In a split-level duplex on Denver’s west side where the gold dust and booze overflowed from the previous century, someone appeared at a newlywed couple’s abode.
“Did you see what just happened?” The unison chant broke the silence as, bolting awake with adrenalin pumping, they sat up at once and described an identical take on the bold basement visitor’s last fading flash that remains an indelible clip in this vividly witnessed and oft-replayed film even fifty years after the trip:
At the headboard, a rustle of taffeta stirs in the mystical opening scene as an elegant lady comes slowly in view from the rear as she glides in between man and wife unaware that we sleep on the grave of society superimposed on a future dimension with tenuous thread, its connection as yet undisclosed.
Like Miss Kitty, complete with a bustle and hat, she is dressed to the nines for the day in a matching plaid number befitting her role as a fashion plate walking away.
Then she ever-so-gracefully raises her skirt, stepping down from the foot of the bed, still not floating but moving with purpose and poise through the wall of the closet ahead.
When potentates arrived at Louie’s gate they frequently were treated decently from carriage to the crux of the estate through spacious links to be connected to the presence on the throne that blanketed the monarchy alone.
But only those whose social pedigree was highest shelf according to their wealth were met with individual esprit and ushered by the king himself through each palatial post from in to out at every station on the winding route.
A remnant of the ritual remains, a quiddity that, like a whispered plea, still echoes from the rural Georgia plains with matchless hospitality in gracious deference to who you are: “Allow me to escort you to your car.”
“Darkness will be preferred to light, and death will be thought more profitable than life; no one will raise his eyes to heaven; the pious will be deemed insane, and the impious wise; the madman will be thought a brave man, and the wicked will be esteemed as good.” -The Prophecy of Thoth
There will come a time, the ancients said, when Planet Earth is severed from the Spirit. As mystics strive to reconnect the thread with sacred speech, the people will not hear it.
Redemption must go deeper than the words to overthrow the pattern of stagnation in human consciousness that undergirds our currents of decline in co-creation.
For only when the willingness of one and all anothers unified by reason to forge ahead together has begun will heaven manifest its winning season.
And each alone can activate the glue that binds us to the cosmic retinue.
“My daddy changed the world.” Gianna Floyd, at only six, already understands that something monumental has occurred. She joins the ranks of children left to bear the burden of a murderous design infused into the bedrock of our nation.
Four hundred years of history reveal the willful subjugation of a line of people who, despite the barricades, survive in force to raise a mighty roar that shatters all illusion. We must stand in truth to finalize emancipation.
No longer will the platitudes suffice nor “thoughts and prayers” assuage an open wound. The time for reckoning is NOW, the day will soon give way to dusk, the moment lost forever if denial perseveres. The case demands authentic reparation.
Shades of Twenty-Twenty vision lie beneath abandoned cities packed with disregarded lessons of the centuries before. Finally the veil has lifted, there’s a purpose in tomorrow and the memories are fading from the year that brought the war.
Looking forward to commencement, parties, proms, and lazy summer leading into jobs or college, we were only seventeen. Some of us were undecided, some had mapped a certain future in the pattern of their parents. Others saw behind the screen.
Since we entered kindergarten we’d been tested, used, and herded for political agendas on the nation’s shrinking stage so it wasn’t unexpected when democracy imploded in a world already reeling from the chaos of the age.
Virus after virus followed, claiming half the population. News from other countries filtered slowly through the riot zone ’til the power grid was severed. While democracy imploded we were scrabbling for survival. Now we live on wits alone.
Here I stand, the single remnant from a family of seven, flanked by unified companions whose intention can increase coexistence with the planet. Taking only what is needed, with the help of one another we will make a lasting peace.
Coronavirus slithered through the sea to wake a nation unprepared to face its own reflection. Stumbling in the dark, the sleeping spirit stirs from shore to shore as, shaking chains of partisan divide, vibrations rise and rumble. Soon the chant becomes a roar, “Let’s make a better choice!”
This unexpected intermission taps the vast potential waiting in the wings. From dormant ranks, new patriots emerge with intellect, integrity, and love for fellow citizens. They’ll show us how.
Though headlines clamor, voices blare and bitter arguments abound in every fearful sector where the chaos of the world is found, each hibernating embryo refuses to restrain its flow of love beneath the silent snow.
When social order seems to fall into the clutch of grasping hands, a waiting surge is poised to call upon the truth that countermands the venom of contagious lies before its spread can fertilize the hopelessness in mournful cries.
Within the calm collective dream of all-inclusive peace on earth the universe emits a beam directing to our own rebirth. May every seedling labor through the obstacles that block our view of fellow feeling born anew.
Before she’s drawn a second breath or viewed her mother’s face, a newborn seeks the breast. No special training’s needed, there’s no test for measuring a baby’s aptitude or mother’s love. The cycle is renewed as fed becomes the feeder, doubly blessed with strength. Instinctively, we all ingest the substance packed in life-sustaining food.
So why should care and feeding of the soul be shrouded in enigma? Through the worst imponderable doubts, our Living Guide extends a standing offer: “Here’s a bowl of hearty stew for free.” And with a burst of sight, the inner cynic’s pacified.
Every night when Lady Luna beams across the wooded steep after daily clamor dwindles and the children fall asleep Emma comes to tend the garden, kiss the flowers, and commune with the fairies, imps, and pixies frolicking beneath the moon.
Emissaries of the spirits spawned before the planet’s birth, Emma and her sisters hover gently on the edge of Earth in the space between confusion over what we’re doing here and The Realm That Knows Forever liberated from the sphere.
She is but a fleeting image of the fiber that connects all the multiverse’s secrets to the path that intersects with the pattern of Creation spreading from a single source, infinite beyond description, dauntless on its chosen course.
Someone waited in the shadows half the night to capture proof in a picture we can study, then she vanished in a poof, so I left this verse for Emma in a scented envelope thanking her for nightly visits sprinkling peace and feeding hope.
Given the sinister nature of tyranny strutting its stuff on the national stage, why should an outbreak of violent rage come as surprise when another atrocity borne on the bullets of deadly velocity massacres hope?
Spare the survivors the further indignity pouring from pundits’ imperious airs, hogging the cameras, offering prayers full of their own brand of blatant hypocrisy. Decency clings to our fragile democracy — throw it a rope!
Bring us some leaders with proven integrity poised to deliver the legal restraints long overdue. As the world reacquaints citizens’ rights with the cry of humanity, carry the flag of compassionate sanity mounting the slope.
A brain cannot absorb more than its mass. I tell myself it helps to let it drain in seeking to achieve a higher plane. How often, wearing blinders, do we pass the Buddha Image in a blade of grass or shun the light beyond the windowpane for fear its pull will render us insane? My will is steel, my spirit tempered glass.
Yet there are times the mind will not be barred from grappling with enigma. Nonchalance won’t turn the key to wisdom or prepare the soul for nourishment. Without regard for tethered cognizance, my psyche wants to conquer obfuscation in the air.
There is more to a word than the spelling, neither future nor past in its tense, and the story that grows in the telling can jump over a pastoral fence on the drive coming home. It’s compelling in a deeper than physical sense.
When I think of the love that enfolds me in the leap of a frolicsome pup and the arms of a husband who holds me like an obelisk propping me up, there’s a presence that softens and molds me to the shape of serenity’s cup.
From a window, the woodland is sounding with the hush of an orderly mind. In a natural rustic surrounding there is space for the nerves to unwind from the noise of a world that is pounding the humanity out of mankind.
So the run-of-the-mill intersection on the way to our humble abode masquerades our affluent connection to a heavenly area code as it leads to supernal perfection living large at a bend in the road.
The load that weighs you down with care
has sabotaged your inner peace;
its mass will steadily increase.
While staggering from here to there.
your steps are slowed, your back is bowed
because it isn’t yours to bear.
Cut loose and lovingly release
the load that weighs you down with care.
I’ll be your hearth, your welcome home,
your trusted secret-hearer —
your witness and your mirror.
This door may stand familiar,
but it’s not the destination.
The journey starts anew with each
to mindfully return into
the loving Gift of Presence
from every tempting escapade
that calls us from our essence.
For breathing one another’s air
beyond the realm of reason
where metaphor and matter meld
(if only for a season)
as better half or weaker half
at odds is lunacy.
Commitment in its fullness
summons vibrant unity.
And so I come before you whole
with all my baggage carried
across the threshold, labeled “Ours”,
unpacked … profoundly married.
2018 Mary Boren
Revisiting a 2014 poem originally written in free verse.
The mistress cracks a psychic whip, and he,
a blinder-fitted plodding workhorse bound
by honor, hopes to find a patch of ground
that won’t give way beneath his hoof. To be
or not to be, his sole identity
derives from someone leading him around
in circles, heaping judgment pound for pound
with unequivocating certainty.
He’d never think of putting up a fight,
for every time he jumps, she lifts the bar
to keep his motivation locked up tight,
convinced that it can never venture far
from her own brand of patent black-and-white
philosophy, “I think, therefore you are.”
Hummingbird, you offer inspiration
fluttering your wings so tirelessly.
Any other creature in creation
can’t compare for diligent esprit.
Smallest of the species sporting feathers,
delicately colored, poised mid-air,
you are picturesque in form that weathers
all adversity, though unaware
how much you achieve by simply being.
Preening’s not your nature; you’re compelled
constantly to seek out food, foreseeing
fuel needs for energy expelled.
‘Til I learn to hover in the ether,
trusting there’s enough to fill my beak,
gliding on the currents underneath are
heaven’s gifts. You’ve given me a peek.
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it–always.” ― Mahatma Gandhi
Unanswerable questions plague the minds
of all who yearn for justice in the world.
Why must the battle rage relentlessly?
How can it be we never seem to learn
from all the brokenness and suffering
humanity inflicts upon itself?
Will any of us live to see the day
when sanity prevails across the globe?
But earthly eyes are not equipped to view
the picture from the timelessness of space.
Our singular assignment in this realm
of fitful dreams is training to connect
with love in all its forms. If Gandhi could
experience and witness all he did,
yet cling to the belief the universe
is ultimately kind, I’ll do no less.
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