Author Archives: Wendy

Wheat, Tares, Chaff

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In the growing, in the harvest,
in the winnowing,
love is the only tool

Life’s circles, and life’s cycles
are respected —
the small rain on the tender herb,
the showers on the grass,
the tares and wheat, side by side
before the harvest,
letting life flow up
from sprout to blade,
from stalk to seed —
All things that are alive
are sheltered, hallowed.

In the time of harvest,
when the seed is finished
and the stalk is done
and the casings have performed
their vital work,
When everything except the seed
grows dry,

Then comes the winnowing
when chaff is blown away,
while all those life-kernels,
protected and aided till they reached fruition,
remain —
Love’s masterwork:
encapsulated power of life
to rise again.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 10, 2014

Motion

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motion1

Motion makes connection known —
Trees with their shadows,
ripples with the sources of their color

The joyful dance of parallax
reveals a harmony before unseen,
And branches, rustled, show
the deep dimensions of their green

Everything moves, as everything breathes —
So many clasped and intersecting arcs
repeated down the nested scales
in harmony
from stars to quarks.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 9, 2014

Definition

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definition

I am not my history,
I am not my age,
I am not the set of scenes I’ve seen

I am not the things I’ve done,
or people I have known,
I’m not my skills,
I’m not the times I’ve failed

I’m not my stuff, my size, my work,
I’m not the shape I’m in,
I’m not what people think of me,
I’m not where I have been

Though I may witness, every day,
most of the things above
I’m not boxed in
by any one of them —
The one thing that defines me
is my love.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 8, 2014

Accounts

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accounts2

And to the dream, when you arise,
you’re not required to say goodbye . . .

What of these days
will I take with me?

I see this span of brightnesses,
their traces left in photographs,
the moments we were lucky
to have noticed —
More joy, perhaps, in pauses
than in efforts to do something
to make memories . . .

Time gets foreshortened,
changes, measured in height and hair,
grow less pronounced,
While timeless qualities, less noticed then,
shine forth

And everything is colored
in the way I feel right now —
few memories can hold their early hues

What of these days will I take with me
when my arc no longer intersects this sphere?
— Here’s all I know for sure:
The place I am will always be my here.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 7, 2014

Sunday, 5pm

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weeping birch

Half moon hides among the clouds
in the surreal brilliance of summer afternoon.
There is a silent moment
between each sound —
too small, perhaps, to hear,
but clear enough
to send a sense of singularity
throughout this brief time
of the sky’s impossible blue
and the newly cool north breeze
that loves the weeping birch,
who loves the wind in turn.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 6, 2014

Summer Soundings

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summer soundings

Summer hums, and squawks and caws —
Birds fledge, bees make their rounds,
Motors of cars and planes and mowers
lend a constant drone,
Cats walk in relative silence
though a jay screams at them, repeatedly,
A neighbor paradiddles on the drums

We work, we sleep, we learn
in our own rhythms,
at least today,
building patterns for when
we can own all this time,
move through all these sounds
at our own pace,
in our own hum.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 5, 2014

photo by Edward Mulhern

Confession

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confession

It was easier
not to take
the bold, rushing,
fearsome drop
into the daring darkness
of self betrayal
for the wild ride
of coolness, boyfriends,
the rash pursuit of popularity

It was easier to be innocent
and not to hear the innuendo,
not to brave initiation
to the secret club
of those who left the safety net behind.

It was easier. It wasn’t better.

For years I was mercifully blind
to my lack of understanding of the world,
shielded from seeing
my comfortable privilege
and my arrogance,
lulled to believing
my inexperience
could somehow count as virtue

Now I see
Each of us is always
reaching out for life.
Each thing, we’ve done
because it seemed best at the time.
We were impelled by the same force —
There is no right or wrong of it —
Each of us must cover all the ground
and each of us must be reclaimed

We each will fall,
we each will rise,
We’ll all come home accepted
in each other’s eyes.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 4, 2014

 

Like Angels

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like angels

We can be like angels
and touch each other deeply,
like sunset rays illuminate the clouds,
and feel, like angels,
the shimmering transcendency
that lifts us out of any tortured place

We can move like angels
to be where needed instantly
to give the bright embrace
that fills us up,
and live, like angels
on the nourishment
of blessing as we’re blessed

Yes, we can be like angels,
for this is what was promised us,
and this is what we’re made to do
and this is what we want.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 3, 2014

Gone

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gone

The flickers are gone.
Suddenly, yesterday morning,
the nest was quiet, the hole they peeked from,
empty.
We thought a couple times
we heard them, far away,
the children calling still
to beg for food,
And the adult cries, too,
may well belong to them.
We hoped to see them fledge,
we hoped to watch that triumph,
We hoped to see them hover
close to home.
But they have flown.
We feel the hollow —
Stand-in for our own.

©Wendy Mulhern
July 2, 2014

gone2

Interruptions

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interruptions

Any snag
in the loops of dream
can start your liberation

Though the smooth weave
you worked so hard to fashion
is now puckered,
Though gaping holes have opened
in your plans,
Though you feel tripped up, tangled
and abandoned,
Look up, for none of this
is what it seems

This is not the rupture of your good,
This is your revelation.
This is the way out
from your hard and dull pursuits,
This can begin your transformation

Look through —
There is a deeper order
that doesn’t run at odds
with who you long to be,
There’s an awakening
from toilsome drudgery,
There’s a release,
a time you see
There’s no need to go back and make repairs.
You never need to tend that dream again,
for you are free

©Wendy Mulhern
June 30, 2014