Author Archives: Wendy

The Void Again

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a little whine

They say to go ahead
and feel your feelings,
breathe them deep,
rock and keen,
go down, go down, go through

And that may be more colorful
than this rain-pattered gray,
neither here nor there,
this suspended mist
and the house’s quiet
barely masked by music,
and its emptiness
not half mitigated
by a half-sleeping old man
intermittently creaking the chair

But it’s ridiculous
in my supremely easy life,
my running hot-water,
washer and dryer,
thermostat-heat controlled life
for me to entertain complaint

No right to it,
yet something is required —
A new pursuit of inquiry, some industry,
a project that will capture my attention
Or some new way to look at things
to rescue my infinity,
retrieve it from wherever I have left it.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 3, 2014

What Speaks to Us

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grass and flatirons

There are so many channels
through which the message speaks —
It can seep through the proximity
of parallel poses, bodies stretched in sun,
the rhythm of repose,
the undertone
of the quiet breathing of afternoon
as shadows slowly lengthen
on the grass

It can dance along the synesthetic glance
of light on sun stroked grass stalks,
wave in the instant shimmer
of seed heads,
dart like sudden song
into the senses

It can rumble kindly
in the connection of laughs and hugs
and the quick kindling of love-light
in the eyes of family

So many channels through which it speaks,
The message still the same.

©Wendy Mulhern
November 1, 2014

Releasing

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afternoon brilliance

When I release myself and you
from all opinions about each other,
all conclusions
that cast us static
as if we could exist
in some inert condition,
some set of predilections
that could be measured
independent of
our hearts’ and minds’ engagement

When I release us
I can tell
This is the sparking we were made for,
This is the ever-new, dynamic
unpredetermined
soul-rush flight we can do
when we are not judged,
when we are free.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 31, 2014

Don’t Touch the Lie

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dusk trees

Don’t touch the lie —
It will grab you,
sweep you into its vortex,
get all mixed up with you
like oil contaminating water —

You’ll think it’s the primal objective,
the thing you need to solve,
what should, and must,
take all your time
until it’s conquered

Don’t touch the lie —
It doesn’t own you
and you don’t owe it anything,
and if you simply turn toward truth,
you’ll find yourself as pure
as you have always been,
as free as you had dreamed
but didn’t dare to hope,
as joy-infused as you can sometimes
almost remember
from the time before the lie.

That truth of you is here,
sure as the seasons, sure
as the cosmos. Which is plenty big
to draw your whole attention
and be your whole fulfillment
without the lie

Don’t touch the lie.
for you don’t need it —
Your truth has always been enough:
Your truth defines you wholly
and can be your guide.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 30, 2014

Chautauqua, Boulder

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Boulder leaves

The temperature shifts quickly with the wind
which now blows dry leaves,
in soft, autumn-scented rustling,
down the street

The leaves that haven’t fallen
soak sun, silent and supple,
butter-smooth against
the china sky

And in between the times
when the industrious homeowner
wields his leaf blower,
It’s quiet, and I hear crickets

When the sun goes down
behind the Flatirons
I’ll seek warmth inside,
Settle, like nestled leaves,
into the evening.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 29, 2014

All is Well

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madrona moon

In the dream
the dance was close to flying —
hand in hand catapulting each other up
all the way to the ceiling

In the night I was held
in the deep space of
All is Well
and nothing could impinge
upon my peace
And in the morning
it was still true:

No inky image wants
to remain at dawn —
No one wants to wake up
as the bad guy.
Even the big scary hulks
whose job it is to shout and shout
and make me feel beleaguered

Even they just want to curl up
and be cuddled. There’s no reason anyone
needs to accept a role that doesn’t suit them.
They will all, with great relief
take off their masks
and smile.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 28, 2014

Tired

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grass sidewalk1

My mind slumps into silence
numbed by my body’s buzz,
the sluggish rumble following
a day’s hard labor. Thoughts
with lives like sparks
rise and dissipate, their continuity
too fleeting to record. My body
reiterates its day’s movements
much as a dog’s feet twitch in sleep

It’s time for quiet. Time for all that
chatter of the flesh
to cease. Time for sensation
to stretch and decompress
and drift towards dream.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 26, 2014

Choosing Life

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gate

If I believe in death
I will see it throughout my life —
Death of friendship, death of love,
death of opportunity, of hope —
It will hang like shrouds across my eyes,
weigh down my face, lodge in my throat
and eat away at each of my endeavors,
sucking out the juice from every promise

If I believe in death
dread will hedge about my days,
purpose will seem hollow, dreams ill-fated

But if I believe in life
I will follow it through all its cycles,
I will feel the living joy
of pressing into the earth, and rising up,
will relish the adventure of each reconfiguration,
revel in the presence of enough

I will know that love, like life,
can never die,
won’t fade with time and distance,
won’t become a lie

If I flow in the abundance of my being,
I’ll keep on loving
and I’ll keep on living.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 25, 2014

Slow Morning

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sun squares1

Pale sun streams in
creating its geometry
on walls and floors,
revealing the certainties
and latent possibilities
contained in windows, corners, doors

What may the day hold?
Bird shadow flits across
the window’s sun patch,
Outside, the white pine
rustles slightly

Quiet cycles intersect —
they move along their courses,
most unseen,
Caught in small glimpses
as the sky flirts with drizzle and sun
and I, likewise,
in efforts to work and in reverie,
shift between silver and gray.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 24, 2014

Embodiment

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me at Katama

In small steps
my body starts to learn
The only thing that holds it back
is fear

Though fear would say
it holds the path of safety
on which, if I walked far enough,
I would arrive,
In fact, that path will never
get me anywhere but dead
and leaving it
I find myself alive

My only body
is me, embodied,
the bold and present evidence
of Spirit’s being —
It is not shackled,
It does not yearn towards death
but bounds forth fresh,
deep joy receiving.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 23, 2014

photo by Heather Mulhern