What does a Mirror do?

The sun has set, the sky turned black.
The view through the window is now looking back. 
I see you. Can you see me?   
You have eyes, but can they see?

They say the eyes are windows to the soul.
But when I look into your eyes, looking back into mine, 
my mind sees you, in time 
sees me, the person that you stole.

Are you thinking what I am thinking? Or thinking what you will?
Or are you thinking much at all? Alas,
has your mind become so clear, so empty and so still?
Empty mind. No mind, smooth as glass?

I wish that I could have this buddha’s mind I see. 
Within this glass, you look like me,
perfection in duplicity.
But sorely lacking in humanity.  

You mock me while I am looking out, while you are looking in.
What truths do you hold, that in this glass call home?
The life you claim you take within,
save only what I give you from my own.

When I gaze at my reflection,
I see your silence. I hear myself put words into your mouth.
So soft, almost beneath detection.
A northern whisper heading south.

Do you even have a choice?
Of whom or what appears?
For that alone would free your voice
from beneath your cold veneer. 

Speak to me, my face, with words with great inflection.
Speak to me with words, words of your selection.
Talk to me, enlighten me, give me words of direction.
Let me know that I am real and not a mere reflection.

I see me.  I see you.
But which of us am I talking to?
Do not answer that, but when you do,
are you asking me? Or am I asking you?

Reflections cannot lie,
they do not live; they do not die.
Forever is their nature to reveal what they are shown
but their eyes are blind to what we all have known.

If you look into the eyes, one may well see a spark
but you will never know what truly holds the heart.
Unlike you, unlike me, it can never mourn
or shed its tears with empathy torn.

A mirror is often held aloft,
for qualities it holds true.
But behind those eyes is reverence scoffed.
While silent, it emboldens you.

Is there a soul behind those eyes?
In essence we do realize
in humanity, a soul resides
and who determines truth or lies.

I see you. I see me in the mirror of our lives.
I see the heart, the soul and all that that implies.
I see me. I see you.
And that is all that mirrors do.

—Paul Causey

The Light

Hope, is in the dark corner, behind
the doctor’s head, who has just told
you that your cancer is inoperable. 

Let your eyes, your thoughts hold onto 
that infinity point where all that is possible
is awaiting the birth of its potential to
make a difference, for you. 

It is the gift that gives us life and death
- each being its own gift, when you look 
at it in a certain light, right? Light 
perceived as an infinite wave length in 
which our particles have our time, our song, 
our dance.

What will you wear to your last dance on
earth? What poem or what song will be on 
your lips when you cease to breathe? Where
do you want dance through infinity?

You say you don’t want to be free, you want
to stay and see, another dawn, high noon,
sunset. Do, please do, and know, too, that
in each of these you are the Light.

—Martha Ward

To Robert Bly

 "A four-year old speaks some ancient language"
"Ravens Hiding in a Shoe"

We gasp to hear the boy.
What is he speaking? Old Norse? Hittite?
But don't we all speak an old tongue?
We cry the stroke of galleys in our dreams
sweat on our oars across a wine dark sea.

The broom by my hearth
straw sewn brushy around the handle
speaks to my hand in an ancient's voice
Grandmother Broom.

The baby who looks across the room at me
from silent eyes, sees with the eye of the raven,
with the stillness of the deer.

When the pines close round us and the path is lost 
something in us knows the way.
Trees have sprung up and boulders tumbled
but under the silt and the needles
a way we've walked.

Die and rise up, die and rise up
we and the deer and the child.

—Sarah Webb

The Winter Night

I went out into the winter night
to place the trash at the yard's edge. 
Just as I completed my task, I stole a glance 
upward to see the waxing quarter moon 
shining brightly far out into the sky,
far enough to reach my eye.
I was captured too by a reddish planet 
hovering below the moon, a bit off to the west.
My eyes shifted a little to the left to catch the
regularly flashing green lights of an airplane
crossing the blackened sky.
Bit by bit, more stars began popping into my awareness
as I slowly turned my head from side to side.
Just then, I became aware of the silence of the night.
I wrapped the stillness around me and
for the first time that day, I felt at ease.
My eyes drifted downward onto the spidery
arms of the Arizona Ash trees. I imagined 
some as witches' fingers pointing off into the distance,
while others seemed to encourage me closer.
These darkened silhouettes drew me in
as they appeared to have a story to tell.
As I leaned in, I heard the few remaining leaves on the branches
rustle as they scraped against each other in the evening breeze.
Standing alone in the darkened street, I found myself
savoring this moment of beauty, peace and imagination.

It seems curious that something so simple as a night scene
can remove all the stress of the day; or is it simply the act 
of being with the night that soothes.

—L. Winnette


We stand at the threshold only twice.
Once when we enter,
And once when we leave.
What happens in between is just this.

—Paul Causey



Sitting at this desk, and yet,
Not here at all…

I find my home in the waters
Of the deep blue sea,
The sanctuary of a holy sky,
Lit by the embers of time.
The candle burns brightly
As I imagine a life beyond this desk.
Am I really


—Ivory Smith