The Writer’s Trance

Drawn each day
To this crystal

Expanse,
Soothed yet again,

By a writer’s trance.
Red bird on a

Brittle branch,
Blue white snow

She does her dance.
And whispers her

Tune, in a colorless
Tree, on a cold afternoon.

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Inner Speak

Have you had that
Sacred talk with yourself,

That journey that goes
To your very core?

Does the priest always
Get his answer,

Like a dove resting
On his shoulder?

Or could there be more?
Do you hear

The inner speak?
The soulful whisper

That says do it
This way, not that.

Do the stars accomodate
If we only pray?

Or is it simply a gathering,
A collective flow?

Maybe it’s just a
Prayer to oneself.

A season of silence
Of listening,

With the stillness
Of letting go.

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The Yellow Rose

I wake with this knowing
From my bed as I rise,
That the world is a place
That can see without eyes.

There were cool velvet folds
Of yellow or red,
And judgement was merely
A word that I dread.

Yet American Beauties still
Win the First Prize,
If only we all could
See without eyes.

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The Praying Stone

The Cape Cod Indians
Came here to pray
On a cold flat rock
Overlooking the bay.
A solid stone alter
Along Wading Place Path,
They would go there for
Comfort from a
Snow fridgid wrath,
Or the women would grieve
For their children’s ill health,
While the men prayed for
Harvest, shelter and wealth.
They prayed Mother Earth
Would provide every day.
On a cold stone alter
Up above Pleasant Bay.

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Mantra

Ocean could be
Your mantra this year
Mindful and still
There’ll be no more fear,
This day and good will
No birth and no death.
Silent and still
Go to the depth.
Float with the wave
As it builds to a peak.
This place that you crave
This joy that you seek,
Is the watery stillness
You build in your heart.
Just get your feet wet,
It’s a good place to start.

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