Cosmic Consciousness–Sunday Whirl



Lost in a world of nebulous thoughts,
shooting stars and feathery sparks
bleeding scarlet fingers onto the wet canvas
of my mind, I close my eyes,
tumble into the black hole of doubt,
only to find myself alone
until you close my hand in yours.

I return from the inky swirl
of a watery grave when you
pull me close, into your embrace.
Together we sway to the rhythm,
of the universe’s dance—the now.
I unearth faith once more.

Written for Brenda’s prompt at the Sunday Whirl. The words we were to use are below. I just couldn’t work in oiled.

Photo: The Sunday Whirl

Photo: The Sunday Whirl

un-named heroes

NLEx May 30 Autistic Teens

NLEx May 30 Autistic Teens (Photo credit: DivaLea)

un-named heroes

a mother waits to hear him say her name,
his father, to play ball.
the child breaks silence only with his piercing cry,
tosses his food, his fists.
the daily fare of parents of autistic children.

Flower Pots

Flower Pots (Photo credit: IrishFireside)

down the street, around the corner,
potted flowers adorn window boxes.
behind closed shutters,
a neighbor/friend (not old)
decides it’s time to let death visit.
a phone call later—cancelled chemo—
he makes his peace and dies.

outside, sun plays with clouds in azure skies.
inside the empty chapel, darkness fills the stagnant space.
an ancient monk buries his head in his hands,
waits for the shroud of doubt to dissipate.

Westminster Abbey Benedictine Monastery Chapel

Westminster Abbey Benedictine Monastery Chapel (Photo credit: Jordon)

dementia creeps through tangled plaques in her brain.
with trembling fingers she punches in numbers,
asks her daughter to come in a hurry
before it’s too late to make her wishes known.

fingering bruises on her face,
the woman ventures out beyond the confines
of the world she knows.
$35.00 and change,
a scrappy paper bag of clothes,
a 3-year-old child in her arms,
she sets out hoping that there’s room for her,
the address of the shelter jotted
on a crumpled envelope
in her pockt—
the pocket of her husband’s red flannel shirt.

she hates her tattoo.
she hates her body.
sometimes she hates her life.
she longs to be accepted,
she walks away from those kids
when they offer her the drugs.

Offered for the Hero Prompt at dVerse Meeting the Bar. Join us soon…there’s still a bit of time left.

Photo: Creative Commons License

The Cloud of Unknowing–dVerse Poetics

tule fog

Image by emdot via Flickr

The Cloud of Unknowing

Who covered our valley with layers of gauzy fog?
Before me, another car edges forward.
I follow dim tail lights, hoping that somewhere ahead
another leads the tentative parade.

Last week, a mountain spanned the landscape
on the lower third of earth’s canvas.
A two-lane highway wove its way through
rabbit brush, tumble weeds tumbled. Snakes slithered.

Today I see only dim tail lights, hoping that
tomorrow I will come home.

The Cloud of Unknowing is a spiritual treatise by an anonymous medieval mystic. It advises the follower that God cannot be understood through knowledge, but rather through contemplation. Oftentimes those who live in faith have to endure prolonged periods of doubt. Having spent time in California’s Central Valley and on the coast, I always found Tule Fog and coastal fog to be an apt metaphor for life’s journey at times like this.

Today at dVerse Poet’s Pub, Brian Miller asks us to see that which cannot be seen except through the third eye. Check it out at

Doubt–Poetry Potluck


Image by mohammadali via Flickr


Why do wild roses
splayed along the river
go unseen, then die?

How do swallows know
when to return? And salmon,
the place of their gestation?

What causes flashes
of crimson and Parrish blue
to flare behind closed eyes?

Is there pleasure without pain?
And when we try so hard,
how come we fail?

Why do you
abandon us? Or is it
the other way around?

Linked to Poetry Potluck:

Writer’s Doubt

Being a writer is fraught with doubt: self-doubt throughout the process of creating; the doubt that surrounds submission and rejection; doubt that you will get an agent and then, when you do, if she/he will be able to sell your work.

Is the antidote for doubt faith or trust or a bit of both? Faith that your writing is part of a greater Plan, that you are sharing in the Divine Creative Impulse. Trust that you have done your best and that your agent will do the same. Taking the risk and putting a part of yourself out there to be accepted, or criticized, or ignored.

And while you wait, just keep on writing.