Know Thyself, but I Digress…

 

 

Though I may question purpose and reality

for reason and rationality…

beyond the final mystery I have no doubt

there is a lens through which a mystic figure sees.

 

A conglomerate of me and thee, and she and he

and that which is just the one voice speaking:

“There are no mistakes or second-guesses.

There is only that which the heart confesses.”

If that is what it is…. I must agree.

 

Ironic that I see the glass half-full

even after downing the vague liquid

to the last dregs of understanding,

yet still I do not know why the thirst remains.

The moment waxes. The moment wanes.

 

Some secret sense judges me for casting a shadow

no one else can see, white and plain,

not complicated or draped in gold, not velvet, satin

or crimson bold… just a shadow of who I imagine

myself to be…. tall, white, translucent, on the cusp of cloudy.

Maybe I am transparent to no one but me.

 

I crawl over each word in my note, hoping to extract

a clearer meaning than just a puzzling poem, but no…

I seemed to have crossed a border line of ambiguity,

knowing all I have to offer

are the symptoms of the character … I Am,

when I was on my way to becoming someone

I thought I might be.

 

 

 

1. whisel* 2008

Wisconsin June 2008

I wrote this last month when the big rains came. My sister came to visit me by train. It took her 14 hours to arrive in Minnesota from Chicago, a trip that usually takes 8 hours. At some point the train to be diverted to freight tracks, and even then, she rode through segments where on either side of the train, the water came up to the rails. Luckily, by the time she left in July, the great flood had receded.

 

WISCONSIN June 2008

 

Rain, like gangsters blowing up the street,

flooding quiet valleys with rivers of unstoppable power.

Hail, or is it tommy guns? deafening, shooting at cars,

windows, garbage cans…

a few stray umbrellas with broken ribs, beaten senselessly….

caught in the crossfire of the pop! Ping! Pang!

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here!

 

This weather reminds me of Chicago, 1930s,

when big, swarthy men held neighborhoods hostage.

When forces of superior muscle were unleashed,

plans of exploitation exploded into dangerous dark dragons

melting into the alleys like marauding mudslides,

rogue racketeers dominating the roads.

 

But it’s only water, gallons and gallons… furious fathoms

of clay, silt, lawn furniture, cars surfing over the flood plains,

creating new waterways into Illinois

on its way to Missouri.

 

They say it’s Mother Nature, but I think it’s the Storm Kings,

that new gang that moved into the neighborhood

after we crossed the failsafe threshold into Global Warming.

 

 

c. whisel* 2008

 

I am the voice

I AM the Voice of people.

I Am the Voice of gentle awakening.

I Am the VOICE of remembrance.

I Am the Voice reminding you.

I Am the Voice you have been waiting for.

Where is it I AM not, for I AM everywhereWho is it I AM not, for I AM everyone

Within the silence there is music, it is not to hear but feel
touching the potential. . . there arises form
reach out your heart for it is there I AM

Clay in the sculptor’s hand is but a pulse of music
flowing through the soul

If you wait it is there, if you create it is here
send forth the knowing and know

In your tears there are oceans yet unborn
In your words there are wings unfurled
In you there is that which I AM

Look not with your eyes but see with the being of Love

There cannot be more than this for I AM All That IS.

Two Part

 

FIRST PART

Before monotony declines on my head space,

I quiet the world, lifting the light higher,

putting idea-things in place. No sad can last

as the wheel turns, each daily sun bouncing

a new design off my forehead.

 

Rise up, my pretty notion.

When negative thought-sitting falters,

stretch and reach for the beginning of now.

Most precious essence of energy,

Helper of harmony. Animator of awe.

Rise up in word and vision. I am ready

and waiting where I need to be, for clarity…

under the willing waterfall.

 

 

 

 

SECOND PART

I am the absolute image of leisure,

soft clothes, no shoes, ice water and lemon.

I have a small degree of understanding

that some days lack texture,

shifts of smooth sailing,

meaning I can roll from the bed

into the chaise lounge with a book, a banana

and a box of magazines to rifle through,

without even slightly paying attention

to the odds and ends strewn about the floor

that don’t fit the scheme of my world,

my life or my perception.

They are all there, though, hangers-on….

those certain fragments of undoing,

specimens of puzzles still to solve, still to see.

 

For now, I am at peace with how-things-are,

basking in the rosy glow of liberation,

trusting in the wellness principle of creation

while soft footsteps pace outside my door.

Nothing to fear, only cats demanding

access and routine. Even in my luscious,

luxurious state of floating beyond obligation,

there are these cats bellowing for me

to come home again.

 

Best wishes, Whisel*  2008

 

 

 

Not Suitable For County Fairs

 

 

I love the state of contentment that follows
the untangling of yet another snarled strand
in this complex weaving I call my life,
which I am determined to complete
without a pattern, now that I see
how useless patterns really ARE
when working with living yarn
that has its own destiny
often concealed
until it’s time for the next color
to arrive on it’s own, or for
a new pattern of stitches to appear
from out of no where, it seems…..

this isn’t what I expected from life,
this is not how they taught me it would be.
I was told to create my life according to
patterns assigned to me, based on
gender, class, and times:
they said if I followed the pattern exactly,
my life would be a divinely beautiful weaving,
deserving of heavenly welcome, in due time…

I tried very, very hard to do this well:
to follow every instruction as written,
to never deviate from the pattern, using
only the life yarn and colors it called for
and my life weaving slowly emerged,
quite lovely, actually, on the surface,
quite pleasing to the observing eyes

while its underside, the part in which my soul
was wrapped, the side no eyes could see,
became a tightly wound mass of painful knots
and tangles that pulled and tortured and twisted
with slow, deadly, soul crushing force

so long ago, that awful time, painful memories
now faded into distant dreamlike mists
survival din and chaos only soft echos
sometimes heard in cold winter wind-wails

 

Now I sit cozily contented
wondering what bit of color,
what kind of yarn
what kind of stitches
will appear today?
What knots will need untangling?
What tiny new piece of this wild
and crazy life weaving
will reveal itself before I sleep again?
one just never knows…

 

It will never win a prize at any County Fair,
of that I am certain, for no category even exists
for such a messy mass of unblended colors,
patterns interrupted and replaced at random,
full of dropped stitches and holes patched here and there
with whatever material was handy, why it actually
offends the eyes of many who see it up close,
and upsets the serenity of others…..
which, while regrettable at times
is simply unavoidable, I have found

for if am to create a life weaving with an underside
designed to protect and comfort,
to hold and nurture and feed my soul
while here in this world, it must be thus.

 

if I am to honor the creative force that
designed my soul to be the shape and size it is,
and remain in a state of oneness with all
of it’s goodness, it’s light, it’s love, then
it must be thus.

 

this world has judgmental eyes
trained to only value certain patterns
none of which suit my soul,
so my own will suffice quite nicely
from here on, and who really needs
Blue Ribbons, anyway?

 

c 2008 g.mills