Triple Heart Spill

I breathe in and you breathe out,
my heart’s upbeat to your heart’s downbeat —
In between the two, we meet.

We are pressed together like autumn leaves,
like awe and wonder in a memory-book
written out in spinal column symmetry.

With a passionate lotus-scented prayer,
I unfold before your sacred body altar,
surrendered in the remembrance

of who we truly are.

We are anointed in a fathomless Love,
in a quicksilver light surge igniting
and striking us from sole to crown.

Shining with the brightest delight,
a Joy born of a grace-filled glory . . .

Something beyond and before
all human knowledge or spiritual power
shoulders us beyond the gods’ playing field.

I worship at the spirit tableaux
of a scintillating triple-heart spill,
stilled to stone at the tone of such

an evocative thrill-sound throating.
This ripple raptured snapshot of Such a Love

has become a sacred offering to ourselves,

born from the subtle emanations of our Love,
the Endlessness of Inconceivable Love,

the Love we’re always forever becoming.

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Solipsis of Missals

I don’t want to sit here and lambast my poor pitiable self

in some pseudo-Catholic act of contrition and mortification.

So instead I’m busting out my Bozo the clown in frown face;

busting-up and falling-out with friendlies, undoubtedly,

though now, not.

Somehow in the over hauling of my ego-sack

I usually keep slung back and out of sight,

I pulled wide-open … entirely opened

for all the cyber-world of wizened peeps,

for my forever-keeps, to get a really good gander at.
That’s that then. What’s done has been done.

Or is it?
Was it the Fun of the One?

The laugh-track playback

of a Ludicrous Lord, bored perhaps

with the backlash of His Lamentable Actions?

I am affording myself much more leeway in this

solipsis of missals gone wrong.

 Hmmm. Hum. Soham and so on. Some kind of fun, You, You, You …

 God!

Enough adding to this duckishly-drafted

duck-the-buck muck-about. Alas! What was quacked-out loudly

from my loutish-mouthed cavort

is now twacked back, crafted

by the full moon in bloom last night.

Today I want to say how not sad I am.
Just the writing of these words makes me chortle out loud.

We cannot continue sitting around bummed and bothered

by the play we foddered forth so fiercely 

when our familiarity bred discontent

upon contempt.

 None of us are exempt from the tempting of Fate.

 It’s time for me to wrap-up these loony tuned lines.

I cannot weep for me, for we are, and I am

standing on a Cosmic Runway, shoulder to shoulder

and arm in arm. This Comic Brunt we’re facing,

it’s all Shudder, Frolic and Chum,

Chimera, Chagrin, Fabulot and Got It!

As for me and mine –

We are defined by this cat-with-a-bird-grin

and it’s all just as an endless Amen

to the ending of all our sins

still simmering in and decimating  

from a past that does not exist.

 

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50 Years

At my mother’s funeral service various relatives and friends went to the podium to speak about my mother and what she meant to them. One of the speakers gave a great speech about how marvelously heroic she had been in having to deal with such a difficult challenge in her life, the monumental challenge of being a mother who was so greatly burdened with a disabled child. They went on about how she had so very, very bravely triumphed in this enormously difficult super-test given her because of her crippled, chronically ill, and ever so burdensome daughter. That monumentally burdensome challenge would be me.

It’s like, “Hey, I’m sitting right here. The crippled burden isn’t deaf. She has ears.” Hmmm. It’s not exactly the first time this manner of accusational burden description pertaining to my role in other people’s lives has occurred. No one hates nor berates you half as much as you do yourself. Erica Jong had it right with this one.

(I had to laugh right out loud when rereading this incredibly hilarious ‘poor me’ rendition of an untraditional burden story. Gimme a break.)

So the first memory of it was this: I was standing on a small dirt bluff that ran alongside a field down from my home on Mono Avenue. I stopped and bent down to examine my big toe because it really, really hurt. And it was swollen, very swollen.

The next memory was of myself standing in my parent’s bedroom telling my mom and dad that I didn’t feel well. Suddenly and without warning my knobby, little knees gave out and I collapsed on the floor, crying and wide-eyed with fear.

After that my life was never the same. Everything changed forever. Wonderful, talented, likable, and sometimes envied Mazie was about to learn what it meant to be dismantled by nine year olds and the medical establishment of 1963.

To clarify: My mother really did have it hard and her life was very difficult because of having a disabled child. I give her great credit and infinite gratitude for having been there for me throughout those long, difficult years.

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