Into the Light, Where You Belong

Smell of mold
and musty leaves
raindrops on the windshield
in the still-dark dawn

linger in the depths
of darkness and desire,
where your spirit most
yearns to be free

where the long-held
confinement has rendered you
listless and lifeless

crazy before the eyes of man
yet pure in your creative depth,

where the Wise Woman,
flowing silver hair,
adorned in robes
of lavender

holds open the door
for you and cries,
“Lay down your arms!

Fight no more,
grieve no more,
die no more.

Walk into the Light,
where you belong.”

©SpiritLed 2014



Goddess Rising

The energy in here is changing, she says, as she takes a drag
from her cigarette.  No sooner have the words fallen from her lips,

than a strong, cold wind blows open the door, whips around the
room, and knocks the cigarette out of her hand.  There before her,

in a swirling mass of lavender and ghostly white, hovers her greatest
love and her greatest fear.  In familiar solidarity, she opens herself

and feels the familiar rising from her pelvis, filing her abdomen with
white light, rising to her heart, radiating out to fill the room, moving

through her arms and legs, projecting beams of light from her feet and
hands, moving up to her throat, madly sounding a beautiful and foreign song

with her own voice, rising all the way up to her crown, emanating from the
top of her head, rising and churning and radiating within and around her,

spreading her farther and wider,  expanding and creating, out into the street,
the town, the planet, the stars, the moon, until she again becomes one with

 All There Is


© SpiritLed 2014

When Silence Ends

When, as a child, did you play happily
by the stream, and come singing home,
passionately sharing your adventures,
only for the beloveds to tell you, “Quiet!”

And when, in your classes, did you
confidently speak your truth, answer
their questions, paint your construction
paper masterpiece,  and the trusteds told you,
“It’s not good enough.”

And when did you feel the whisper of spirit
in your soul, gently guiding you on your way,
and you shared, and they laughed?

And when did you stop listening, painting, writing, speaking, trusting? 

And when will you decide that the darkness has
lasted too long, that the  passion of a new day
can no longer wait, lest  you tear free from your
own skin where you’ve been confined all these years?

That stumbling across stones and briars,
feet cut and bleeding, is preferable to the safe
and righteous path, where no pain, in fact
nothing at all, makes cuts into your soul?

When will you decide that fear of words
without real meaning will no longer be the
prison walls that demand freedom of the captor?

And when will you stoke the flames, when will you once
again tend to the spark, blow the breath of life into
the still-smoldering ashes, collect the branches and
twigs that have fallen in your path, burn them on
your altar, and fuel the dawning of reclaimed light?

© SpiritLed 2014


He can’t groom himself
anymore, so I tenderly, gently
warm the rag, wash his feet and face,
administer his medicines and fluids
so that his last days, or weeks,
are comfortable and in his home.

He was never one to curl up in my arms,
but as he weakens he lays upon
my chest, his frail body uttering
a raspy purr, relaxing deep against
my shoulder, one eye shut, the
other squinted open, never drifting
his gaze from my face.

He is a story teller, a bridge-builder.

His eyes, green and almond shaped,
lined with white, then  black, like an
80’s hair band singer, now too large for
his face, cheeks sunken from the wasting,
scrawny legs and bony spine, not enough fat or muscle
to make a proper body.

“My teeth,” she cries, “are not what I ordered.”
Her teeth, rotted from the chemo, replaced with
a shiny new set, molded perfectly, fit her
before her cheeks lost their fullness,
ravaged by the cancer.  These teeth,
beautiful and white, fill out her face in comical style.
But none of us have the guts to speak about her
teeth.  The dentist simply makes more.
More teeth,also too big.

He is a peacemaker, a boundary setter.

Some days, he’s like I’ve always known him,
and others, he can barely walk, or lift his head.
And on those days, I drop everything,
call the doctor, spend more money to
keep him comfortable –what’s money
when it comes to one more day with an
old friend?  And I cradle him and snuggle him
while he retreats from death’s door
for one more day, or perhaps a week
by my side.

When the times does come,
he’ll  know I love him, that I
cared for him with every ounce of my being.
Does she know I loved her?  Of course,
I tell myself.  Because what else can
I believe, this many years later, after all opportunities
are gone?

She slept in a twin bed, piled high with
blankets, cigarettes, and at least 4 cats
at any given time.
“Come snuggle with me,” she said.
“Stay here with me tonight.”
It’s too crowded, I can’t sleep like that,
my dispassionate disinterest fell out of my
mouth.  Or was it that I could not get that close?
As if the cancer might rub off on me, or worse,
the sadness.  Either way, the words,
like hot lava that burned as they flowed
and could never be reversed, still hang
there in that room, heavy with cigarettes
and regret.

And I whisper to him “I love you”,
“Thank you for being my friend”, and
“You can go home any time you’re ready.”
And I never whispered anything to her,
Not even “goodbye”.

She’s exhausted from trying to survive
I’m exhausted from holding on so tight
What if I let her go?
Let loose the vice grip on the void
that is left on her absence
the gaping hole that I have so desperately
tried to fill with everything that will make the
pain diminish – jobs, marriages, false intimacy, booze—
vices of all kinds to lull me into the
deception that life is full if the void is full.

He is a teacher of unconditional love.

I look in his eyes and see my own soul.
That I can see him suffer and not hide, but
rather be healed by his love for
me, as he tells me goodbye in the
only ways he can, that is the miracle.

What if we walk into this sunset together,
hold hands and say our goodbyes,
knowing that forever is only a speck of stardust
making up the divine Universe,
unseen but always around.

In the end, a cat’s ashes weight about the same as a mother-urn,
and their weight in my heart, much the same.

© SpiritLed 2014