The Spark

Spiral Background.

Blue skies and sunshine
can’t conceal the hollow
emptiness that remains,
at times the tragedy
is too much,
no amount of rainbows
can color life better,
all around, the world moves
people move
but you, immobile,
vortex spinning ‘round,
paralyzed by indecision,
you are the answer
to all your fears,
your single movement
the start of our great change,
your fleeting thought, detained,
the spark that sets man free

©SpiritLed 2014


Beach door

You look across this human life between
Right and Wrong
Black and White
Good and Bad
Life and Death
and howl in roaring discontent
for lives well-spent in others’ cages

Yet all things bear extremes and
in betweens and in the grey
is where the magic happens:

     humanity comes alive
     peace is sought and won
     lives are laid down for one another

Your days of love’s labor
are not long for this world,
the distance between heaven and hell
becomes but a speck of dust
you carry in your pocket
along the uneasy, winding way to dusk’s door
and dawn’s welcoming embrace

©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


The well was cool and nourishing
and deep, but years ago
in an act of courage and
defiance, you moved the heavy
stone across the opening, allowed
the thorny branches to grow over
and around it, so that no one
could disturb your tomb, or drink
its healing waters, and you turned
your back, confident that the thorns
would do their job to keep the trespassers
out, but what you could not see in your
rage and self-hatred, was that the thorns
and brambles  shadowed you in your
exile,  shrouded you in your attempt to be
invisible, shrunk at your valiant effort
to fight them back, grew thicker and
stronger, shielding you from the world
of your creation, until that day when
the thorns pressed deep into your
flesh and you finally tasted the sting
in the back of your throat, and it was then
that you knew the only respite left was to
return to source, and there in that ancient
place, you tore back the branches and
brambles, bleeding and broken, but it was
too late to care, and you uncovered the patient
stone,  waiting for your return, and there
as you wildly plunged yourself into the waters,
as if returning to your mother’s womb,
there you realized that the thorns you fled had grown
out from the belly of your pain, and that you,
you are the trespasser, bathing in your own
well of salvation

©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


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

Pretty Little Lines

At the end of last year, I got out if my writing practice. So I’ve made a commitment to myself to write something every day, even if it’s just a paragraph, or a few raw & unfinished lines. I’m already noticing what a difference it makes to write every day, how healing it is for life! So I’m going to start posting some of it here as I go, mostly raw & unfinished, but the product of my healing journey nonetheless.

Pretty Little Lines

ego mending,
inner garden tending,
mind quieting,
peace promoting,
sin forgiving,
healing, stealing,
soul fulfilling,
knowing, growing,
showing that the soul
is alive and well,
that deep whispers in the dark
speak the truth of the heart.

© SpiritLed 2014

The Leaf

A red-gold leaf floats to the ground, and there
I pick it up, hold it gently,
flat in my palm, a mirror of my own hands,
points like fingers, lines and veins, delicate and strong,

lines that cast the story of the journeys we
make, to the precipice and back and, for some, to hell,
where we may stay a while, take up residence in our suffering,
until we either persevere or perish.

In these lines, on this path, these hands stroke children’s faces, twirl golden strands
between fingers, touch cheeks at night, through tears;
in the dark, these hands, solemn and life-giving,
belong to my mother.

These hands clumsily fiddle with a lighter, shaky and desperate,
light the cigarette, flip this way and that, dangle the stick of burning tobacco–
with an air of confidence, and yet those lines betray longing for one more tomorrow–
as ashes fall, unnoticed, to the ground.

Crackling against my skin like the rough and delicate fabric of the leaf, this path for once
becomes a burden, a stifling presence that keeps me from the joys of red-gold leaves on autumn days.
And so, with the hands we share, I crumble the leaf, release it to the wind, a weight–
long-held–removed, a crumbly, red-gold burden of the soul.

A leaf floats to the ground, and there I pick it up, and there my life begins.

© SpiritLed 2013

Exquisite Goodbye

In days past. goodbye only left holes,
darkness indescribable, longing for
another time, for things unspoken,

undone, pain that can’t be
quenched, only tolerated

smoothed over by years, like
a stone bathed in water’s constant flow is
never smoothed away completely,

heavy in its place, it sits,
desperately cemented to what was

unmoving, unwavering in its
persistence in being a stone.

Hand in hand we gaze, out where green
meets blue, where goodbye
does not exist, we watch

as storms erupt, part blue-green ways
slow drops of grey pool in my

heart, anxiety, anticipation gag
me with their sourness

Anxiety and anticipation of the exquisite goodbye

More forever loss, more
stones in the belly of my soul.

Oh sorrow, sorrow
for my inability to say goodbye,
to release souls to their destiny
on this plane or the next.

Yet in this instance, parting on the sand,
for once, the stone cannot be found

For once, I smash the urn, scatter
the ashes to the sea, release all that which
binds — the hole, the dark recess that carries and

protects the pain and loss
of lifetimes past, I walk into the sun

For once, in this exquisite
goodbye, I start to let her go

© SpiritLed 2013