A book is growing in me like a child.
It bumps against my insides
from time to time
I hum to it
when I think to,
I settle into the gait
of its weight
I sense the course of its development,
chapters like ears of corn,
words like the kernels
Things remain mysterious,
like how it will all come together —
it isn’t mine to pry the answers out
A book is growing in me
like a poem. It will come out
when it’s ready.
©Wendy Mulhern
August 22, 2019
I felt my vessel
had become a sieve,
suddenly unable
to capture and retain
that which would slake my thirst
For though the day was not devoid of brightness,
I found no pool within,
in which to reflect —
just a dry concavity
in which to feel alone,
a place collecting shadows
and the sound of bones.
©Wendy Mulhern
December 13, 2018
Being creative
is part of the plan,
part of the everyday joy,
not for some but not others —
a primal fact of life
You are creative as dandelions,
as flickers and robins,
as today’s breath of wind
and quiet rain
You are creative
as the delighted adaptation
of everything
to the moment’s confluences —
It is your due
that every step be creative,
as needed as comfort,
as close as home.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 22, 2016
No answers, please —
no answers from me, anyway.
Let me go down
to that place far underneath the words
where the rich shadows
snuggle like blankets,
soft undulations of somber colors,
and the subtle hammock swing
rocks me to stillness,
weighty as sleep
tugging me deep
to where the silent waters
wait to spring.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 13, 2015
1.
I see the moon through mist,
I see the subtle loveliness of clouds
that move like lace across her face,
and how she laughs as they change her shape
just for a moment
2.
I think about the spread of colors, where they appear —
Red rolling into green through luxurious russets,
Golds darkening to ambers in the rich wood,
Plum, wine, umber, concentrate to near black:
It comes clear to me why pink is not a part of red
though sky and ocean share the name of blue
3.
I think of what I see as I drift towards dream,
how colors rise up out of darkness
and when, to my closed eyes,
the light of thought appears,
defining the forms as they emerge from shifting splotches
carrying me off into the vision that reprises
all the things I didn’t know I saw.
©Wendy Mulhern
April 2, 2015
Oh, these things we are so proud of
and the things of which we’re so ashamed.
these things that cling to who we think we are,
these things we carefully arrange,
These things we call ourselves
and what we call each other
all must melt
in the rising heat of change
And what we are
beneath our self stories,
What we are
beneath all our facades
will seem a small coal
when we first see it
but we will know we must acknowledge it
as ours
As ashes fall away, we’ll see the glow,
and as we hold to it, we’ll see it grow:
It will survive the fire,
it will endure —
It may be faint as yet
but it is pure.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 18, 2015
I need these moments
where the perfunctory subsides,
where its detritus —
the weariness, the dread —
ceases to be tossed
against my eyes
And the clear burn
of fervent purpose
lights my steps
and takes me deep
where the life cords course
in swift, braiding channels
surging me sure-footed and alert
through my day.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 8, 2015
In the gestation
of any new idea,
there is a time for silence —
a time when the currents of words
would warp the fragile budding,
when the stream of story
would make it something other
than it otherwise could be,
when blessed stillness
lets it unfold
from its own impulse
till it’s strong enough
to hold its own.
©Wendy Mulhern
January 6, 2015
photos by Eric Mulhern