Curator of My Space

I am the curator of my hidden space.The revelations come as a trickle, a wink —a river of stars while I dream.Ideas are heldin the secrecy of growth,near the fruit of the womb,under the cloak of becoming. While I carry hiddenness,I no longer hide me.I’ve taken off the gray cloak of doom.Vibrancy is my outfit of choice.Even as I glow —My antennae explore the room for discernment.What is necessary to share, to refrain from speaking?With this inquiry,I become the curator of my open space. Sensitivity to myself and others is a gift I hold.I do my best to meet others…

There She Goes

a quiet launch,bread rises with no fanfare a summer silence,petal leaf opens to the light of the moon a first flight,baby bird wings span to trust the air Sandwiched in the middle ofriots and illness,anger and death, a door appears.Possibility greets her. The hidden Holy trails beside her,visible form emerges before her. She follows the splendor of ideasto see them come to fruition. There is no-one there to witness.No balloons lifted.No congratulations spoken.No pat on the back. It’s a silent reckoning.a nod to herself —she is doing the workshe is called to do. She sparks the sage,arms move to the…

A Shower of Prayer

Prayer peeks her eyes toward the sun,head tilts sidewaysinhales what is —No more, no less She is love draped with angst.A myriad of concernsweaves through her —a pleada wisha hope Prayer is presenceto what is here, now She is an infant held in the bosom of a new mother —an eye gazea reflective pausea rock to and fro Prayer is expressionof all that bears like lead She barrels in as —a swashbuckling piratea shoulder shaking widowa mud puddle splash She makes no apology for how she arrives.She is fully herself —Take her or leave her. She is wide strokes of…

The Sacred Third

Somewhere between day and night,where fireflies shine — in the middle space ofright and wrongwhere dog wags his tail — peeking through the black and white,where zebra emerges — on the city streets betweengood and bad,where mosquitoes only smell blood — in the wrestle match of yes and nowhere cats have no care — at the family feud ofgirl and boy,where male seahorses give birth — in the fist grip of interior and exterior,where turtles move with ease — is a thin placeof the Sacred Thirdwaiting to receive — “Hello.Welcome You!Come sit with me for a while.Will you?There’s no rush.Let’s…