A fading dream’s elusive silhouettes
dance softly on my window shade at dawn
to remnants of a half-remembered song
as if to nudge awake what time resets.
So down a labyrinthine corridor
I chase the animated shadow’s tail
with pure intentionality, yet fail
to reinvent the guise it wore before.
You say the pragmatist within me knows
its visage drips with jewel-studded strands
parading on the stage with sick demands,
but I reject the path that poser goes.
For January brings a reckoning
in rituals to renovate the soul.
With White Stone Meditation / Burning Bowl
the decade waits, its promise beckoning.
2020 Mary Boren
If I could wield a monumental can
of Oops! and travel back through space and time,
I’d circle ’round the sun like Superman
obliterating planetary slime.
I’d wipe the stain from any human heart
that ever felt unworthiness and shame
and wash the tongues of any taking part
in propagating hatred in God’s name.
The odious graffiti on the wall
would melt away and metamorph into
the artistry of nature over all;
an unpolluted, unifying view.
And after false perception is destroyed,
I’d hurl the dirty rag into the void.
Mary Boren, 2017
I had an energizing dream about a peaceful morning
when everyone alive awakes renewed.
The air is pure, the water clean, no hint of global warming,
and no one lacks for shelter, clothes, or food.
The planet is awash with gratitude.
What happened to the weary world and all its weight of sorrow?
What monumental, unforeseen event
could render feuds forgotten as an ominous tomorrow
became today? By mutual assent,
nobody even wonders where it went.
But as the dreamer, watching from a cloud at twelve-eleven,
I saw exactly how the shift occurred.
It’s not like everybody had to die to go to heaven.
The earth turned upside down, imbalance blurred,
and in that moment, inner vision stirred.
So now it’s spring in Perth and autumn in the Rocky Mountains.
Affluence is devalued, hope annealed.
As fear is toppled to the bottom, overflowing fountains
of love ascend to trump the sword and shield.
The veil has lifted; heaven is revealed.
Mary Boren, 2011
On this, a wet November morning made
for extra mattress time with skin-on-skin,
a-cuddle in the alcove where I laid
my graying head last night, the girl within
is fully reawakened. Down the glass
roll glimpses of the gauzy realm where wrong
cannot exist. In whispers, angels pass.
My heart rejoins the universal song
to feed the well from which all blessings flow.
Staccato raindrops on the metal roof
crescendo, fade to pianissimo —
a symphony for two, sufficient proof
that heaven is at hand. It’s ten to nine,
and Ever-After-Happily is mine.
Mary Boren, 2004
It dawdled on a hook eleven years
and never ticked a tock. Perhaps some dust
had lodged inside the brain and rendered gears
immovable, as if its wings were trussed.
Why fix what isn’t broken? Twice a day
it told the proper time and, looking good
around the clock, held loneliness at bay.
Its own true song lay dormant, cased in wood.
The day I left I moved it to a wall
across the room. The pendulum swung free
and rhythmical; stout heartbeats ticked for all
their reawakened value. Much like me.
A change of scenery can loose the flow
of lifebound energy. Get up and go!
Mary Boren, 2003
In the aftermath of an upheaval
such as not seen before in my life,
I was thinking, “No no, don’t believe I’ll
ever want to be anyone’s wife.
There’s a lot to be said for the freedom
of abiding in solitude’s glow,
and commitments (for any who need ’em)
are as fleeting as tracks in the snow. ”
As the sages have said, “Send the heavens
into spasms of riotous mirth
by announcing your plans.” Laughter leavens
self-delusion like nothing on earth.
He appeared on a soft summer flurry
like a popsicle placed in my paw
by an angel alerting me, “Hurry!
Better lick it before it can thaw.”
Now the miracle he is creating
as my witness, my mirror, my guide
is unceasingly regenerating
in the heart of this fortunate bride.
Mary Boren, 2007
An old contented cow? There’s brighter news
today. The gloom of seven years ago
dissolved as exercise renewed the flow
of life, old pumps replaced by running shoes,
and dancing in the rain uncovered clues
to long-forgotten knowledge. Eyes aglow,
her feet find purchase on a new plateau.
Surrounding her are unobstructed views.
For being fully present is a choice.
She’s soaring now, aloft on silk and string,
skydiving on a sunny afternoon
and belting out an anthem in a voice
of gratitude beyond imagining.
The lyrics are as vivid as the tune.
Mary Boren, 2008
In response to Grounded.