As taught by tending fire,
having words for these things
doesn’t mean I know them
The fire teaches me
to pay attention,
the rules that I’m applying
don’t need more refining
so much as faithfully adhering
So in fire tending
I go wordless,
letting the flames do the talking,
letting them draw
their foreordained conclusion.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 19, 2017
Resolution separates colors
from a bland plane,
definition of moments
makes them sparkle,
throwing my whole self
into the dance of now
creates a fence against
the creep of scatter
We are negentropic, after all —
It’s not a losing fight against
a tide of tiredness —
these circles I draw around everything,
to define, to know, to celebrate
bring brightness
as each entity emerges —
each appreciated, each empowered,
each collecting light
within its sacred orb.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 18, 2017
I walk like a whisper
in the time when dark
is turning light,
when people are up
because they have to
(so it seems to me)
lights on, cars starting up,
while other houses sleep
Around my hands and arms
and in my breath, the gift —
the gift of presence
and the almost-tasted promise
of being dearly loved
Along the sidewalks,
in the grass, and in the street,
my feet step dutiful —
not yet tuned in, perhaps,
to the day’s blessings.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 17, 2017
And if it feels like a fierce effort
to come into focus,
to actually see
all the way to the end of my thought,
to make the conclusion,
to set the course
according to what I now know
(instead of vague conjecture)
If it takes a fierce effort
so be it —
better the sharp blade of awakening
than suffocation by fluff.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 16, 2017
Aghast at the clunkiness
of words, I sit down
on a block of them,
unwilling to lift any,
unwilling to make a wall
Whatever it is
I may want to have said,
it’s better that I let
the surprise blue
of late afternoon sky
convey my meaning.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 15, 2017
It was a light task
picking up the ashes
though they are heavier
than they look like they’d be
It’s not so surprising, however,
that a lifetime of stories
would be ponderous
and besides
There are roots that go down
that must be still connected
where we can’t see them
that would also render
a package like this
hard to lift.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 14, 2017
Plum colored plum leaves
swirl over each other
up the road,
gold leaves of birch and cherry
hold on against the wind,
windfall of fir branches and pine cones
half cover the street,
wind sings like traffic
It’s not so much a scatter
as a recombination,
this convocation of wind
and colored leaves, rain
and rays of sun —
release from former service
to the next gift,
coming into being
with the current of seasons
and moving onward.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 13, 2017
I start to define myself
by the lines of light streaming through,
I start to feel their lift, their strength,
and to be less impressed by clay
If Mind doesn’t hold me here,
what ever could? What, possibly,
except idea, could hold this form in place?
What but Mind could let me move
in grace, and with intention?
Look at me dancing —
look how the music lifts and moves me.
Surely it is clear
that I am made of lines of light
for clay could never move me,
clay could never move like that.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 11, 2017
Leaves at our feet
have fallen among each other
like returning to family —
short swirl of togetherness
before the serious settle
into rain and dissolution,
the dark wet phase
along the turn of life
This splendor of colors,
this profusion of soft shapes
and subtle hues, feeds us
like laughter at remembered stories,
the lift of perspective,
leaf glow like sun glow,
luminescent
against the dark sky.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 9, 2017
The rain beats down on houses,
people inside staying dry,
the rain beats down on cars,
splashing through, headed home,
the rain beats down on heads
on their pathways
towards their chosen shelters,
the rain beats down
on those who have none
And every one of these is worthy,
and every one of these deserves a home
and every one of these deserves redemption
from whatever made them feel they were alone
The rain may fall
but no judgment
falls upon the heads
of those who find themselves
here in this state of consciousness,
here where their blessing precedes them.
©Wendy Mulhern
November 8, 2017