Titus Lake, Idaho [poem]

Moments spent in the waking world, alone with nature, are some of my very favorite moments of all. πŸ˜Šβœ¨πŸŒ€πŸŒŽπŸŒΏπŸŒžβ€οΈ

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