Author Archives: Wendy

Not Quite Home

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pussywillow1

I’ve come to where I thought was home,
five hours along the interstate, one afternoon —
Electric lights, and lights of our belonging
circle, not quite settled, in my mind

It feels like parts of us
that should be home
are not yet here —

Points of future that our thoughts took flight on,
Points of intention waiting to be filled,
Points of departure for our next adventure
not finding stillness in this quiet house

We need a bigger circle,
one that holds these all,
to lasso all these points of thought
and bring them home,
to focus them in unity
and make them strong
enough to hold the weight
of our endeavor.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 15, 2015

Landed

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Landed

Funny the place where we find ourselves landed,
So many cycles our life has spun,
So many ways we have felt ourselves different,
wandering down our life paths alone

Funny to come to this open space
where it suddenly doesn’t matter at all
what people’s course has been,
what life has given them,
how they have happened
to find themselves here

We are here —
that’s the simple fact:
Here’s where we are,
all of our journeys now equal

We are here
at this place of sacred beginnings
where all of our searchings converge
and all of our arcs bring us home.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 14, 2015

Just

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flowers in trees

Wind blows through the house
and the sound of wind chimes
tugs like summer
against my chest

Curtains blow
in small internal rooms,
in the balmy floaty
half-buoyant drift
of plum blossom petals
and possibilities

A day away, connected
to this wind, there may be rain
but nobody’s talking about that
in this perfectly presented
present of present presence —
this just-right day.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 12, 2015

Connect

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Boulder boulders

Consider “connect” —
the way it feels,
how your tongue cleaves
to the roof of your mouth,
pushes against it,
accentuating contact
in its release,
the color dark and nameless
but very smooth
like the way we felt together
after we crossed the bridge of distance —

That color was in our touching hands
and along our touching sides,
soft as fulfilled desire,
ripe as a womb.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 11, 2015

An important facet of this poem is the way it feels in your mouth to speak it. For best results, taste fully.

Authorship

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redemption

Well, here’s the story of redemption:

You are redeemed, for you are here.
It takes attention
to choose you for a story,
to put you in,
to hedge about your life
with these meticulous details,
to give you motives,
give you a past,
give you this burning hope
that somehow
your life has worth and purpose:
It takes an overarching care
to author you. And look —
you’re here.

Know, too, that there’s no character
the author doesn’t love.
It is the way of things —
the way creation works:
The act of care that thinks you up
(pulls you, as her child,
right out of her head)
is always an act of love.

So have no fear.
You are redeemed
and always have been.
Just look inside yourself to see —
You’ll know.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 10, 2015

My Sheep Hear My Voice

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maple buds

That precious part within,
Held in a small, dark place
encompassing the infinite,
The birthing place of
all we may attain
Will hear, unerringly,
when it is called by name

It will rise up, surprised
to find itself, eager
to live what it is called to,
endlessly relieved,
intensely grateful
to have been called —

To thus be sure
of its existence
and that the promises
given it before the world was born
will be fulfilled.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 8, 2015

Refining

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mossy trees

When the fuel of our stories was spent,
when we had hurled our “perspectives”,
demanded to be heard,
burned up all our points of persuasion,
set forth our posturing
and watched it fall

We finally had to admit
What held us together
was far stronger
than what held us apart
and it felt better to find a way
to concede our points
than to win them

And our only reason
for bringing the whole thing up
was our need
to be closer together.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 7, 2015

Getting Out of the Way

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Why would I even want
any of this
to be about me?

Why would I promote
a limited identity,
weak and needy,
piteously bargaining
for some (no doubt unearned)
acceptance, recognition?

Who would not prefer
to be in service
to the bright upwelling
of delight, affection,
the overflow of wonder
and the clear intelligence
uplifting both of us
when seen in you, in me?

Why would I not give up
that which holds me chained and cramped
for this divine permission to be free?
Hence this work each day
to set my self aside
for that which glows
as you, as me.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 6, 2015

Stalking

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reeds

We imagined
our joy would come
with the conclusion
of our hard efforts,
with the attainment
of our long-strived-for prize

But in fact
our joy had been there
hiding in the bands of shadow
of our suspense,
slipping into the footsteps
of our work,
stalking us

Not waiting for the finish
but for us to notice
it was right there with us
ready to slide around
shafts of hope
into the sunlight.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 5, 2015

Old Things Are Passed Away

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splayed

We leave our notions
of ourselves, our lives,
splayed and empty
like abandoned puppets
(How is it possible
we thought they were alive?)

We start inhabiting
(with this expansive breathing
and each breath’s surprise)
the place in the dynamic
cause and effect,
impulse and follow-through
where all we fiercely hoped we’d be
is, indeed, ourselves

And the command we wield
of our existence
brings dazzling forms,
eternal, iridescent,
into view.

©Wendy Mulhern
March 4, 2015