Fear Pastries

Fear is an ingredient in the doughy mass of your discontent, I say knead and mix and bake some dense bread with that dough and feed it to the carrion that live in the fires of inner truth. Take care of yourself and use your strength to let it go. It doesn’t serve you any longer.

Lunchtime Nature Eats

A shrill call to arms from a lofty metal post.

Hair flips and color riots. A brassy affliction of youth.
Sweet tongued silence strewn haplessly
with whispering leaves, a whimsical cacophony
of greens splayed gold.

Fenland sways, verdant in drought.
The soothing clacking of Cottonwoods
creates a lyrical backdrop of white wisps
and tendril-ed cloud tops.

Tree bark ruts and singes bare.
Moth’s wings flutter quietly in hollows,
shadows perceived are the dewy respite
for the mocking’s flustered call.

Paths of floating air, being just so in their creation,
touch lightly, feathering,
beautifully simple,
like tufts of summer snow, free from melting.

Shellacked insect,
green against bone,
bird dance on puppet string.

Bed of flora rolling onward round the bend of what is seen.
 Soluble earth consoled
through summer heat by the cracking of aerated soils.
Fluttering bees busily pollen hunting
amid the myriad colors of the season.

Lilac, buttery yellow, sienna, and burning orange.
A host to beguile the eye of any creature near;
draw flight and sweet creation made of function,
so clear.

Marksmanship

Complacency and worth are the two bullets in the gun and I shoot myself with them weekly.  Laziness is the powder, and ego is the cold steel at the temple of my truth.  Spin the barrel, finger the trigger, BANG! Russian Roulette approved. But truth is a phoenix, rising from the residue growing within you and relentlessly knocking on the cohesive door of your emotional heart and intellectual mind. Allow it to bloom, flame, and burn the apathy to dust with the passion of your inner fire.

Let Me Play You A Waltz

Suddenly, everything has changed.

That is the most poignant statement of my feelings today. I have raw feelings, anger, and hurt but these wounds are no longer being poked by a salient determined hope. An idea of clinging to a crumbling ledge with a disheartened man's face.

I yearn for the movement, my body aches with the longing of emotional movement, the dance of dunces, whatever incongruous yet beautifully guided misstep I may take. It's okay to make mistakes, it's okay to tap dance around a notion to learn how to approach it; to understand fully with laces untied  the syncopation of the solo.

I've never danced well with a partner, I always try to lead, choosing to ignore the angling steps of retreat in their eyes. I cling stubbornly to the thought that we may find the rhythm, failing to notice that the band went home hours ago.

And, one, two, three, one, two, three,

I am spun amok and return to find the waltz I hear is my own tempo, my own imagining, and most importantly, my own creation. I am not only a participant but the tiled floor beneath my feet, the cool air upon my cheek, and the playful rustling of taffeta and lace.

My dance card is open but cautiously so. Not just anyone can punch the ticket to ride this beauty. They must earn it, understand what that means, and cause gentle care to be played against my heart as fingers twine, heads tilt, and the whirl commences.

Scraps for the Motivating

By allowing things that don't serve you to be let go and decay naturally, it can encourage new growth in spirit and body. Those old thoughts, memories and feelings can nourish all the budding seedlings of choices in what is true for you and your path.

Round and Round

When struggling with finding beauty and compassion in the things and people your ego loathes, it helps me to think of those feelings and reactions as reflections of what I have been, still may be, and let it go. Choose to go in a direction that serves. Being thankful for the mirror as a reminder that as humans we are the full spectrum of every emotion and shade of the color wheel is a way that helps me not take the whole thing so seriously. The difference in being defined by the color and shifting playfully through the color comes when we are present and aware in and of the moment. When we know on a spiritual level that the wheels on the bus do go round and round, meaning that nothing is permanent and we always have the opportunity to step into another emotion, to CHOOSE how we handle a given circumstance despite what our ego may be trumpeting; this is essential to the human experience. This is also something that I still struggle with daily. I can be very reactionary in some instances and quite passive in others. ( I guess that's why they call them triggers).

Mirror, Mirror...

If I pricked you, would you not bleed? 

The blood of ancients, a calling on my tongue. 

You’ve been taste tested standing behind me, 

yanked forward,
against this dance of mutual resistance.  

You circle, 

I circle, 

crouched low, eyes locked, 

intent unknown. 

Palms slap and hold, 

pulling unity as flesh and blood slide together 

an entwined duality of this very breath.