Absent

empty-chair

You’re as easy as a recipe for jello
running fifty fathoms deep beneath the foam,
an exasperating, independent fellow
as familiar as the road that leads to home.

At the door, anticipation is supplanted
by the telltale disappointment in a dog
when the one for whom he’s waited, pranced and panted
isn’t coming home tonight to lift the fog.

When I reach across the bed and find it empty,
it’s a pressing emptiness that’s amplified
by the silence in the darkness, and I simply
cannot rest until we’re sleeping side by side.

Over breakfast, hovering across the table
in the place of grizzled cheeks and tousled hair
is a multi-headed vacuum on a cable
sucking all the effervescence from the air.

So I’m sending you this telepathic summons:
Get your stuff together, put it in a sack,
hold your ear next to the ground and hear the rumblin’s
of how thoroughly you’re missed. Now hurry back!

 

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2016

 

Public Domain Photo

 

 

Levity in the Wake

a-flower-for-you

Laughter’s pealing through the spaces
hollowed by the weight of loss,
filling cracks in broken places
where distress and mercy cross.
Open hearts attend the healing
with the balm of fellow feeling
softening misfortune’s traces.
Laughter’s pealing.

 

cc-by-nc-nd Mary Boren, 2015

Public Domain Image

 

Illusion

butterfly-effect

Easy does it when you try
separating fact from fiction.
What appears at first a lie
might have been the source of friction.
Things are seldom what they seem;
faith felt genuine, but was it?
While arousing from a dream,
easy does it.

In my childhood I believed
truth’s as black and white as painted,
unaware that some perceived
shades of grey as well acquainted
mentors of inquiring minds.
Through the game, I learned a smile would
pass for certainty that blinds,
in my childhood.

Far above us, pundits pounce;
preachers prime the Sunday sermon.
Both are ready to denounce
scrutiny from lowly vermin.
Truth lies halfway through the mist
in the hearts of those who love us.
Yours and mine can coexist
far above us.

———

cc-by-nc-nd Mary Boren, 2014

Weekend Retreat

tent-camping

If I could spend a weekend with the me
who used to be, I wouldn’t waste a minute
dispensing admonitions bound to be
unheard instead of boldly living in it.

I’d load me, bag and baggage, in the car
blindfolded, like a hostage – scared, unwilling
to see the wonder in the way we are
and take a trip abundantly fulfilling.

Awaking to the pungent pull of pines
with senses bathed in joyous morning glitters,
I’d hold my hand to swing between the vines
and join the chorus of the woodland critters.

For only in immersion at the core,
dissolving all the filters of resistance,
can unreserved relinquishment restore
the nature of divinity’s existence.

Alert to every scent and sound, aware
of all within our mental jurisdiction,
no leaf is left unfluttered nor a hair
unsplit in separating fact from fiction.

So, guided by example, having flown
the strictures of illusion that have driven
my younger self within, I’d say, “You’re known
and loved for what you’ve always been: forgiven.”

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

One

MöbiusWeddingBand

I am your wife, unwavering
     mate
          mirror
                witness
                     and welcome home.

This door is not the destination;
      it is the journey
      that begins anew
      with each re-entry
      from rock-strewn paths
      and ecstatic escapades
      that bring us mindfully
      into the Gift of Presence.

You are the air I breathe
in the unrelenting
      Realm of Reason
where metaphor melds
with matter
for I can be neither
better half nor weaker half
      or, for that matter,
           other half
when the fullness of union
suffers no halves.

I stand before you whole
with all my battered luggage
                           unpacked
                aired
      stored
and labeled “Ours.”

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

Passing Through

walking-each-other

“We’re all just walking each other home.” -Ram Dass

We are fashioned of starlight and moondust,
with each particle numbered and weighed
in the heart of Creation’s unwavering flow
where the substance of everything’s made.

Then we’re hurtled unborn through the cosmos
to be nurtured and challenged and taught,
with our origin mostly forgotten except
when ethereal whispers are caught.

We experience natural beauty
tinged with sorrow and pain as we burn
with unquenchable passion for clues to explain
our existence.  We long to return.

But that glorious lightness of being
in the lap of eternity’s source,
is reserved for escape from the passage of time
by a watchful, benevolent force.

If a tiger jumps out of the jungle,
if a bear charges out of the blue,
or a mugger gives chase down a dark city street,
they’re just doing what animals do.

I will not live in fear for my safety
or let cruelty alter my pace.
There’s a balance in nature that cradles us all
on this rock in the vastness of space.

Whether fluttering, tethered in tandem,
or with feet planted firm in the loam,
I am here with my brothers and sisters for now,
and we’re walking each other back home.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

Still

in-the-appalachian-mountains

“Be still and know
that I am God.” We owe
no less than every minute, every day.
Before our eyes,
He spreads the wondrous skies
and hangs the stars in glorious array.

Let lives exude
eternal gratitude
like mountain streams. His goodness, undeterred
by doubting minds,
flows freely as it winds
through ever deeper channels of His Word.

Our boundless debt
reflects in others met
with genuine forgiveness and goodwill
from hearts at rest
in knowing we are blessed
beyond imagination. Love can spill
from unexpected places when we’re still.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2014

Public Domain Photo

Lamplighter

lamplighter

As truth revolves, its facets are revealed
in changing light.  My muse awaits, concealed
in shadows, steering clear of Father Zeus
(who set a slew of noisy daughters loose
in poets’ heads).

For only in the stillness, where the threads
of myth and fable intersect, can reds
and yellows, mystic blues, and shades of grey
be woven into words that light the way
as truth revolves.

In poets’ heads, illusion’s snare absolves
the writer of the story — fact dissolves
in smoke and mirror’s slanted tell, not show.
But when Lamplighter comes to me, I know
she speaks no lies.

If then, and only then, do I arise
to paraphrase, with freshly opened eyes,
the broader bearings of the lessons wrought
from living into truth, each tender thought
serenely spreads.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2011


Image by ceoln (CCL)

The Call of Home

The beautiful side of IC 335

I’d love to travel astrally,
projecting past the sun and moon
into the realm beyond the bounds
of brick and mortar, blood and bone.

When carried on a single thought
aloft, my busy brain would cease
its constant chattering while I
enjoy the panoramic view.

But for the needs of day to day
existence in a mortal shell,
there’s no place I would rather live
than here at home on Planet Earth.

Let not her strength and beauty fade
because we failed to heed her cry.

———

cc-by-nc-nd  Mary Boren, 2013

Joy Abiding

colt

Joy, abiding in the heart,
like a filly off her tether
prances ’round the apple cart
in a field of golden heather.
Tribulation comes and goes —
buckles chafe while Sorrow’s riding
on her back, but heaven knows
Joy’s abiding.

———

cc-by-nc-nd Mary Boren, 2014