Author Archives: Wendy

Centered

Posted on by
1

idols

The storyteller said
that we were programmed to be slaves,
to look, for our direction,
to a god outside ourselves,
to do, at that god’s bidding,
things we wouldn’t want —
to pull out gold and leave our land crying,
and fail to see our web of oneness dying

The story offered us a key —
We could heal ourselves,
and our world, by knowing
There is no god outside
the elemental harmony,
no purpose separate
from our eternal flowing

And suddenly
We could hold the whole world
with one hand —
all the grand order spreading out
from that nexus
of understanding
we’re not outside the touchpoint of control —
This God within
is our center, and our whole.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 4, 2014

Feral Cat in the Backyard

Posted on by
Reply

cat1

He moved into the clearing and sat
surveying the kingdom
he had come to call his own,
A place shared uneasily with others,
a place of bounty nonetheless,
And though it offered
none of the pampered warmth
of inside realms,
it was his,
And the sun kindly threw stripes of gold
across it from time to time
And there was life teeming
in the shadows and the deep holes,
life enough to hold his interest,
life enough to sustain.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 2, 2014

Suspended

Posted on by
Reply

geese1

I seek an education of ripples,
of boats, of geese with goslings,
a blowing through me of sweet June wind
whereby I may be informed

The afternoon hums with people
and the chorus of suburban machines
thrashing at grass, at hedges,
Flotsam of the day, fallen in the slow river,
floats down

I am not confused
but something is unfinished —
something asking me to pray.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 1, 2014

Early Morning

Posted on by
Reply

bike at Brackett's2

The sun, delaying its delivery
of promised strength,
drifts through a spread of casual clouds.
I doubt it will affect the day —
just my cold hands, in this brief moment

But it’s too early to be sure —
Sometimes the sun will gather more —
Whole sky-fulls to attendance,
drawn as they are, no doubt,
by its warm kisses,
Unconcerned (as are we all)
about their shadows.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 30, 2014

 

Inside

Posted on by
Reply

pure inside2

We are all pure inside,
We are all innocent.

The raging game of blame,
justification, tallies of offenses,
indignation,
the cringing battles fought within
about the way things went
and what they could have been,
the cover stories, image and bravado
are all just cloaks
and superficial froth
that hide the truth
that we are pure inside

And some of us, for some of us
will have a miracle of insight
to find the door, to take the path,
to wend their way inside
and with their touch reveal
each other’s innocence,
releasing that bright truth
to light each other
and, perhaps, the world.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 29, 2014

“I Shall Dwell . . .”

Posted on by
Reply

greenlake trees2

(questions)

Where do I live?
Do I live in dogma,
do I live in story?
Do I live in the rolling screen of memory?
Do I match constructs of my expectations
with the way things seem to be unfolding?
Do I try to make corrections?

What does it mean to live in Spirit?
What does it mean to live in Love?
Can I call this a house,
this place of comfort,
this felt experience of being loved?
Can I call this a house,
this consciousness of my delight
to stand here at the threshold
where we may see each other,
where we may meet,
Where we cross over?

©Wendy Mulhern
May 28, 2014

Pictures — A Triptych

Posted on by
Reply

I.
Someone should take a picture of this,
my grandmother would say.
Here, stand just here, and look:
The square of sunlight from the window,
That bar of shadow from the doorframe
And the cat, alight with color
from the warmth of afternoon,
sheen on fur, luxuriating

II.
My mom takes her iphone, Wink,
and trains it almost daily
on the same scene,
aiming to capture
the light that fills her
and all the subtle energizing changes
in the seasons’ life

mom pic

III.
I, who for so long have said
that photographing stints my other senses
and even cramps my vision,
have this small camera
(the one we got in Costa Rica so it speaks Spanish,
the one wherein I scarcely see what fills the frame)
Because I want for you to see
the poem I’ve written,
I take my camera,
I point and click.

green lake2

©Wendy Mulhern
May 27, 2014

photos by Pam Cassel, Wendy Mulhern

Morning, Magnuson Park

Posted on by
Reply

wetlands

The uplands rise in harmony
above the meadow,
above the wetlands
where blackbirds sing
and land on cattails
rising from reflective waters
(last year’s rattling stalks,
this year’s eager green)

Above, the swallows dip and dart,
close their wings to surge and fall,
flick of tail or wing tip turning them
in flights as wild
as those of flying insects

The sky is still,
the morning light holds its breath
while all these weavings —
sights and sounds and creatures —
form a dome of peace
over this moment, over this land.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 26. 2014

My Request

Posted on by
1

mystica arch3

I want to share a place
where I can touch home,
a point to which we come
between our journeying,
And our convergent energy
provides collective heat,
and our communal comfort
recharges us

I want to be a place
where you can touch home,
a point to swing around
in your exciting orbit,
a place to gather strength,
a place to feel
that you are seen and welcomed,
and belong

I want a core that’s large enough
that no one ever feels the need
to bear the weight alone,
and everyone can nestle in
and anyone can find it,
so we will always have a way
to touch home.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 25, 2014

See

Posted on by
1

seen3

Most things are not inscrutable.
In general, things are waiting
to tell you what they are,
waiting for that catch of eye
that shows you’ve seen them,
waiting for the mutual tug
that shows you’re tracking,
ready to notice
what they’ll show

Most things long
for the steady cohesion
of your attention.
They’ll thrive under it,
they’ll yield their deepest secrets
willingly, elatedly —
so fulfilled they are
at having been seen,
really seen,
at having been known by you.

©Wendy Mulhern
May 24, 2014