Don’t fold me on-the-fold,
on the crease well-marked.
I’m tired of swans and cranes,
of being shaped into
your cookie cutter shapes,
pressed into the dough.
Let me be the mirrored sea.
The tranquil lake of high country.
The field of grass at dawn,
undisturbed by quake of breeze.
Let me be the elixir scent of flowers,
untainted by stench of memories.
The blue sky reaching to the far horizon,
with no hint or tint of clouds.
Let me be the pure fresh page,
you turn, flat nascent smooth,
for your Origami.
We write of the past
and guess at the future
Tracks of experience
clear and well marked
Deep in our consciousness
memory hoping
Yesterday’s kindling
— tomorrow will burn
(Dundale: June, 2024)
wisdom's path is well-marked and plain -- for even a fool can follow it
8.21.18
Proverbs 8:1-5
Does not wisdom call out? Does not understanding raise her voice? At the highest point along the way, where the paths meet, she takes her stand; beside the gate leading into the city, at the entrance, she cries aloud: “To you, O people, I call out; I raise my voice to all mankind. You who are simple, gain prudence; you who are foolish, set your hearts on it.
They say that life
is a metaphor of the spirit
and that time is a construct
that we all believe in,
as the world we perceive in.
Chance, circumstance
is the dance we play
on the first stage of destiny
where history
reforms itself to our liking
spiking the elixir of youth
with truth.
Matter meets form
in the dark spaces between
where fate is seen
as a well marked trail of tears
denoting the hopes and fears
of the ancestors making.
The past
is forever taking
from the now.
What we allow
becomes achievable
believable
a transformation
of creation
for all our relation
shapeshifting
sand sifting
uplifting
future gifting
an open door....
we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.
We can live the illusion
or we live the dream.