"Feel it,
the sensation of breathing,
with a new friend.
Not
the addition,
but the release of a union
of muscle and sinew,
effort
cast to the side.
The breath
enjoyed
with the support
of the floor.
The ground,
the dirt below,
thinking now
of feeling the green grass
in between your toes,
the Earth,
our Earth.
Nay, she is not ours,
we are instead Hers.
Your breath...
given strength by Mother Earth.
Do you feel it?
The ebb of the Earth,
the beat,
the ancient, encompassing embrace.
Do you feel the flow
of the Ocean,
the breath of Mother Earth
made manifest?
Do you feel the presece
of the energy,
in this room,
right now?
The energy that is still,
the energy that links us,
neighbor to neighbor,
the energy of the mightiest wave
crashing onto the shore,
the wrath of the surf
felt as fury by the surfer
that Hell hath no.
The energy of the exhausted canine
resting finally on couch
with the child who so tenderly
ran it tired.
The energy when Autumn comes
when you're not quite done
kissing Summer
goodbye.
Do you feel the breath?
Do you feel your mind
spiraling all over this
whirl of whimisical words?
Do you feel the heart?
Your heart?
My heart?
The flow of energy
of the one to your left
or right?
Us all, limited not
to labels
or categories,
not by old, young,
American, skin tone,
the foolish boy or the sweet lady.
Try Human,
Homo Sapien,
try Earthling,
giggling practitioner about spirit fingers.
But,
you know what?
I do not
need to instruct,
because I feel it.
I feel you.
I feel joy,
stress, searing pain,
us joining as a whole
with our Om.
So beautiful,
you people.
This is it.
This is you, this is me.
This is Mother Earth.
I feel it.
And maybe you do too."
"A visit at my table,
a very welcome visitor,
has a cup of coffee
set down,
but not before
the friend has seated herself
does the surface
of the brew spill over,
splashing quietly
as as she bumps the table with her knee.
Such a detail,
the dark, dark liquid
spread across the light brown
wood of where I write,
threatening to soil
the art being drawn.
The spillings
of the latest happenings,
the earnest devouring
of each others stories
lead to reading,
of depicting the next best thing
in lives still be finished,
download in progress.
A spiral
from one image to the next
from the warm-lit coffee shop
to digital acquisition.
Like this poem,
the conversation goes,
topics spiraling.
Not out of control,
but wildly different
in varient,
from the new job
made of dreams
to the steaming progress
of artwork creativity.
Reading,
the visitor stirring
with silent smiles
and sparkling eyes,
asking how and why
my poetry winds
into art so quickly,
but my answer is clumsy,
the failing of conveying
a real reason
for words written.
Awkward in handling it,
and unable still
to write out the soul
in one sentence,
stanza,
poem,
book, even.
So let's write three,
I tell her,
and glee is sounded,
rounding back to her departure,
bumping coffee again.
But it's wiped away,
no evidence
of the one who sat across.
Nothing lost.
Meaning, rather.
No theme,
but a underlying feeling."
Rambling away goes the auctioneer,
Inner peace for the highest bidder,
Whips and chairs tame circus lions,
in the sweltering heat of winter...