Another look at the lost city of Atlantis. Atlantis in the Amazon We got the nook version.

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River-Tree Whispers

Seeds in Reflection

Inspiration can come at anytime. Upon awakening. Or falling asleep. Driving.



But can I catch it? Reaching for a notepad -- it may stop. The inspiration. Or the sleep. Do I dictate to Marily, or scribble notes on my arm?



This morning while greeting people at the temple door, it started. It might look like I was taking notes on latecomers. But . . . Well maybe.



Smiles on time step sprightly

Joy in words and girth

Later meek and lightly

Walks on soft-shoe lace

Then the campers follow

Face shades of red, sweat and tears

Comes the venue to me

Eat, love and pray.



------------



Observe.

Process lightly.

Preserve.



We write.

the Book .

of Lives.



While living.



===



Driving west to Waconia, it is a vibrant day. A rare and dirty snowdrift persists a few more days at most. Though it could snow again any day in Minnesota. Sun catches a foilage-bare woodlot this early Spring day. Leaf-tan and autumn tones pad their feet.



Shades of gray

rodent and reptile

and other still unseen

in trees verticallyy striped

and horizontal by the light

winter leaves a lot of life

yet to show



.

Seeds of Reflection

Inspiration can come at any time. Upon awakening. Or falling asleep. Driving.

But can I catch it? If I grab a notebook it may stop. The inspiration, or good sleep. Do I dictate to Marily, or scribble notes on my arm -- one eye on the road?



While greeting at the temple door this morning, it started. It could have looked like I was sneaking notes on the latecomers. But . . . Well, maybe.



Smiles on time step sprightly
Joy in words and girth
Later meek and lightly
Walks on soft-shoe lace
Then the campers follow
Face shades of red, sweat and tears
Comes the venue to me
Eat, love and pray.



-----------



Observe,
Process lightly.
Preserve

We write.
the Book.
of Lives.

===



Driving west to Waconia--it is a vibrant day. Only a rare and dirty snow drift persists for a few more days at most. Till it snows again. It could, here in Minnesota. Sun catches a foilage-bare woodlot this early Spring day. Leaf-tan and autumn tones pad their feet.



Shades of gray

rodent and reptile
and others still unseen
in trees vertically striped
and horizontal by the light
winter leaves a lot of life
yet to show


.

Master of Light

There are three subjects most of my poetry is usually about: Love, Spirit and Nature. Even though I consider Dave high in my list of favorite people, I could not fit a poetic tribute to him into that category. And though Dave and I share a spiritual path, I rarely think of spiritual experience when talking to him. Nature, on the other hand, does have possibility, because of his photography and his expression of light therein. This morning driving up 494 it came to me:

Have you seen the light today?
I see it on the sunlit birch stands
waiting for the first winter snow.
It shows in weeping willow domes
yellow with expression.
And in the marsh grass
stark against dark wooded hills.
The few golden leaves that still top young cottonwoods
like summer's standard still flying.
Then the blue sky behind the skeletons
of black walnut whose leaves fall first.
Or the few maples that have not yet
released their claim to autumn
where red and burgundy once ruled.

Have you seen the light today
in the season's progression?
On the road home?
Or in the portraits
by the master of light?

Happy Birthday, Dave!

Mr. Winter

I woke up this morning and heard the wind outside. I thought, It's not long now.

Mr. Winter

Any day now, any night—its coming.
I can feel his hand in motion,
And not by slight brush or wave
We already gave up our summer.
Autumn rolled out the red carpet,
And gold. It knows and is ready.
Not I. Too soon. Mister Winter
Comes clicking on the window so near
With crystal and wind-jeweled ring fingers,
Wants to hit me with white knuckles, fisted.
Not ready. Still hiding in the corner.
My bed is a pillow-padded ring.
Won’t stand for a knock-out, not ready.
Still planning my advance and maneuver.
He may never even know my abhorrence,
Or the hour I decide to fight back.
I start with a lack of cold courage,
but fashion a red badge of cheer.
I’ve tallied and ranked more batting
Grey socks, stripe sweaters, knit gear.
Fear will no longer haunt me.
I’ll reach out and pull in my woolies
And stand to face that cold day.
May even take him as partner
Mr. Winter will not keep me down.

.

Curtains of Consciousness #3

I posted this one too on River Tree Whispers, but decided it is still way too long, so pulled it. Maybe it will never be done.

Curtains of Consciousness

From the reality shift --
sleep to wake and back and forth.
Eyelids -- stage curtains on opening night.
Behind the curtain -- true practice between performances
in the waking world, for acts of service and love
between the opening state everyday
and other consciousness and direct perception
not necessarily remembered,
but still accessible on the stage between the curtains.
Open to the waking world of reality
or back stage to full sleep.
The Director -- there, and here.
Spiritual experience
is between the curtains
of consciousness.
The true stage is set
in vibrant control
and spiritual effect
in that place between the curtains
the crystal clear reality
where creativity is born
and blooms.

Awake now, I write the best I can
the attempt at truth from other worlds.
Now, while still close
I am Soul--I know--
still hums in my ears.
Going back to touch the sphere of creativity.
I try, then close my eyes
to slip back
-- rewriting --
the moment of timelessness.
Seconds or hours do not add
but challenge the balance on stage.
Balance between slipping back
to the comfort of unconscious sleep
or awakening fully to the calls of body
of duty in the world of matter.
We glide, like hard shoes on ice
looking at our feet
or feeling the wind on our cheeks
while saving impressions as best we can.

Glide in guidance be Sound and Light.
Close my eyes and hear it.
See it clearly and almost remember more.
Here between the curtains of consciousness.
So when we wake to sort these realities of spirit
and claim the tense as present,
the person as first --
I know there is another One
that guides these acts of love and service
with the light unseen by most.
Awake, we only see what sleep allows us
the space where time has stopped
between the then and there
or the here and now.
How many times it does not matter
once we know the truth.
We serve It and Life and all
in Love and the Wisdom there.

Then at night before going there for regeneration
I've met you in that place on stage
slipped away with you
to journeys of the heart and soul
for love is never wrong in liberty.
The waking world of matter is not so free.
But love releases fear of time and space confines.
It is a lesson in the book of life
and on the stage we play.

I'm thinking the last paragraph should stand alone--the makings of a new poem. What do you think?