Opening, Closing Gifts [.streamingpoem.]

his eyes
amber green orange-yellow
soft brown

a mouth
that shimmered as he spoke
a grill
behind El Salvadorian teeth

a nose
german, hooked like mine
mole on the right side

along the canyon creek
we spoke, the sun
blazing bright hot dry
on neon leaves above
my head

a stone
rope-tied to a cowboy hat
above his crown, home

gifted with knowing
thoughts, pain
made bewildered by the
unconsciousness of others
this man sought refuge
advice from a sage, how might he
close his heart
of feeling

under a cascade
a waterfall, he said
for 30 days, he said
opened his mind
letting the cool mist build towers
walls of protection
to shield from the blows
the noise

for 30 days he begged
gods for release
remove the unknown
the fire flames burning, bring
peace silence stillness
mundane
freedom
from the power of knowing

16 earth-cycles
passed, powers gone

yet in his sleep
he opens a door to the purple blue
universe, light sky

each eve elders circle the table
of energy, not form
three hundred of them
welcome my friend
at the fire

each day
back in a bed, sunshine, alarms
he opens awakened eyes
to an unknowing world
and walks, moves, with
golden heart oxen hands

I beg him
to explore, more, without fear
stand up in your power
bravery, risk, original wildness
ask to know, I said
once more, I said
and know

I will be back
connected, connecting
and the cerulean sky encouraging
touch

We step back
into spaces
of growth, of darkness lightness growing
breath

One final glisten
his eyes
and mine

I soften, gasp, knowing
this man
this gift
this truth in me
a softness
a mission
responsibility

IMG_3040

Titus Lake, Idaho [poem]

Moments spent in the waking world, alone with nature, are some of my very favorite moments of all. 😊🌀🌎🌿🌞❤️

13925424_10154540952159101_310948608217332358_n

Because it’s 8 am and
you’re at a Rocky Mountain lake you’ve
never been to before
with only your golden dog and
a few chipmunks and
deer and dozens of birdsongs
as company
you shrug off your clothes and
bare all to the damp and chilly wind
and tip toe into the crystal turquoise
stillness
reflecting before you

and breathe in….

Then you dive and
open your eyes to taste
the smooth blue and green around you

Then you flip
and float
and your skin tightens from the icy cold and
your breath is high in
your chest and your dog
whines along the shore, afraid
to let you lose yourself
below the surface.

 

Titus Lake

My practice [poem]

❤ new poetry ❤
I read this quote [Our spiritual practice should ” … feel as natural to slip into as our favorite jeans or T-shirt, at ease both with being worn and being worn out.” — Robert Augustus Masters] and I reflected on my favorite spiritual practice. ❤ Yes sir, I’m down with my practice these days.
To me, I think my favorite spiritua practice is my dance at sunset in a dusty dirty Dog Bowl, two blocks from my house, swallowed in a sandy ravine where pups and people and pot gather and sunlight descends over the hills… [ I scribbled this:]
img_2384
—-
My practice
I kick off my kicks
dawdle and hesitate for a moment, then
launch, toe-tips and curlicues into this
spinning purging delicate fierce
dance upon the earth.
Sometimes there are people
high atop the rails
looking down on me as the
golden-hour sun lights my face and forearms
then
I’m completely alone.
Entangled in blackberries
and dill weeds
and air that smells like cardamom
I’m watched by a yellow dog
panting in dune grass
and fennel pollen
begging to be picked
Made present by
a broken-bottle cut bleeding
on my heel
I dance
Because I breathe
I dance
Because I believe
in celebration of
this life
my life reflects a practice
for once
for always
there is only one thing there could
ever be
Me.
You.
Movement.
always intertwining always
alone
Wrist flicks toward a setting sun
As the man-bunned boy
With fuzzy scorched blonde frizz
on his calves
approaches. Says hi.
And I continue to dance.
Ear buds in, do I acknowledge this man?
‘Is this the man?’ I think. I wonder.
‘The man’
from the Mayan foretelling
‘Dance and sunrise and change and movement,’ she-shaman said three years ago in Guatemala
as the fire blazed and
the smoke sang upon my beckoning mouth
It wasn’t the man.
Ring-wearer, he was.
They always are.
And I keep dancing twirling stomping swirling
at daybreak
at moonrise
When souls descend into my space,
when I’m blessed to be alone.
I slip into the movement
Of my body
This body
Your body
Our body
And I sweat
I sing
I smile
I scream
I cry
I am
And it happens
around me and within me
and I open my eyes
to you my eyes
you
My my
you
The dance
Of my
Of you
Man bun
And curlicue
….
IMG_2089 (2)

Art by Arna Baartz — http://www.artofkundalini.com/