The air was poised
in a feather balance
between warm and cool,
shifting one way or the other
with the sun and breeze
And I had to go out
where it could dance
across my skin
and I could take in all the scents —
dried leaves, ripe blackberries,
sprinkler systems, roses and mimosa —
and the longer shadows
and the exhilaration
of this visibly shorter day.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 21, 2014
Draw a picture for me, I said,
Take me on a mind trip,
tell me how it was for you
He said there wasn’t anything to say,
He grew impatient, for my questions
were so obvious —
Of course he had a backpack,
of course he had no trouble
finding his way
That’s OK. I have my own wilderness.
I have my own T-shirt-with-no-sweatshirt
journey through the mountains
and the cold of night
I have my own clearing
of the shrouded thoughts
I didn’t know I had,
my own exploration
of my power to hold the true sight
of all that brightness
streaming from his being,
all that trippy
flowing of his mind
and all the gifts of rare vision
offered by each singular
reflection of the light.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 20, 2014
Yes, we see each other
The signal that I sent across the years
(which, since it met with no response,
I’d left,
continuing to work
because I needed to,
slowly gaining prowess on my own)
Has now come back
at the right time.
Light recognizes light,
Honest dedicated effort
sees the same
And so we start to forge a higher discourse
Where we redeem the purpose of our being
So I say thanks —
Thanks for how you live your life,
thanks for what you see
thanks for the clarity
that frames your thoughts,
thanks for seeing me
Thanks for attention, instead of norms,
Thanks for the dance within the meta-forms.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 19, 2014
Of course you’re irreplaceable
for infinite Mind is too interested
in every molecule and moment
not to attend especially to each one
No factory assembly here,
no stamping blocks
insuring uniformity —
Each one arises from the need
within itself,
Each grows within the pattern of its being
Each leans into the call
to fill its place,
to be the perfect answer
to the perfect questions
reaching out around it
So of course you’re irreplaceable
but more than in that sense —
it’s also true
There’s no one else
with whom I’m me
the way I am with you.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 18, 2014
Can’t live someone else’s life
Spirit, you’ve given me this perfect day
Mid August, with some leaves already turning
You’ve given me these shots of joy
Red branches in the tops of trees
You turn my focus outward
Streaks of cloud, streaks of cool
Give directionality to my light
I redefine myself as this flowing
©Wendy Mulhern
August 17, 2014
Well, I may aspire
to something more exotic,
may wish to drift through mist
and leave behind some trace scent,
not quite definable
May wish to leave you feeling
here was something subtle and profound —
It moved me, though I can’t tell
what it is . . .
But at this time, it seems my pattern
is more earthbound —
My words roll and clatter
along the tracks my thoughts made
in oft repeated play
If I try to make them
say something important
They get much worse.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 15, 2014
You and I,
We’re not the tokens
on this game board of dream
that we call life
We’re not the hands
that move the pieces,
We’re not the minds
that move the hands
We are so much more!
We are the whole frame,
the whole sphere,
out to the edge of what we say
our consciousness perceives
We are that presence
and we can govern it —
Not in manipulation
of all the parts
but in surrendering
to that great harmony
that knows and loves completely,
that moves us all.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 14, 2014
Things go unsaid
in little layers of awkwardness
between the places
where bridges could be stretched
across the chasm of our doubts
Things go unsaid
while we explain —
explain away the need,
in that moment
to be heard and seen
and then it’s gone
And we are left with
all the stories we will forge
of how it didn’t matter anyway
or how it’s better
that we didn’t speak
And so we drift away,
connection lost
in the superficial chatter
that we use to paper over
things that go unsaid.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 13, 2014
After the rain
while the summer air
still hangs heavy,
some little birds break through its shroud
with happy chattering
A slight aliveness of breeze
brings the scent of
just a little rain —
wet dust, the smell
at the mouth of garden hoses
The day is still pregnant
and the great unknown
of how the birth will actually occur
stretches its vast belly
over everything.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 12, 2014
The grid has shaped us broken —
We find our angled edges only fit
with others who are similarly maimed.
We cry out in our pain and our frustration
and find our cries just shape more of the same
We try to think of starting over,
Try to see a way
to pattern something new,
But all our edges dig into the injured soil,
compact it more, erode it, stir up dust
There is a river,
There is another way,
There still are headlands that are wild.
We need to find those headlands
in our minds —
That’s where we start,
That’s where we stay
It’s not so much a work of starting over
(These trees are here, they’ve grown for years)
So much as moving now
along our truer channels
thus reinforcing all the good that’s here
But now it’s time to cry —
Cry tears, cry out —
anything to be less stuck, less dry.
With all my voice that’s left, this shout
for help. I can’t do this alone.
. . . And so to wait, until direction comes.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 11, 2014