Reality
sets up like paint —
things are blocked in,
they change,
refinements are added
in color and shadow
and things dimly glimpsed
become clearer,
remote possibilities
suddenly seen
as the way things are
and had to be
(wasn’t it obvious?)
We walk by turns
entranced, bemused, euphoric,
through the colors of becoming
Reality
sets up like paint
beneath the artist’s hand.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 6, 2015
OK.
The fierce attention
called forth by this challenge
has crested,
and I feel the bead-like pulse
in my armpits,
and the sensation that
my body lags a few steps
behind my mind
so I might stumble or fumble
or mumble
And yet the pure power surge
has forged such an incisive
trail through thought
that there is no question
how I must proceed
and there is no doubt
about the force
that sears through all obstacles
and wins its goal.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 5, 2015
photo by Edward Mulhern
When I came back
to my old haunts
they didn’t fit anymore —
The old hauntedness
could still ring through me
but the old exorcisms
— industry, to do lists —
were completely useless
and the old stories
made me tired
I must remember
how I learned to cast my net
on the right side,
how the emanation
of Spirit within
brought forth so many
bright shining fish
full of life and the flow
of continual offering,
turning and flashing
and flocking in sweet laughter,
filling me up with
everything I desired.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 4, 2015
I curl in the domestic purr,
the gurgling dishwasher,
the music in the other room,
the goldening of light around the lamp
as evening falls outside
The coziness breathes through these
but it is made of the collected warmth
of this day’s gifts —
the affluence of feeling
they have been enough
to sustain me through this curve of time,
to stoke my inner lights
and this day’s grace.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 3, 2015
I was wrestling my mind —
Oh, it was stubborn
and tenacious and strong.
It fought like something wild
struggling for its life.
I pried a finger up
but it grabbed back again,
harder, in another place —
It didn’t want surrender
I let it run awhile,
pacing like a caged cougar
along the old trails,
assuming, soon, the steady
disconnected trot
of one who must keep moving
but has no place to go
I challenged it: This is not
what you want, I said.
It turned to cling to me —
It would not listen
or let go
Till finally I saw
neither of us could win this battle
(so equally matched we were)
We had to give it up
for something higher,
Let ourselves, together,
be embraced,
be washed,
be tickled,
be home.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 2, 2015
photo by Jennifer Lopez-Santillana
How dearly did you pay
for this chance
to be the moth that burned —
everyone watching. gape-mouthed,
your breathless splendor —
many wishing they could be so graced,
not knowing
you were passing
so very quickly
from flame to fluttering ash,
swept away to the oblivion
of all who let themselves be mouthpiece
for the machine.
©Wendy Mulhern
February 1, 2015
Low fog and high stars,
cold of early morning,
wrested good byes
as headlights pull away
and head for traffic,
a plan we sense
nothing is right about
But the highways of thought
have been rushing awhile before this —
Same jarring lights and traffic jams,
same life-suppressing channels
You go, you come
as do the weeks,
the weekends too short
to let the natural pattern in
Days watch,
whether we notice or not
for when the honor of their pace
will be reclaimed.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 30, 2015
I hold the curiosity
of what is —
what is you, in this moment,
what is me,
what is the vibrant space between us
with its tensile pull
we follow onward
through the dips and surges
of our eyes, our smiles, our dance
It’s not my thoughts so much
as my heart’s swift pulse
and the rush behind it
that my body cleaves to
as I hold the channel open
and go further in
where the whole counsel of myself
encounters you
It finds you on your land,
It finds your feet at home,
It finds you ranging
through the rhythm of your days,
your shadow easy in its arc
and in its evening slide
back into the velvet of the hills
I find you
to my surprise
beyond the stretch of my resistance
where I find I’ve settled in,
close and content,
to the comfort of your eyes.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 29, 2015
Days like this, I feel
No one will be left behind.
We’ll all do this together
(astonishing as that may seem
when we appear so atomized,
so caught up in the stream of
everything we never wanted)
We’ll all do this together,
each impelled to take the daring leap alone —
We’ll jump up in unison
and look around
in gratitude and surprise
to see that no one is left behind
in the great claiming
of everything we’re called upon to be.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 28, 2015
The large stone head moved its
gaping eyes and mouth and sang,
“I’m so sad, I’m so sad,”
while oceans of sorrow washed
over me, through me
I cried for the lost boy
who went down, so rapidly,
into the clear blue water,
faster than I could dive after —
another one gone —
“I’m so sad,” sang his remaining brothers
(he hadn’t been the first)
I woke up remembering
the story pieces that had tried
to weave themselves into me
as I tried to escape them in sleep —
kept me awake trying to catch me
while I tried to sink away
into the precise colors of winter grasses
and windswept trees
I woke again, and saw
my mind had solved it:
I told myself a sad story, that’s all.
Told myself a sad story, and believed it.
That’s all, nothing I need to fix,
nothing that my earnest living
won’t put right.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 27, 2015