Instinct

At once, a mystery and still crystal
         clear.


The mind does
         not reveal, but the eyes… or the mind’s eye. That tip of the tongue,
untranslatable, heart knowledge, given by the Giver of all good gifts. 


Transparent and elusive as water, carried to the
                                                      inner man, reserved for the one who
                                                                                                     will root through
 the rubble of his own encumbrances for the pleasure of He who discloses. 

                                                                         What organ
                                                                                   of sight should
we lean on? And whose understanding? You’ve been told, so listen,
                             hawk-eyed, wise as and gentle as. 
Both.

     The hour glass drips her sand, counted, waiting. 
But heaven’s been imparted in many languages, human formed.
                                                                                        Or not.
The master key defines.
                           In other words,
                          in other words.  The marrow within,
                           it knows,is familiar with enlightenment if but a
                                                                     glimmer.
The deep
                     searches the deep and wisdom is for the
                                   taking here.
                                       Instinct causes thirst.

Richer than...

Richer than southern

                 soul food.  Succulent,  I savor the taste 

                    of your words, let the wisdom 

      roll slowly over my tongue and through my mind. 

                           Even the presentation, dramatic, like morning glories, 

                                                            doing their showy thing 

first thing. Daybreak their cue and ‘'Vivid - now, go!”, making 

                                                                            me want to bend right 

                                                                                                    into 

you so I can pop like that.  I want to 

                           live on those branches, hold such potential. Sway, too, 

                                 to the 

song of sunlight. 

I want 

      to unlearn the tricks of dark, the twists of night and instead, sup with you 

for breakfast. But the push and pull remains, as the circle of the seasons, 

                the cycles of dawn-to-dark, .  Can I remember though, that 

               that’s the 

                 thing?  To stop the effort, give in to rest, relax, 

while you sink in.  You come, always, mighty as a river, energy to overtake 

                                     my strivings. Your strength 

                                           shows forth, your power, when I at last admit 

                                                                                        I’m weak.  And 

                                                                                        it’s 

                                                                                        in the breath. 

Yours and mine. The breath you gave me and breathing in –an exchange. 

                More of you and less of me.  Just glance my way and let me 

catch it.  Bring to mind that melody that once I knew, of sweet refrain and 

                                                                     ease.because I don’t fear the 

                                                                                                   fire. 

The flames, they heal me, warm me and I want it, wild,.to overtake.  Make 

         me flexible for 

the forming, melt 

         me for the molding. I am yielding because your hands, strong, 

                                                                                 not forceful, but kind 

and gentle, and altogether 

        good are compelling me to good.

wordle 52 

Prayer

When I stand, presumptuous, where only
                                                         You can stand,
When I elevate with lofty thoughts, pluming, puffed up
                 and swollen,
                a fall is
                      imminent and humility, then, is mine.

When in gluttony, my greedy hands grab for much and I want for only pleasure and over-
                                                            fed, I’m sick, temperance, then, my medicine.

If
in idleness,
I begin to waste away my days with listless
                  soul,
wake me quickly. Restore my vigor, stir within me an eager love.

When the grass looks greener in the neighbor’s yard, call, then, on me to give away for my
                                   eyes are blind to what I have. 
                                                                    If less means more
                                                                                          of You, Lord, take away.

                                                                                                     Accord to me the gift of charity, only that I might share of You.

If my resentments choke and coax toward wrath, if righteous indignation becomes only
indignation and my heart burns
                                            sore, watering a bitter seed, revive in me, Your passion, which is of love.
Woo me back to patience, to long-suffering, to Your heart. 
                     Teach me, then, of letting go,
                                              of
                                                forgiveness, which You’ve freely granted me.
Quiet any petty rage and lift me up above my human stirrings. 
Govern my mind
and quiet my heart.
Subdue me like a chastened child.

Turn me quick away from lust, that pure, I will see You.
Deliver me from evil.  Incline my ears to hear Your word and not the calls of this world.
                                                       Take from me the foolish fancy for glimmering false
promises, illusions of water when You are the living water.
Fill my cup and let my heart
                       thirst for only more of You. 
                                       Let me yearn and burn for Your fire, crave Your delicacies.
Keep me chaste while I wait adorned in white for the day I see Your face.




with Jingle Poetry

Delicious

You are delicious,
a delectable darling.
I could eat you up. 

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 26 – February 26th – Theme: Paint the Image
Inspirational Image from: Google Images, Author: Unknown

Alive to hope

Living means release
of your past, your history,
so your dreams can breathe.


Be alive to hope
and grieve not for days of yore.
Invent a new life.






Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 20 – February 20th – Quote: Live out of your imagination, not your history

Someone to see

We wait, him and I
but for what I do not know -
someone to see us.

Written for The Haiku Challenge 2012 - Day 17 – February 17th – Theme or Word: Wait + Paint the Image
Inspirational Image Clicked by Anand of: Apple Blossom's Photography

Death

So, I’ve been thinking about death,
                    the ripping of it
and how, natural as it is,
                               it doesn’t feel right.

But what is right?
         And who am I
to know, to say, to judge?

The part of every story that we hate.
The words mixed up, the prose awkward
                                              and we always want a different ending.


                                                 And I’ve been thinking that departure can feel
                                                                                                                like attack
or like a rapid current in the agony of life’s ebbing river.
            About how the oscitance of passage
                                                      pulls in, too, the protesting pieces
                                                                      of those left behind.so we’re
                                                                              each time a little less
whole. 


Yes, the gateway
yawns, lazy-like and shards of our
glass hearts fly in with the summoned. 


                                           Maybe they’re collected, those bits, constructed anew
and returned.
But I don’t know. 


Immanent, Innate, born to die.  To live.
                           But still.

Death
declares her will, her time and we gape (each time) in shock. 
              How dare she?
                            She advances with a vow.
                                                             We retreat, denying.

The sum and substance in the end so brief and we realize we’ve only skimmed.
             And who or what is there to loathe when life at last is finished?
                No.  Bitterness is for those here and we alienate ourselves from the inevitable
                                                               and from love, which is all we really have.
                                                                       Our reflections,
baseless
because mocking death travels with a mixed bag and we want
                                                                                       nice and tidy.
Who can handle the profundity of the commonplace fact of finality, the rhymeless,
                                   unpoetical and unrehearsed tragedy when all
                                               along we’ve begged for clowns.

                                                                                          So, now,
fumbling, we place  flowers (which, too, will die) by words engraved, words,
                                    too few.

                                                   Our hearts, raw, ache, incompetent to
beat alone within the poverty of our existence.
                 We become
                       beggars who know not anymore what we
                                      want- more or less?

                                                     Though distinct in details, death is not diverse.
But still, I feel my words to be like death, an interrupted sequence.
             I have no lines to close with.






submitting at dverse