Making It Up...

Sometimes I don't trust my own instincts
Sometimes I think I'm full of crap.
Sometimes I get so overloaded
Sometimes there's too much in my lap--

Sometimes I despair when I look at
The things I have promised to do.
Sometimes I am certain I'll never
Have the energy to see it through.

Sometimes I outsmart myself. Often
I can't find the next step to take.
Sometimes I am certain that next time
I pick up the load it will break.

And then I remember the magic
I learned when I danced as a girl.
If you step wrong, you're losing your balance,
You'll stay right-side-up if you twirl.

If you're there on the stage and can't think of
The next step to take, well, just take it.
If you float gracefully through an error
No one will notice you make it.

So when I am too overloaded,
When there's far too much wine in my cup,
When I'm stuck on the stage with no options,
I have one. I just make it up.

Peace

There is a feeling
One hardly noticed
Except by its absence

It is a deepness,
A widening of spirit,
A silent vista

It leaves nothing
But a cool breeze
And a deep silence

And it is so rare
That even as we notice it
We lose it.

Why is it
That all we do
Removes from us

This deep, quiet,
Yearned-for alliance
Of calm and awareness?

Could it be
That in becoming wise
We learn to do

Less?

Spring Fever

I must go down to the store again, to the lovely gardening store,
And all I ask is a tall tree, and a flat of plants galore,
And a wind chime, and a windsock, and a white narcissus,
And a green thumb, and a rose bush that will please the missus.

I must go down to the store again, for the call of the growing green
Is the weed's clutch, and a yard full of stuff you've never seen;
All I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray of the RoundUp, and the crabgrass dying.

I must go down to the store again, for the vagrant gypsy's life
Is a soft dream that was long gone when I bought a house with my wife.
And all I ask is a spool of yarn to block the cats from the clover,
And a long vacation in someone else's garden when spring is over.

Glamourie

On seeing the full moon rising behind the Wasatch Mountains in a light snowstorm.

Glamourie

Again She rises, white, distant, complete in Herself....

Once more I attempt to decipher the feelings She engenders...

I cannot fault myself for failing to comprehend Her...

Indeed, it is in Her nature to be integrally cryptic.

And the precious knowledge She withholds is not for the taking...

The message is concealed in rays of moonlit Glamour...

If timely action is required...I may miss it....

Mother...I need direct communication this time...

Or my response will honour neither Thee....nor me....

Why Bother?

Sometimes it seems as if it's too much trouble
To make the effort to repair this place.

She doesn't notice all the mess and rubble
Or seem to feel it's mostly a disgrace.

Instead, she looks at tv, reads the paper
And sometimes slaps a bit of food together.

I go to see her, quite the useless caper,
And nothing ever changes but the weather.

Next time, I'll bring a mop, some soap, a broom.
If she's not glad to see me, well, the room

Will be the better for my visit, then.
And in a week, I'll do it all again.

NaPoWriMo, Here I Come....

Signed on to the Poem-A-Day for 3o Days Madness that is NaPoWriMo--Will also be doing National Poetry Month challenges on my LiveJournal. So--here's today's effort:

April Fuel

It might be ridiculous
One more time
Subjecting myself
To rhythm and rhyme--
Hocus pocus
Is the focus
Of the poet's genus locus.

I know I can do it, though,
I must try
Even when my mind
Is running dry
And bare of muses.
It confuses
To be forced to poet's uses.

But I will write, on April's fuel,
With my pen I must needs duel,
Perhaps one poem will come out kewl--
Or I will be a Muses' tool--
But either way, hey.....April Fool!!!

A Year And A Day....

One year and one day ago, March 1, 2010, my dear friend and brother, Roy Moorman (Cuchulainn) was untimely taken from the earth in a tragic car accident. I wrote this that week as a tribute, and I post it here again as a remembrance. He is being honored by the opening of Salt Lake City's first Pagan Community Center, Crone's Hollow, this coming weekend. I honor him here by remembering the man he was, and offer thanks and honor for his having been in my life.

Chulain's Hound

The Guardian, Cuchulainn, so softly he treads
That those in the circle do not turn their heads
To mark him, as silently beating the bounds
He slips through the shadows. In making his rounds
He wards and he watches, that nothing untoward
Be able to slip through as he weaves his ward.

The Watcher, Cuchulainn, his footstep is sure
As, watching and warding, he makes all secure.
He waits in the shadows whilst light glows within
And Guards the abode of his Kith and his Kin.
No threat will escape him; his presence pervades
Through the rustling darkness of woodlands and glades.

The Father, Cuchulainn, he covers his child
With the safe hand of love, as, compelling, yet mild,
He teaches and shows, demonstrating the man
Who is both strong and kind. As no other hand can,
His hand shares both power and gentleness. One
Such as he is a gift to his well-beloved son.

The Teacher, Cuchulainn, his words always few,
Shows his knowledge and cunning in what he can do.
Whether woodslore, or music, or Working the Arte,
All he knows, all he shares, coming straight from his heart
Is a gift to his clann. For such knowledge as his
Is not shared in mere lessons, but from Who he Is.

The Brother, Cuchulainn, his siblings may call,
And he'll be there. The Family he makes for us all
Is a Hearthstone of safety, with room to explore.
With his hand on the latch, we may pass through the door
Knowing he will be silently slipping behind
To keep us all safe as the Crossroads we find.

The Dear One, Cuchulainn, has gone on before,
As always, our Guardian. The first through the door
As he shields us from what dangers might lie in wait
For his unwary clann. So, we stand at the gate,
And look long and far, as the sound of his tread
Dies away. He's our trailblazer. He's gone ahead.

(written as a tribute to my dear friend and Craft brother, Cuchulainn of EarthHaven
March 3, 2010)