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.
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