Insight: Behind my eyelids (another ascension poem)

meditation planter

inbreath when instructing myself to sit and not do

the mind in pictures which flash, fade, emerge

a dog head beelines for my palm and nuzzles bumping cool damp nose bud

palms cupping buzz that tingles

feeling the light prickling where fate line intersects heart and head

waiting for what emerges

what is showing today?

the filmstrip inside my skull splices a never-ending collection of plants

I clearly perceive flowers, leaves of all shapes and colors

they keep coming at me, to me

how do I know them so well?

how do they know me?

in the library that lives in my cellular memory

have I stored and cataloged my interactions with these beings?

Am I a librarian, a botanist, herbalist, healer, a witch?

And why am I so reluctant to remember?

Having loved the plants so long, so well…

has this power brought upon me isolation, demise, misery among men?

remembering is awakening

there is fear, post-traumatic tension with excitement braided in

so many of us with herbs and weeds behind our eyelids

were martyred to human need for certainty, control, designations of good and evil

now insight is returning

as are balance, divinity of female and male

squeezing bitter drops of toxic neediness from each polarization

eager to relax and embrace myself and the plants inside of my eyes

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The Lighthouse: an ascension poem

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An amorphous sac pulsing with bile punched me

touched my body and attempted to ravage my feelings, my peace

It was anger. It was fear. Could I stand it, stand up to it, with it, not give in to a body’s wish for deliverance?

Am I a doctor for the pain of the world? Can my light engulf the suffering that a sea of victimization has washed over billions of beings?

A squirrel crushed flat into a paper cut-out. Deleted from the world by a careless driver.

The beauty of a plant unfolding into a flower called unwanted. Tearing into the velvety delicacy of a perfected structure, ripping the roots clinging to home soil and gravel.

We waver. We the lighthouses. We are here. We have been here. But no one, barely anyone can see us. Punched, billowed, slaughtered, we have bounced back. But barely.

Still we are here. Bringing sight where blindness thrives. Delivering sound, rich, melodious tones into the harsh dissonance of imbalance, greed, dominance.

A wrinkled time in which pulsing brain chants uniformity for all. We the lighthouses wonder when the sleeping, mumbling, chanting ones will awaken. We are tired and sometimes lonely. Our friends are the plants, the animals, the soil, and the water.

The humans are seething. Fear flows through them as programmed, but a few are tired of being afraid. They don’t know who is producing and directing the fear, and who is eating it and thriving from it. They don’t know, but they are tired too. I feel it.

They are tired too.

How can we, the lighthouses, help to heal humanity, dear Earth, dear animals and plants? It feels easier, so much easier to help Gaia. To send love to the water, though our bodies, minds, hearts. The water in our bodies communicates so easily to the water in the plants, the trees, the animals, the clouds. It is instantaneous.

Humans are hard to help. The programs are powerful. Their sleep so deep.

They beat us. They resist. They are full of opinions. I want to help, but I am tired. Tired of fear, of anger, of suffering, sickness, pain, conflict. My rituals of transmutation of fear into rainbows…are they helping?

The skies are healing. Clarity is coming where there were so many devious cloud impersonations. There I find and see hope.

As the demon shadows emerge from the humans, I find hope too. The darkness programmed must emerge for the healing to take place. Those shapeless bags of ugliness which have pinned us to the tarmac, never allowing us to dream of flight…

It is time. Time to release the darkness. A sea of jelly, countless globular blobs emerge from human brains, cell structures, they float filling the air with their seething thought forms. Terrorists unleashed, they hit us as we try not to flail or give in to their unreasonable demands and criticisms.

This is the question, dear lighthouses: the air is full of human suffering. It is being released, and it is hitting us full force. Can we beam for billions? Right now, can we be the light they refuse to see or embody? We are the healers. We are here at this critical time to bring forward the alchemical magic that we know helps and heals.

Possessed, they resist our help, and we cannot force the light upon them. We just continue to shine and hope that the better and best become easier to see as the blobs dissolve in our proximity.

 

 

Rainbow privilege: a poem

rainbow sphere spinning lights

When black, the life of matter dissolves blood and bone

into chaos and song

Striving to spin golden straw from a hard-won mouth

gasping for voice.

The triumph from darkness tears a rent

into the dark, silent hold of infinity

Opening a portal, ever expanding

The bitter taste of defeat, of tooth shattering repression

springing back from the microcosm of despair

Blossoming upon awakening

into an iridescent spherical pillow, upon which lies spent then restored

a tender head of scrappy curls and weakened limbs.

Privilege of an odyssey chosen

descent into darkness, separation, disease, lack, exploitation

to return in an upwards spiral to a flowering of song

Smatterings of equations, characters behind the screen of appearances

The rainbow is a skin to the light body

akin to the prejudice of a world where matter is real

And where “real” things matter.

Where categories and bodies separate and alone

Solitude dissolves into symphony

When art opens the thousand-winged eyes of a butterfly wing,

revealing truth where

one reality is but a web of close-knitted lies

helped together only by the beliefs held by multitudes.

When white, the life of matter clatters and clinks

like coins against marble, granite, and platinum.

Titanium hard-veined blue and cold, embracing separation from the mirror

believing itself to be the Light, the one the only

Wishing to live in a world that is no mirror

To stand hard, tall, robotic on a stage

casting no shadow

Wishing even to banish shadow behind the hardest and most finite door.

Is the shadow of darkness pure source light?

The gift of shadow is the lovely spiral of growth of a plant towards the sun.

A child emerges into being by choice, fully knowing the challenges to be faced

Then forgetting, contracts dissolved into the meatiness of shade, infant emerges from ether, so brave to confront the unknown.

Human being, all flush with iridescence.

We all come here, draped in forgetfulness.

Draped in the shadow of not knowing who we are, why we are here.

The shadow is the teacher of the light.

Dear rainbow, we thank you.

We, fractal fragments of a single source orchestrator

are here. Breaking away to chip into a kaleidoscopic choking

Then explosion of two hardened discs, black on white

into an expanding iris.

We are the all-seeing light

speaking in rainbow volumes

Bringing the Living Library back to life.

Back to light.

 

I speak for the weeds (a poem)

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From a matrix of sand, spewing gravel, humus, and a heartfelt explosion

of abundance

I sing unending joy. I drive, poke, peek, push

From within the ranks of green soldiers constantly mown down in an acceptance of defeat

I rise up, we rise up, diverse, tangled, fleshy, juicy, untamed

We are the voice and talents of our beloved undomesticated mother.

Living unframed, we are the wild women

shamed into invisibility or porn

Our abilities mostly unseen, our beauty defamed

We are pushed outside the acceptable window of vision

Those who purportedly seek status, perfection, power

cannot see us

We know no hierarchy

Only freedom entices us. We are the artists and purveyors of the green side of the brain

The heart of darkness of humanity has plunged us into a blind eye

plumbed the heart of being into a footnote.

Yet we embody the feminine power of birth, life,  healing, and the creative juice

Infinite shapes, textures, chemicals, potentials, striving

We remain pure, never hybridized, not studied, used, developed

Just poisoned, attacked, eliminated

We bother the perfect unity of control. We are not an image with which you can comfort yourself

We hear of the genocide of peoples

We are told of the extermination of animals

The endangerment of species

Yet here we live, wild

in the perfection of multiplicity

An infinite expression of life force

We are the motion inside of you

The water that feeds you

The medicine that heals you

We are the voice of love from your mother

The mother you never embrace, thank, or appreciate. Your toes have not wriggled near our roots and the worms for so long.

Yet our contact would restore you to balance and bring you peace and health.

I speak for the weeds, whose passionate expression of indomitable life cannot be crushed

Remember, gardener.

What are you growing? Who are you helping? What are you creating?

We are here to help.

 

Pineal (a poem)

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In the bedrock of soft ooze

sprout the rods and cones of a ladder to Jacob’s dream

spruced upwards

gazing inwards

the hallucination of a dream left behind for too long

the yearning of a sunken volcano

a sisterhood of souls abandoned

yearning for the connection

sailing towards the energetics of a wise and warm embrace.

I am told humanity has folded its legs

tucked its head

and wound itself into the embrace of a temporary womb.

the pine cone falls from a lofty place

dropping swirling shedding

layers of forgotten dreams

shattering the brutal murder from the shards of history’s mind wipe

she lies in a tomb shrouded in moss and cobwebs

vines entangle the stone, hair, bone, twig, and flower

enwised

a new being unfolds

tentatively stretches a sticky limb

through a film once designed to hold and protect

she is reborn

looking inward

to revise the heart of humanity