at ease while writing. I am starting to let go and relax and this feels Heaven sent. My mind and my body are beginning to relax in unison this late Friday afternoon in this creative, yet structured environment. Now that I am coming out of pain, I am enjoying this exercise and can free my mind on paper.

Sasheen/ May 4th 2012

Into Oblivion

And, following the wrong god home, we may miss our star. I don’t know you. How do I know? Yet in the eye glimmers a barely discernible glint of recognition. You and I do know each other, a little bit, for the moment. And like star-crossed lovers we will foolishly die on the beloved’s grave mercifully removing our idiocy from the stinking soup of a gene pool from which we arose.

And having followed the wrong god home we will be perplexed by each other in the final destination wherever that may be. The coyote will have the last laugh as Elegba zooms around the caverns of our heart wrecking havoc in the wake. Oh what a glorious mess we are!

And having followed the wrong god home we may miss our star. The Greek Gods will lay out libations before us until we stupid mere mortals find ourselves fucking like bunnies and only to find ourselves with a hangover the next night burning black candles at midnight wondering what happened.

Or what if we wandered into the oblivion without a god? What would that bring? Would the glorified star shine out in the early morning dawn showing us the way?

But pipe dreams and testosterone this all is. This is my fantasy, my show, as you chase after the drunken dream of being the ultimate savior and god. You were just slumming, dear. There was no god, no star. Just the masturbatory fantasy I called love.

Jolene / March 23rd 2012

Hail to the Damned

The guru of perfect happiness was his handle, the Bismarck of civil rights, he was widely known. The commander of the sheep; the critics shouted. Only to heal the sick was his goal. Joan of Arc they called her, nobler in blood than in royalty was her courage. Having saved England and the crown from vandals, she was burned at the stake as a scoundrel. Mother Theresa, like her, is a saint, or should be. She cared for the outcast and downcast; was praised throughout the world for her philanthropy. No replacement has been found for her life, sacrificed for humanity. Mahatma Gandhi is a modern icon, thrown from a train when he was young; it didn’t matter to the British that he was a lawyer.

Woman or man, dare to make a stand and you will be the target of enmity. Throw up our hands we cannot! A people without a leader are the damned. We must search out him or her, who demonstrates virtue, compassion and philanthropy. We must roll with them, knowing full well only the Christ was perfect. So come my little lamb with all your baby feet; the Lord has saved a place for you and yours to eat. A paved road long ago is your lot; and should you stray a little, trouble not. The path of life is trouble strewn, but the spirit of the Lord is faithful—midwife at your birth and forever. Should you seek the path, a cobblestone of gold is foretold, Shaka Zulu may be you; magnificent leader where you stand. Unlike economies lacking integrity, the Divine Being, guardian of Canaan is for everyone seeking rest. He will meet you there and will always have your back.

J.J. Rush/May 4^th 2012

Plastic Jesus Reprise

I am the plastic Jesus, pink and pleasant glowing in the dark ‘cause I’m iridescent, riding on the dashboard of your ’65 Ford Fairlane 500 in the highway to hell in the middle of the night. I am the pink fuzzy dice that swings from the rearview mirror from where I watch your first day driving, the first awkward makeout session, the first joint rolled. (I covered Jesus’ eyes for you – pink fuzzy dice make excellent friends.)

The highway of life winds through a dusty barren desert between the dead, dry rock and the parched, forgotten Joshua tree. And the hair has gone grey at your temples, dear. But not to worry – Plastic Jesus never changes.

I saw your hula-hoopy hips of youth turn stiff with age and the spiky ball of hair turn limp. The once ripe persimmon of blushing youth has turn battered, the skin weathered and dry. And the fear of love and the mystery of pi divided by three has followed you as sure as the iridescent glow of my chipped plastic Jesus body and I know you are tired. Yes, I know. I know you are tired.

You don’t care if it rains or freezes long as you got your plastic Jesus riding on the dashboard of your car. And I, pink plastic and pleasant, observed it all.

Jolene / March 23rd 2012

PAIN

WRITE ON 5 — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:37:00 GMT

Tonight the valley of the shadows of death will comfort me.

I will never open my eyes.

My lover and I will dream as if alone.

The sun cannot peep over the horizon.

The end of the day immediately follows the beginning.

All sightless.

All darkness.

I will never drown in my best efforts.

Pills will refuse to overtake me.

Sleeping pills cannot force me to sleep all day.

Today is not now a beginning.

Someone will have to pry my eyelids open.

And that someone will then laugh

because that someone has conquered me.

The devil.

There is no life after death.

Only a living death.

I cannot see to swim through troubled waters.

I may force myself to be free of breath.

For it anoints me to be like a sad song.

The song comes to an end.

I plead guilty for all my trespasses.

For crossing your line.

Do not forgive me, god

For I am unforgiveable.

Only forget about me

and leave me in a fog of nothingness.

I feel sorry for myself as you should for me.

Something feeds upon me—it’s meat.

Tomorrow, please don’t come.

But take me with you into the black night.

Things and persons outside myself—Stay That   Way.

Marsha Campbell February 6^th 2011

Meditations on Monkey Mind

Convoluted flippin’ movement. Dag Nabbit. What?

Twisting thoughts and meditations on the attention span of a gnat. The chatter of a monkey mind and the frustration of its keeper – the monkey should be different. Really good monkeys can sit and focus. The monkey thinks not.

The subtle but undeniable toll of age and time. The widening of the belly and the drying of the skin. The fuzzing of the mind and the deepening of the habit energy which constantly bites us in the arse. Naughty monkey, but she is possessed only of monkey mind.

Oh, but there is beginner’s mind. She plays with the monkey out of curiosity and amusement. Feeds it peanuts and pats its head. The monkey chatters, but happily now. Unwilling to be tamed she can be amused, made happy.

And where is the disciple in all this? The one who is willing to do as she’s told. She is incredibly late for class. She has no excuses but it wasn’t her fault.

When the student is ready the teacher will come. The monkey will swing from the tree as she bows to her books. And that which is sharp will seem dull. That which is hard will look easy. That which is new will feel old. For the Tao which can be spoken is not the eternal Tao.
Jolene January 2nd 2012

      A Matter of Taste

Taste the hole in the bagel,

I dare you! Taste the hole

in the doughnut, I insist! --

except the beignet makers

of the world have stepped

into the breach with their

little round dough balls

powdered with sugar

from the bowls of

life’s petit indulgences.

What happens when the tip

of your tongue licks

empty space and yields

the proof that nothing’s there?

Do you whine, or complain

that you have been cheated

or harassed by recreant fate?

Or do you do the next

best thing: pull it back

again into your mouth?

This exceeds metaphysics

I think; you have a choice

that is entirely up to you:

When you do not get

what you set out for,

what have you lost or gained?

It has been said by many

wiser men than I that

you learn more from failure

than you do from success,

but I cannot confirm this

with my tongue still sticking

out between my lips, still

waiting to taste the hole

in the doughnut dangling

before my disappointed eyes.

© 2011 Sheppard B. Kominars December 15th 2011

The Reserved Seat at The Moulin Rouge

Toulouse-Lautrec created a palette

of exciting, elegant, provocative colors

of the decadent Parisian times,

fin de siècle

Drawn to Montmartre,

the quartier de Paris

famous for its Bohemian lifestyle –

the haunt of artists

The Belle Epoque artists

laughed at his work

but The Moulin Rouge

reserved a seat for Henri

and displayed his posters

Henri excelled at capturing

the color and movement

of the gaudy nightlife

with the glamour stripped away

Crowd scenes

and highly individualized figures

identified by silhouette alone

Henri’s haunted reserved seat

his absinthe drink

and the “Can-Can” dancers

are still waiting for his return

to the Moulin Rouge

    Barbara Belle-Diamond

    January 1, 2012

IN PAIN

Jump into the infected punch, that is, pain, circling the parched tissues of my throat. Fill all my rose buds with liquid exhalant dripping into the sore-eyed manifestation that is not now nor ever receding because of the tears that flow on majestically down from the surface of the chest in an act of meanness till I am flabbergasted with the drunken affliction time and time again perfecting a bodily stature lost that is like a shooting water fountain.

Pain is tears in every vein. It’s a system that moves against you, as people generally don’t like the sight of it and some folks even suggest you should make a quick visit to the local mental health technician.

“If you come back here again, I think I will call you a psychiatrist,” the ER doctor says. He has hooked into my deepest fears. I retreat, drying a tear with every step—each tear drying as I speedily remove myself from the situation wherein I feel I have just escaped playing the role of the drama queen that sucks death and yet goes on to live until the next appropriated crisis.

Marsha Campbell January 18th 2012

Heart's Knowing

Joe's sighs in the middle of the night

A hint of his dreams, his creativity, his mind

Like a hummingbird's wings

Toulouse's squeaks to get my attention,

Desperate for affection and validation

And maybe a treat

My mother's tears when she says goodbye,

the fear that this will finally, frightfully,

be the last

My father's laughter, a combination of bravado and joy

A sure sign there is something making him nervous

Challenging his understanding of the Universe

The garden's smell, dewey in the morning

Light, sweet orange blossom, rotting apples on the ground,

The pungent earthiness of peat moss anticipating the warmth of the day

Bread baking, flour, sugar and yeast combined

Rising in the dark recess of the oven

At the heart of the house, the center of life

The sinking feeling that comes before a confrontation

The same confrontation with the same uncle

That has happened dozens of times before

The memory of beatings, bruises, betrayals

That have defined a family for generations

And predestines it into the future

The sound of sirens wailing as the man stumbles into the street

Holding his chest as his white coat became as red

As the Santa hat that fell into the puddle of his blood

The growing emptiness of love fading

only to be replaced by defeat and resignation,

Like a thick brown blanket over our heads

As we move about our lives, denying its existence

Denis Paul

2/16/12

TROLL OF THE NIGHT

Bjorn;

Hear me O Troll...Troll of the Night

Come out and Play...come out and Fight

I have a Challenge for you... if you Dare

Bjorn is my name... and it means Bear

If you come Out...You Best Beware

This be your Last Time...in My Nightmares

Troll;

I'll come out Little Boy...this be no Game

If it's a Fight you want...You Must Be Insane!

I've Slain many Boys...very much like You

I Chop them in Pieces...then put them in Stew

One Boy Tastes Good...but I'd rather have Two

You're but a Small Boy...You're barely a Chew

So Speak of your Challenge...the one you Seek

Before I Grow too Hungry, Tired and Weak

Bjorn;

My challenge is of Strength and of Wit

So choose which Axe...Which ever you see Fit

First we throw our Axe...to Split that Tree

The Moonlit One...the One you can See

You Throw First...if you have the Grit

Then we will See...Who is Outwit

Narrator;

As Trolls are Dumb...as you will See

He threw his Axe first...Against that Tree

He Split the Tree...as Bjorn was Charmed

Because the Troll was now...Unarmed

Bjorn took his Axe...then Cleaved the Troll’s Head

For now you See...the Troll was Dead

Outwit the Troll was...the clever boy did not Fail

That Ended His Nightmares...and This Great Tale

By; Erik A. Steinmo with Bjorn at his Side

In Robert-Harry's W R I T E O N ! workshop, the creative writing class I've been going to, we do exercises or free writes after a guided relaxation and meditation--paying attention to our physical sensations as we travel with our awareness through our body parts and being.

We then listen to a short piece (poetry or story) land we are asked how we feel about a couple of words and what their association to one another is...what are their differences in meaning and each person shares their feelings.

Last night it was Connection & Attachment. We were asked to put pen to paper and write freely without stopping for 15 minutes...it is called a FREE WRITE and you never know where it will take you. The idea (for me anyhow) is to feel and write without plan or forethought finding clean inspiration or truth, unforced. It's Kind of Cool and Fun

This was my write

Attach...Connect

Fondling that which it feels lost; unable to put your finger on what's missing as if unhinged not free to move hindered and not hearing a squeak to localize what part is vacant diminishing the feeling of wholeness without color or smell reaching your touch no sound or vibration searching for notice sensing the weight of air gesturing the void calling memory to occupy the space empty from connection so attachment is felt.

Erik A. Steinmo

HOLY-DAY LIGHT OF PEACE

WRITE ON 5 — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:03:01 GMT

"Rumi told me yesterday………"

Free-write by Julia Bernbaum

If Rumi told me yesterday what Rumi told me today

I would be IN

High flying like listening to so much wisdom

If I listened to Rumi day after day

Gliding seamlessly through life would happen

Seeing obstacles as clouds

If I read him upon waking, upon going to sleep,

While waiting for the tea to boil, in the doctor’s office waiting room

I would be so high

I would touch the sky

I would not come down

I would not need anything but knowing that God is inside me,

The infinite

The impenetrable silence would enter my sleeping chambers,

My waking hours, each moment, today

Days drawn up as if by a lantern

His light blinding

Finding me waiting

Always panting

Grateful for his guidance

The why who where what when

Never felt so small

So distant

As when Rumi sat beside me.

And I would put Rumi quotes on my walls,

On the bathroom mirror, on my altar, the computer, the desktop,

Would wear buttons and pass out stickers to bank tellers

And Whole Foods checkers for I would be so bright and alive

Never to whisper a dull moment, or blink an eye to miss the beauty

Of one hand clapping in any religion, on any hill, with any priest, monk,

Poet or assassin

All walls open

Fear windows shut

For there is no time

There is no longer time

We can not wait for the infusion of wisdom

Painted across each pillow

So that when our heads at dusk find

Slumber, we are sleeping with creator again

And all the clouds will part, one at a time—

Wide rivers opening

Each gracefully jumping into pools of light

That could be of Heaven or Earth

For there would be no separation

No distance

No duty

No difference

Just candlelight forever

My sweet and sultry muse….

In the distance laughing, bells ringing, tolling

An audience of he-gods and she-gods

With goblets and grape-wine for a toast

To the pleasure we find at last in being alive

Anew, here, inside

Rumi, Rumi of the heart.

Josh Mann
March 1st, 2012

Write On, Sisters! Brothers! Here we are again, sharing our stories and discovering that we are less different than we thought, though each story is of course unique. The details are different, but the feelings, the values, the dreams are remarkably similar. We are all alive together. And, even now as I write this—sitting silently, looking down at my own piece of paper—I can see Marsha in my peripheral vision doing the same motion, moving her pen back and forth across the page. And, I see others of you; although, the image is a little more blurry. It's comforting, hearing the sounds of pens and paper meeting, quiet sniffling, the occasional sound of a throat being cleared or coins jingling in the pocket of my neighbor's jacket. I lived in this building for over a year-and-a-half. I can assure you that it's not always this quiet. But, there are moments like this when I feel so grateful to be here—sitting quietly with each of you, in a warm room, in a space permeated by peace. You know as well as I, perhaps better, that this neighborhood can get pretty crazy— people hustling you as you walk by, some more courteously than others. But, just for an hour or two, we can be here supporting one another in our healing, in our truth-seeking, in our quest to know our hearts and minds and souls. Just by sitting quietly together, each doing our own thing—our own thing that we do together—we participate in a kind of quiet communion.

And, when we read out loud and share and listen, we know that we're not alone.

I've been amazed over these last couple of years at how much I can relate to in other people's stories—at the number of times that one of you has read something—even one of you that seems so different from me—and I've heard myself say in response "me too."

Then again sometimes the stories are so different from my own. Descriptions of places I've never been, experiences I've never had. And, I can listen without having to defend myself.

Here, we get to talk in a way that conversations don't always allow for.

* * * * *

February 16th, 2012

Heart's knowing is co-opted by other voices, other parts of this psychosomatic-spiritual phenomenon that I identify as myself. The truth is that part of me suppresses the heart's knowing—age-old resentment, fears.

Longings creep in—the heart whispers amid the shouting, and my mind has calibrated some of its instruments to hear heart softly speaking. And, what does the heart say when it thinks that no one is listening? ...Remember, my own feelings of aliveness and gratitude. Appreciation is the way to the heart, of the heart, from the heart. Gratitude is the Way of the Heart. Love in its feminine form is appreciation, acceptance, caring for the beings around it. Feeling the pains and joys of others. Of course, I say "other" in the conventional sense. For, in truth, there is no other - only Mother, only Self with a capital "S." Only this reality of sounds, sights, smells, tastes, touches, and thoughts. The Heart Sutra of Mahayana Buddhism then says that even these phenomena do not exist in any absolute sense. Only that which is beyond words, thoughts, symbols, ideas.

Who would have thought that my life would continue in unexpected ways? Continuing to bring me the motivation to change my location. Let's hope there's no fibrillation in the changing situation.

My station. Vacation.
Vocation of creation and re-integration.
Created in conversation about regeneration.
With seeds experiencing germination with the appropriate incubation. Grow to find healthy respiration in the forest of all there is.

The seeds of the heart, supported in the fertile soil of the gut - bearing fruit that supports the life of others.

Longings of the heart never seem as clear as I wish they were. But, then again they're most often blocked. The dark wizard of my psyche inhabiting my solar plexus thinks of nothing but revenge. But, even Darth Vader can know redemption.

His holiness

Her holiness was him

Before that, in the nunnery it was the women. She loved being busy caring for her fellow partners in Mormon style marriage even tho they were catholic. All those women together cooking and cleaning and doing the laundry and shopping and chopping the food and preparing the meals...... their periods hummed together. Sometimes the special scrub jobs couldn't be gotten to because there was so much everyday regular to do. They loved waiting on each other. In the cave under the hill, built behind the old shopping center they loved the musky damp dark that kept a chill and needing arms around for the inevitable gooseflesh particularly in anticipation of his holiness. They loved together seeing who could refrain the most to have the most space available to fill with that excitement. They picked flowers and kept clean to feel. His long skirts - there were so many feeling proud and useful that it was their fingers holding the needle making the stitch to keep his hem from just touching the ground, letting the folds move against the outline of his leg and show us the shape of his thigh or sway in his hip.

The holiness of getting up each day

The holiness of service

The holiness of chewing

The holiness of seeing

They wanted to lick his holiness clean. They wanted to wipe his bottom calling it of course letting the sun shine clear. Who could do him first? In a pile, one on top of one another pushing hands thru to find something soft. It was one of their favorite games...eyes closed, freshly showered and prepped, everyone smelling good - who can find a handle to hold to fill the unfillable hole that a lifetime of trying still returns empty space -

Call it red

Say it's blue

Maybe big

Could be tiny too

From top to bottom

We're all the same

Meg Margolis

Instead

No, I have never eaten locusts

though I have tasted honey

from the comb and on my bread

as I wandered in redwood forests,

on city streets and in the caverns

of my desires. Yes,

I have also lost myself

in the netherworld of

indulgence and the rarer air

of abstinence; but I do not think

this is the moment for confession

which might leave me trembling

with emptiness and exhaustion.

Years and years and years

have I spent in the wilderness

where my sandals have dropped

from my feet and my sunburned

neck has begged for some balm

to ease its burning. I know

the lapses of memory that

the moon encourages and

the mirages which the sun

inspires, so I do not cower

from any show of heavenly

eclipses or interventions

the future may have in store;

I am, instead, grateful for

all the lonely steps of my journey --

and that little taste of honey

that has touched my pilgrim lips

and nourished my imagination

with beauty born in the flowers

grown on this rough strewn

field of experience.

© December 28th 2011 Sheppard B. Kominars

WHAT’S IN FRONT OF ME

Eyes of Beloved

say you’re fine.

Not perfect

but perfectly fine;

learning to abide in aloneness,

not taking too great a pride in it.

So plaster walls of isolation

crumble down in Beloved’s own time

realizing they are soluble substance

dissolving in love’s waters—

not impenetrable barriers of steel.

And the world is mighty fine.

Not perfect,

but a multiple manifestation of light and sound

His Word made flesh

signifying perhaps different images of meaning

than you earlier conceived.

But phenomena so worthy of consideration

it may take lifetimes

to fully imbibe

what is both horrific and majestic,

petty and luminous, vibrant without evident sentience.

More than words or music

(yet promised by both)

Reality is worth all the praise

time, energy and focus

given towards its acceptance;

loving it deeply into fuller understanding.

Moh Breath January 5th 2012

Reconfiguring the life/death question into a morphing continuum—a child is born so very in touch with its true nature of divinity; yet with no awareness of this divine connection except for that provided by caretakers sensitive enough to their child’s essence to reflect it back to the young one. To live in this world, our child develops an ego and loses touch with essential identity. Though biologically bursting with vitality; without this essential component, how alive is the child?

What element of grace is it that lights individual curiosity about what more there might be in this existence other than three squares a day, a warm bed and pleasurable sensations galore. As Peggy Lee sang , “Is that all there is?” With curiosity on fire with compassion, each of us has the capacity to re-parent ourselves; to seek reflection of our essential nature. In receiving that reflection, we are then imbued with that knowing and are able to reconfigure our sense of who we are and begin to really live.
Moh Breath December 22^nd 2011

GEORGE & GEORGETTE

George’s anger is non-existent. However the loops of his intestines are snarled in a knot that no longer permits digestion to occur. On the hottest day of the year, the repressive force to keep his anger out of sight drops his body temperature to near freezing.

Georgette’s anger is a wildfire consuming trees of her adversaries, bushes of her obstacles and meadow grass of what is annoying to her. She is never more complete in her mind than when this firestorm blazes through her body and its surroundings; smoking ashes of what’s left is her idea of a beautiful landscape.

At the restaurant where she waitresses, a major squabble with her boss, Joe, burns him into a pile of dying embers in a heap of incinerated flesh on the floor. Treated less royally than Georgette feels appropriate at the neighborhood movie theater, she strides triumphantly out of an inferno of blazing velour seats and smoking velvet walls. After an argument with hot headed husband, Carl, two piles of barbequed flesh and bones are left on their living room’s Persian carpet. Georgette’s body is slightly more charred than her fiery mate’s but both are in a similar condition. They can be swept up and offered as alkaline additive to magnificent lavender roses around their home filling the air with forgiveness and love.

Robert-Harry Rovin December 10^th 2011

WINTER WONDERLAND

WRITE ON 5 — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 14:50:46 GMT

“To Tell The Truth”

What is at the core

of the fruit I eat

or the heart of life,

the pith and germ of

speech and love?

What frames my thoughts

my pain, my truth?

It is the WORD

made flesh and bone

by mind in all its sooth.

“Rogues and Charlatans”

Rogues and charlatans

have compassed me about

as I walked through cataracts

I have dared explore.

But would I have had it

any other way, I ask myself?

Would I have chosen to keep

to the path, the safe path,

and pass silently into

oblivion without ever tasting

the rage, the anguish, the deceit

of those ancestors unknown,

unseen, unsung, who went

into their forgotten graves

without a trace of legacy?

Was this ever my choice

in life this time around?

Having chosen this before

I know this to be true:

whatever has come before

I know I wanted this life

to be as different as

a camel is to the needle’s eye.

Yes, this has been my choice

and I have passed through

into a wilderness holier

than the one I inhabited

in previous lifetimes.

Embracing it, I can taste

the locusts and the honey

on my lips, and I can see

the path I have walked

has brought me further into

Eden than I have ever dared

to come before. – And I am glad

to have my voice to herald it.

[Written Oct. 13, Revised Oct. 15, 2011]

Regarding first post of 2009

WRITE ON 5 — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 11:10:22 GMT