Physical Bliss

Sarah and Serre rode those peaks of physical bliss higher and longer and more divinely than most peaks dared to rise to receive such attainment. They tipped and topped and rode them into thin crisp clear high mountain air of that box canyon's mesa rims.  Their breath deep, shallow, short, long, full, soft and sweet.  Taking delivery of their souls' flights and journeys with  breathlessness  and awe of their spiritual journey. 

The peaks remained breathless.  The canyons deep and cool in the heat of passion.  Sweetness basked in their hearts as they held onto one another in the waning light.

 Kat
20 January 2015

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

Ric's Poetry Mic 6 March 2018

Hello fellow writers

Do you ever get the sense that life has taken an abrupt change of direction?  That life as we have known it, is shifting?  That perhaps we spend more time in artificial-living with technology than in direct communication with others, in nature, with our own self?  Or certainly moving in that direction? That creating virtual realities is becoming the norm in people's lives and that reality is becoming obsolete?  Have you seen the movie,  "Obselidia?"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGbbyjKUu2k

There is a ponderation walking along side me, in every moment along with every breath my body inhales and exhales.  A wondering how it is that my humanity can be usurped quietly,  imperceptibly.   Yet I do notice and my entire being bristles at the idea of my humanness being altered through falseness of news, facts, profiles,  electric and magnetic fields, artificial weather, artificial intelligence, poisoned air, water and  food.  That my mind is being altered by a reality that is someone else's.

The reliving of the well-known story,  "Emperor's New Clothes" is happening all around and no one truly saying anything.  Yet.

http://www.andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/TheEmperorsNewClothes_e.html

Thankfully we are the observers.  The writers.  The storytellers.  Poets.  Watching, listening.  Recording.  And through our own emotional wiring, noting that things that truly matter--those things that make us human, we are remembering, dreaming, and bringing into consciousness. Setting signposts--markers, that denote progress and transgressions of our humanness.   Not unlike the small child who exclaimed, ""But he hasn't got anything on."


Come join us and share your creations at our 19th  "Ric's Poetry Mic".


See you soon fellow writers.
Be well and inspired,

Cheers,
Kat

Ric's Poetry Mic 6 February 2018

Hello fellow writers

The high winds and persistent rains are lifting the darkness and opening us to the light.  Isn't it remarkable how nothing remains the same, yet familiar in each breath?  The wind is ripping against the outside of my home.  I feel a bit like the piglet in his straw house with the big bad wolf at his door.  Banging, insisting upon entering. Wanting more than just to say "hello."   Unlike the piglet, I am not in fear.  My house is built more strongly than his.

It is curious though, to hear doors rattling in rooms behind me.  We are in the midst of a mighty ocean gale and it is thrilling to say the least.

A  2:00 am tsunami alert passed me by, and all my friends as well.  In fact, I think I was dreaming then.  Counting sheep most certainly, or maybe pigs.  Head with face upward toward the sky taking in all that happened that day.  Shaping it into a conscious dream filled with gratitude and appreciation.  I always do this upon falling asleep.  I like to give my unconscious something savory to digest so that when I awaken in the morning all those sweet thoughts have refreshed centered and filled me.

Already one month has passed us by in this new year and I am not even ready to say that I am familiar with the newness of 2018.  Each year at this time I feel a bit more like Rip Van Winkle awakening from a deep sleep to  find the world around me less familiar with each passing day-- wondering whose dreams are truly creating my reality.  There appears to be no room for slacking.

I focus to create more intentional dreaming in those last awakened moments at night and with pen and paper during the daytime hours. That wolf most certainly appears to be at our doors.  And Rip Van Winkle awakens time and again.  Wondering.  Pondering what happened while he dosed for ever so short a time.


Come join us and share your creations at our 18th  "Ric's Poetry Mic".


See you soon fellow writers.
Be well and inspired,

Cheers,
Kat