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…

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…