Week Eight Poem: Bad News - string of haiku

coffee in a cup
with cream and sugar, too. think
I’ll read the paper

headlines boldly state
bloody message black and white
turn to the crossword

empty boxes wait
for my wise and studied answers
to elusive clues

crosswords are easy
better than headline troubles
no solutions there

pour another cup
solve the problems that fit my
vocabulary

sigh and put away
the news, I’m profoundly sad
time for the dishes

wash, dry, put away
there’s solace in excelling
at these daily chores

domesticity
I rule this world; no headlines
of rebellion

Week Seven Poem: Communion

I am lured away from your Lotus feet

By a great disturbance.

Turbulent thoughts descend

Like a flock of birds startled by a barking dog 

Flying into a window pane, shattering it.

Brightly feathered flocks of thoughts whiz by

I reach to catch some in my net

And forget our date for holy communion.

Shards of glass cut my skin

Crimson blood runs wetly

My net is full of noisy birds

Peace has flown.

I need to call the glazier.

What say you, God?

When your daughter bleeds

Upon your feet in sorrow? 

When she’s forgotten who she is and

What she really knows?

What say you, God?

I’m not the body, I’m not the mind

Immortal Self I am!

I’ve sung it over and over again

And sometimes believe it.

Yet, these cacophonous birds

Fly wildly, demanding my attention.

It’s easy to identify with them

Take on their beaks and feathers,

And rise into the sky to soar

Amongst their winged brethren.

What say you, God?

If your daughter flies into the night

On whispering wings like an owl

forgetting who she is?

Is she not still part of your great plan

Cosmic design and purpose?

Or would you give her  a good talking to?

What say you, God?

I am not these thoughts that flit and fly

I know this to be true.

Exhausted, I lay down my net. 

Sit under the peach tree and

Lift my face to the golden rays of dawn.

The sun dries my tears into salt-tracks on my cheeks

Breath deeply, daughter of god. Inhale Life.

Exhale the Sacred Mantra

Aaaaauuuummmmmmm

Hums over my tongue and lips 

And reverberates in my soul.

Aaaaauuuummmmmmm

Aaaaauuuummmmmmm

Aaaaauuuummmmmmm

Bird-like thoughts sail quietly by

Like geese into the purple horizon.

Aaaaauuuummmmmmm

They are distant and beautiful, mine no more.

Flying away seeking other takers.

What say you, God

When you daughter sits

And sings a holy mantra? 

Once again at your Lotus feet

And has kept our date for communion?

Will you fill her cup and bind her wounds?

Remove the arrows shot by her own mistakes?

It’s all for good, It’s all for God

It’s all for Her Glory,

Mine is the path of Faith

To be kind and pray

To love and cry

And maybe fly-

All in a state of Grace.

Week Six Poem: Tea with Demons

Tea  with Demons

Ambushed by

Ghostly demons thought long beaten

A warrior Goddess

Licks the wounds of ancient battles,

Forgetting they are healed-over

No longer bleeding.

Unable to muster the strength

to push aside these

Legions she herself has armed with careful cultivation;

The products of love denied—

She is broken.

An ally comes to aid, holds her hand, dries her tears,

And lifts her chin so she may see the stars,

And gently suggests Surrender

 As a path to Peace.

“No reason to fear.” She says.

“Have faith.

Pin Hope to a white flag and wave it high!

What do you have to lose?”

Have tea with the demons? Give up the fight?

These abandoned children of an aching heart are hungry

They will swallow her whole.

But she is already consumed.

What does she have to lose?

And whom does she suppose is losing?

The Warrior Goddess bravely sets the table

And feeds them on the good china

Discuss the details of surrender…

Love without condition.

Faith – not fear.

Live in Truth.

Brew up Compassion Tea,

Pour into a cup and pass it round;

Drink deeply.

Forgive. Forgive. Forgive.

Compassion Tea to toast the terms  

The demons are undone by love

Their teeth pulled out and harmless

Embattled yet victorious

A warrioress emerges

Whole again, marching on,

Sentinels now alerted

To the demons who would come raiding

“Fear not!” the Goddess cries. “I have what you want.”

Compassion Tea in a painted cup,

A potion to quell their thirsting.

Week Five Poem: Underage

The beat of that song,
You know the one...

Transports me; a time machine

Eighteen and sneaking into clubs

To hear the band

And dance with abandon

Throw myself up to the beat of hot and sweaty drummer

And electric guitar player who is kinda cute.

The doormen knowingly wink as I show them

A false ID

A pretty girl who will dance all night long

In their club is a good thing

Worth the risk of the enforcers

A young lithe body gyrating makes men thirsty and

Helps everyone ignore the peeling paint and stale beer smell

A pretty girl

Dancing

Laughing

Teasing…

Twenty-seven years later

Is she still there inside me?

I hear the opening beat of that song

And know

Part of me will be eighteen forever

A rock-n-roll heart is hungry and

Calls over and over

It never grows old.

I think I’ll get a new tattoo.

Something for fun, folks. I've been a tad too serious of late. ~Cass 

Week Four Poem: Be. And Be. And Be Some More

As if one ounce of well wrought effort could affect a change.

Can it open a rose?

Can it hurry the petals

As they unfurl into the dew-dropped morning?

With sheer will and determination

Can you smell the heady scent

See the blood-red velvet petals sooner?

Can you hurry it along

With careful plans and cunning acts of wisdom?

For you think you know

The way,

and how

and what to do

If only you could do it.

As if your human effort

Makes any sort of difference.

Will you miss the beauty of the bud

And the tiny miracles of opening?

Twisted up with making it so

And wishing for it to hurry.

Be.    And Be.    And Be some more

Just show up, don’t worry.

The blooming is inevitable

The rose the bearer of its glory. 

Week Three Poem: Landscape

The inner landscape of this life is
Irrigated by fonts of dreams
Crashing in burns of gem-toned rivers
Come to rest in a still pool
Gathered there, all the paper-doll wistfulness
Of ‘what if’ and ‘when I grow up’

A meadow rims the pool; replete with Life.
A closer look.
It’s shifting surface obliges with what I want to see;
Successful vanquisher of the challenge -
Eternal beauty and poise and strength -
Laughing in the arms of Love -
Alive!

The fair vision is doomed to fade.
Altered, mined and harvested
In mindless pursuit of where I was going.
The burns run dry, tapped by frivolity and vanity.
The cracked mud bottom of that iridescent pool
Reveals forgotten coins tossed by a careless hand
Spent on wishes that were not mine to make.

Buzzards roost in a dead tree whilst
My body turns inevitably toward it’s earthly refuge
And the dreams of youth turn gray
Evaporated on the dry-dust air of age.
And time passing.
A whirligig mocking
On the edge of a gem-toned pool.

Oh, regret!
Most foolish of man’s foibles
Makes a wastrel of a thrifty soul.
For it’s impossible to feed the
Gaping maw of self-reproach
With anything but love.
And yet I try.

Desperate flutterings
To break the laws that bind me here
That I may fly into the Flame of God
I am rewarded only with singed wings
Cast down; broken and empty
Upon the altar my own Idolatry.

This landscape is most beautiful
When I cease to strive
Let Nature build a nest in my hair.
What do I know of meadows and pools and beauty and truth?
Lay down regret and put self-importance to bed
They are a blight upon the simple serenity
Of a watercolor mountain peak
Reflecting the light of dawn.

Week Two Poem: Winter Blues

This wintry landscape of ice blue and gray
Stirred by the North Wind’s finger
Surrounds me on all sides
Holds me bound to its chilly breast

I am a reluctant human to greet the day
When it is so adorned in frost and white
Leaden feet plod toward my work
Away from my warm bed where I'd rather be
Toasty in the arms of my love all day.

A shiver runs up my spine
Deft fingers ache and turn clumsy under an Arctic kiss
Scrape the windshield, pray the heat cranks up soon
Watch for black ice and white ice and snow banks and plows
When did I get so old?

The forecast is bleak, more ice on the way
Too warm for snow and too cold for rain
Ice pellets encrust the world in a crystal wrapper
Kids are out of school again
At least they find some joy
In these wintry days

The sun sets early - though it’s later each day
On the way home I stop by the mailbox
It’s alive and blossoming with garden catalogs
Tomatoes and tulips, cabbages and columbines
I stick my nose deep into their colored pages
And play make believe

It’s 82 degrees and breezy
The lull of the hammock swinging back and forth
And the sweet heavy scent of lilacs and lilies
Makes me drunk, satisfied and sleepy.

Would that I could be intoxicated by such a vision
And pass out cold; hibernate until the Spring
When I awaken with the daffodils
A new fern unfurls to greet the yellow sun.

The Beat Goes On

The beat goes on

My heart in time with Creation

Tries to race ahead in useless pursuit

A Self-indulgent and spoiled child

Barely remembering to listen 

To Be

The beat goes on

In spite of depleted and dilapidated dreams

It steadily metes out the measure of lives

Moments slip into days and years

Am I listening?

The beat goes on

Regardless of joy and the desperate grasping

To grab hold of honey-steeped moments

Lingering too long

Sweetness turns to vinegar

Move on, Daughter of God

The beat goes on

 Tumbled into the sea of want and love and Maya

Ours is to dance;

The beat of life’s eternal Source pounds in our feet

The Bhindu in the Heart that breathes every atom

Bedazzles with azure and vermillion skies

The beat goes on

It does not wait nor sit idle

While I contemplate the value of actions

Shooting arrows from the quiver of my desires

Into the heart of manifestation

I dance with what emerges

The beat goes on

It does not slow for me to figure it out

To cast aside regret or wishful thinking

It patiently reminds me with every universal thrum

Now is all there is; what will I make of it?

The beat goes on

Will I love more?  Cherish more?

Laugh more?  Want more?

Yearn more?  Ache more?

Will I awaken and know?

The beat goes on

Eternity can afford infinite patience

With a wayward daughter

Meandering and sometimes lost on her way home

Week 1 Poem: Whistled Up To The Sky

Inspired by a recent barrage of cowboy images in movies and books. Not to mention, my dad was a range riding cowboy when I was very small. I like to think that he dreamed of Mom like this and their love brought him home safe. Enjoy! ~ Cassandra

Whistled Up To The Sky

The lonesome hours of a cowboy’s life outnumber the sage on the plain.
Hours filled with dust and sweat but always alive with dreams.
Dreams woven of moonlight at midnight and whistled up to the sky.
A cowboy’s song; a spell is cast; a mournful lullaby.

Long dry notes blown over sun chapped lips are gathered up by the wind
To dance amongst the twinkling stars and cactus blooms so sweet.
The cowboy whistles his lover’s tune and cannily checks the herd.
The beasts are calm tramping along; no camp; the weather’s good.

On a perfect night with the stars so bright and the wind caressing him just so,
She is conjured from the notes of his song and the depth of his very soul,
She is borne on the scent of cactus-bloom and the tang of evergreen.
Airy fingers comb the hair on his cheek; soft as a kiss in spring.

A hundred miles and six days in the saddle away from home and his love
On this magical night she rides to him on a steed of silver and white.
His song calls his lover and holds her there; she rides the night trail by his side.
A hundred miles and six days in the saddle; he’ll soon hold his bride.

She lights the way cast in silvery gleam, the stars twinkling with her laughter.
She fills his mind and fills his dreams and keeps him ever after
Moving down the trail and closer to home, till he’s safe in her embrace
He is at home wherever he roams when he sings to feel her grace.

New Year's Resolution

So, I am declaring it here - for whomever to see - that my 2011 New Year's resolution is to write and post at least one poem/week for the whole year.
I do hope some of them are brilliant. I fully expect some of them to be rough and in need of reworking. But the point here is to JUST DO IT! Yeah, like Nike.
I am looking forward to the challenge and the ways that it will  help me grow into an art form that I really appreciate. Who knows? Maybe poems are the way for me, and novels will come later when I have more time.
Many blessings to all of us in the New Year. May our hearts be glad and our hands be offered up in service to a greater good.

All love, Cassandra