The Ocean Within

Ebbing and flowing,
cleansing and nourishing,
the tiniest fish that swim
in your veins, to the largest whales
of your soul, rely on the life-giving
water from within, nourished by the sun through day,
directed by the tides at night, touched by
the hand of God and bestowed the power
to create and sustain life, to raise up
great storms and inspire the heart of man,
to love with great fury and tear down walls
built long ago by another people’s war

The water that makes you
is ordained with holy wings,
harness the power of the great ocean inside,
use it not for devastation of the unruly and
sinful parts, but as a sacred trough from which
all may drink and find the blessings of life

©SpiritLed 2014

Truth and Lies

A lie is really not a lie
when it comes from
someone else’s truth,

for then it is so real
one can no longer tell
the difference,  unless

of course, it becomes the Truth,
and overpowers other truths,
for then those truths become

the lies, and the Truth proliferates
and grows, while lies take refuge
underground and Truth abounds

throughout the land, until the day
that lies again become the truth
and liberate the holy earth

©SpiritLed 2014

On the First Day

The door is open for me and you,
to uncover eternity and love incarnate,
though the keyhole remains hidden
to those who shield themselves from love,
so quiet your mind, like an infant, languish
in the pleasure of being pure and at one
with infinite life, for it was out of blackness
that the grand palm opened and extended
outward in all directions, and life was formed,
like a great sun, a glowing ball of fire
and light, each ray a perfect and divine
expansion of the original, distinct but not
separate, each extolling the source with its very
existence, extending into all space and
time, drawing from the ethereal
energy source to bring light into the world,
for on the first day, out of blackness,
God created light, and it was us
and it was perfect

©SpiritLed 2014

Contest!

Help me pick which poems to submit for a poetry contest!  I can enter up to five.  Thank you for your support!

~Namaste

Nana with Rose Petal Tears

2014-04-09 07.42.25

Rose petals, like teardrops,
fall softly to my kitchen counter,
surround the vase where the wilted flowers
droop their heads in reverence to the
stooping, plucking, pruning

of Nana tending to her roses
crouching in her gardening shorts,
as I play in the field behind her house,
searching for rabbits’ nests and pulling out
my dollhouse to set up in the quiet patio shade,

of Nana sweet and fragrant as the roses
that she tended, bare legs exposed, a rebel
of a time when women wore only skirts and hosiery,
bustling about in her slippers and shorts,
cultivating an escape from everyday life

of Nana’s hair, soft between my fingertips,
like rose petals, as she lies in bed, life gradually
slipping through grasping hands, ice chips, greeting
cards, and tear-soaked tissues encircling roses
on the bedside table

of my Nana who never cried, at least not that I
can remember, but if she had, I know her tears would be
rose petals, cascading between dreams and
backyard memories, sweetly-scented and multi-hued,
formed together into one final bloom

©SpiritLed 2014

Shiny Things

The newness wore off
like an old penny you put
in your pocket and forgot
about, chasing the next
shiny thing.  You didn’t
mean to lose interest, but
there was so much to see and do,
how could you be expected
to stay in one place, to hold
this moment in your gaze for
any longer than you did?  The time
you had was long enough,
enough to create beautiful
moments, explore cities and
beaches, soak up the excitement
and agony of being alive, until
you weren’t, until the plane
on which you flew was no longer
part of the world the rest of us
call home, and the shiny things no
longer distracted you, for
everything was glimmering and
whole, like you

©SpiritLed 2014

Invisible

The well runs dry and, parched with fear,
I agonize that I, myself, may shrivel up,
run dry of heart-felt words, that in the end,
the new will once again be old, dwindling
on the page where the worn out and overused
go to seek their final solace, exhausted
from their time of service to the higher cause
of originating expressions of light,
inspiration, and heart-pouring sentiment,
the depth of inner being
spilled forth on public pages

I write my words for you,
my life laid platter-bare,
but what if, after all the words dry up,
there’s nothing there?  What if
I really was invisible?

©SpiritLed 2014