This cup is a universe
Known in time
Poured to the brim overflowing
As the gift of life
I drink this cup
You Offer to me
Warm and sweet to the lips
Dripping like honey upon this pixelated page
As I ask/pray innocently/greedily for more
Forgiving edits
Meet now
Right here
Left here
By themselves
With nowhere to go
That’s not here
We go again
In the same old circle
Will be unbroken
When we see it is drawn
On the surface of something else
In another space and time
To stop tapping
Let me fall
into loving relationship
With all
As an old tree
Become soil
With the help of hungry friends
Who I feed gladly for their labor
As they gift me
With a transformation
That nurtures
the acorn and mushroom
To sail to the
New World is my dream
Yet the Old World still beckons me
At breakfast table
And laundry service
Where linens and hankies are neatly
Pressed and white
Silverware and “sir” is the storm I face
As the waves roll
And lightning flashes
Outside
Yes, I am not Jonah
This vessel is tossed in the sea
I am not
So I feel somewhat safe
The brown glass
Beer bottle
Keeps me
From the skunk
Doing
What skunks do best
Chemistry
and Physics
Is what I read
Still
it could be
a miracle
The refulgent fireflies
Dart about
Like embers from the fire
As the past becomes metaphor
And the flood of memories
Tries to carry me away in its powerful current
I watch the surge from the new steel bridge
As I cross to the other side
Not knowing One from the other
Still in my State
My open hand
Will catch the rain
As splatters heard through
Rubber-hooded raincoat
Announce the Fall
As leaves lie still
Upon the golden path
I walk
I went to the city
Where the prairies are full
of yellow cabs and black limos
Where the wildlife trails are concrete
And the watering holes are bistros and bars
How can such a difference reveal such a sameness?
I have never really left the range
I have carried my mementos of home
In my travel trunk
I never really flew
The sunset looks like
Painted pictures on the wall
Their beauty holds us
Wield that sword
Between thumb
And forefinger
It’s often called “the pointing”
For it distracts one from looking
At the source
Yet rather the reflection
Becomes the blinding light.
theascendingspiral 