today is spring

a master puppeteer and his marionette

he danced me about the stage 

            I, wooden bodied and jointed

gracefully matching his skill

            to dive me effortlessly to and fro

rhythmically upon the ethers in fine costume of old

            brocaded skirts full with golden trim and tightly waisted

I smiled permanently under the spell of the strings

            that moved me

and the spring scent held upon my lips

from dawn till dusk

            until he gave me rest

today I breathed in spring

briny ocean droplets

fresh cut grasses

            harkening ancestral toil with teams and ploughs from dawn till dusk

wild blossoms tenderly sweet

            young love’s lips on clear complected faces

this wafting tea, light complex, pleasuring my senses

            lifting the corners of my lips

Kat

25 April 2018

I was that, today I'm this and a bit more

I used to clean with abandon

today I love, abandonly

my house, a reflection of my knowledge

Jung’s dreams taught me that metaphor as Self

every blade of grass swept and neatly cut

now randomly sprouts seed balls in the llano

weeds once eradicated and composted today

nourish my body with their healing DNA

irritation at disorder thinned my lips, tightening my gaze

chaos abound, my mouth opens in laughter

            sealing my eyes near shut

I gathered objects of beauty reflecting form and impression

those that stole my heart hold it mightily

beauty has no expiration

loss revealed that abundance is in the heart and mind of the beholder

less is more and more is less and

beauty lies in the details

loss becoming beauty in the awakening

my mind churned to find solutions, even near perfection

today knowing I am my own limit to my own being now

            leads me free, to be

I follow my path

unafraid in love 

Kat

27 April 2018

Waxing

Daniel Lynch Waxing Moon 2018

 The wind has picked my chimes up, stirring music into the air.  The grey skies, now blackened, show no new moon or stars.  What gave me light last night, is not there now.  I find that I hold hope for those glimmers at tomorrow's eve.  They hearten me.  And I miss their brightness when they are away.  I became fixed upon their presence while in the land of enchantment.  And yet I readily moved on, to new adventures, new landscapes, knowing that I would yearn for them. And I do.

The dryness of the desert, chafing skin and ridged heels, endless skies replete with constellations— polar opposite to the Northwest’s monsoonal moisture and ever-present gray veil, whose bland wash defiantly declares an opacity that won't lift or shift. Until it does.  A permanent dye upon the land, sea and air finally giving way when we breathe our last breath of acceptance in a moment of surrender to its power.

Landscapes hold their yin and yang longer and today, appear to be establishing regional personalities rather than seasonal affairs ranging from sunshine to rain and in between, smoothly sustaining flora and fauna without stress. 

Droughts and floods, extremes concretizing polarization, bear harm on micro levels.  And that harm telescopes like a bump under linoleum.  Pushing upward, revealing discord in what otherwise could be mistaken for normal.

This shift in reality, the Mandela Effect, now topsy turvy, disrupt our knowing with early budding, late blooming, year round calving and molting.  It is good for the soul to look up.  Way up.  To notice those constellations.  The moon in her cycles.  That is real. Those glimpses through broken clouds lighten the heart.  And we remember. 

Kat

20 April 2018 

Ric's Poetry Mic

Hello fellow writers, inspired wordsmiths,

With snow, hail, sleet, wind and rain, we sally forth with words that tumble upon our pages.  Regardless the climate.  Often in spite of the weather, inside or outside.  Our own temperaments paving the way for metaphors that tickle our imagination.  The desire to share them with others whose appreciation match our own.

I took a brief detour from the Oregon coastal climate and basked in New Mexico blue skies where the sun arose daily over the Ponderosa pine tops casting a red glow onto the sandstone mesa. While not hot, it was reassuringly joyful to see the size, colour and brilliance of that sphere each day.  And to know with near certainty, that those skies would hold it again upon my awakening the next day.

As my skin began to turn from silky soft to sandpaper dry, lips chapping in the arid breeze, I could feel myself leaning evermore to the west.  Toward the ocean.  Listening for seagulls screaming over the Necanicum as they chased bald eagles up and down the tidal flats.  The absence of the ocean's roar filled the vastness with abject silence.  Sweet scent of high mountain pines, llano grasses, dried to tinder brown mixed together in a gentle wafting fragrance, stealing my heart once again.

The tear between the inland and the edge.  The yin, the yang.  The polar opposites of climates, communities, dearths and abundances.  I left New Mexico wondering how such extremes between the coastal Oregon and this inland place could both occupy my heart with such equal intensities and allow my sanity, intact.


cheers
Kat
3 April 2018