People Watching

The following poem evolved from a couple of things - Memory from a Zeta Sister and Invitation to Poetry: Moments from Abbey of the Arts.

Do they know who they will become?
Are they already there?

Pink crocs and purple cast, she floats
across the playground.
Will she be a nurse mending others or
the daredevil breaking bones?

Tiny son in his own blue crocs,
raises his voice to the sky.
Budding opera singer? Talk show host?
Perhaps a bellowing father.

Newborn babes & scampering tots,
mothers, fathers, aunties too.
Do they know who they will become?
Are they already there?

The merry-go-round spins
faster and faster.
Which moments of the blur will
stand in clarity?

Bell bottom jeans, peasant top
& flowing hair, she sits upon the campus wall.
Could she know who she would become?
Was she already there?

Perhaps it is middle age or psychotherapy that has me remembering moments of my past, but I continue to be fascinated by what I am learning about my life. Recent discoveries have led me to consider the "clues" to who I have become that were there all along the way.

The things I loved as a child (which I thought I had forgotten) are still the things I love today. My authentic tendencies (not necessarily those imposed upon me by others) have been with me from ages 5 to 15 to 50.

So, what do you think? Did you know who you would become? Were you already there? Can you see the clues that were there along the way?

photo from Paris, 2008

Sacred Sunday

Last Sunday I shared a poem about the six senses of God. Here is another one I uncovered in my archives. Wishing you a peace and sensory-filled day!!

More Than Enough

God smells like cinnamon. Baby's breath. Fresh baked bread. Warm cookies. Sewer Swamp. Compost. Earthen Clay.

God tastes like sweet mint. Red wine. Honey on scones. The lips of a lover. The skin of a baby.

God sounds like thunder. Silence. A bird's call. An infant's cry. My heart beating. Laughter & tears.

God feels like safety. Warm arms wrapped around me. Snug. Gentle. Distant. Knowing. Unknown. Filling every sense of my body.

God looks like the wind. The smile of a child. Weather-worn face. Toothless grin. Rock. Sand. Feather. Life. Death. New birth. Bloody war.

My sixth sense says, "Ahhhhh. Awe. Stop asking questions. Just be. Just be, my dear one."

photo by h3images ©

Summer's Sweet Slowness

Dressed in my glossy red coat
adorned with perfect black dots,
I tip a feeler into the warm summer air.
Ahhh.
The bark feels cool and
safe beneath my bare feet.
Perfect for a slow stroll
on a summer day.

Shall I stick close to home or
spread my wings and fly?
The world offers much to explore.
Hmmm.
Which outlook will I prefer today–
comfy barkside view or
daring aerial vista?
Summer sweetness beckons.

Image © and poetry prompt can be found at Abbey of the Arts. Check it out!!

Sacred Sunday

Today I am pulling one out of the archives - prompted by my pleasure of being associated with two amazing women, Christine Paintner and Betsey Beckman, who are working on their new book about the Awakening the Creative Spirit program. Their writing reminded of a poem I penned almost three years ago during that program. It seemed perfect for this Sacred Sunday.

Enjoy!

Six Senses of God

No old man in flowing robes and long white beard for me. My God looks like the wind, the rain, the sun & moon. He is creation all around--both seen and imagined.

Rainstorm beating on a tin roof & brook gently babbling through the forest. The laughter of children and screams of childbirth. Tinkling bells and booming gongs. These are the voices of Majesty.

God smells like spring after the first rain. Roses, old and fragrant. Wet dog and fresh baked bread. Homemade cookies & pie.

Taste the sweet nectar dripping from fresh berries. Complexities of a gourmet meal. Chinese food and take out pizza. Communion wine. God pours flavor into life.

Experience God with the touch of a newborn’s bottom, a soft kitten or the bark of a gnarled tree. The suede of a child’s head and the crepe of a woman’s weathered hand.

A presence that embodies pain and sorrow, joy and laughter. A tugging of the heart and a whisper in the ear. The flutter of stomach and the pounding of heart. Our God is the feast of eyes and the fullness of soul.

photo by lucy

Sun & Sixteen

One of the greatest gifts in life can be having a friend who knows you well. You wonder and ponder whether they were with you in another life or silently observing you throughout the years. You experience those moments when you say, "how did you know?", But then it doesn't really matter does it, because they have seen deeply into your being, and to know and be known needs no response at all.

The following poem was gifted to me this week from one of those wonderfully amazing friends. Were she and the poet laying on the grass beside me? I wonder...
Thank you, C.

The Sun Lover

The long afternoon after church

a girl lies on the lawn,

glazed thighs slightly parted,

fingers splayed like petals. At sixteen

she is a virgin. While her parents nap

in the quiet house, she knows

the sun is teaching her about love,

how it comes over your body

making every muscle go soft

in its pitiless gaze,

how it penetrates everything,

changing you into something dark

and radiant. She craves it,

knows it is everywhere like God’s love,

but difficult to find. She waits,

entirely still, trying to see her eyelids–

not lingering traces, but the lids themselves

luminous and red as the cheeks of the kid

who stuck a flashlight in his mouth at camp.

She squints so the tips of her lashes

flash like iridescent fish scales.

Every hour, she turns over but prefers

to face the sun. All her life

she’ll measure loves against this

gentle ravishing. She’ll spend afternoons

alone on crowded beaches, and at home

stand naked before mirrors, amazed

by the pale shape of her suit. She’ll touch

her cheekbones’ tingling pink, and nip

at her lover’s shoulders, as if

it were earth she were after.

-Julia Kasdorf

photo of me at 16