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I am closest to you
when we are in bed,
not talking, not a word between us.
In our silence, just presence,
gently touching—
a shoulder, a back, a thigh.
Sometimes I breathe with you;
together, we are one breath.
—Bruce Linton
I am safe in my body.
My body is a sacred expression of a divine source.
I love and accept my body just as it is.
I am healthy, whole, and complete.
I rejoice in my healthy, beautiful body.
My body is loving and loveable.
My soul is a reflection of love and light.
I walk confidently in this body that was created just for me. I am safe.
I send love and light to all parts of my body, for they are sacred.
I am safe in my body.
I am safe in my body.
I am safe in my body.
I observe my body and it is good.
I observe my body and it is good.
I observe my body and it is good.
I am so thankful for my body.
I am so grateful for my body.
I love and adore my beautiful body.
I am safe in my body.
In my body, I am safe and secure.
I am divinely protected and guided.
My angels are protecting and guiding me right now.
I call on my spirit guides, ancestors, angels, and the Universe,
to help me manifest loving, sincere, and long-lasting connections
with like-minded individuals on this journey.
—Ivory Smith
Only Happy Lies
I told myself at the beginning of this year
That I would try to write only happy poems.
That is harder to do than it sounds.
But would it be a lie if I said I tried,
But then wrote something sad instead?
Would it be a lie if I said this prompt
Made me happy,
Didn’t take me down a rabbit hole
I didn’t want to go down?
Don’t get me wrong,
I love rabbits, especially the little cottontail ones,
The ones with the cute little noses.
No lies there.
But would it be a lie if I said I’ve never lied?
Ok, don’t answer that. I won’t if you won’t.
It’s not a lie that I don’t like lying,
Especially to myself,
But to stop lying, I have to examine the life I lead,
To reflect on who I think I am.
I must ask myself the tough questions
and answer them, honestly.
Hello. My name is Paul, and I’m a liar.
It’s been 3 hours and fifteen minutes since my last lie.
But who is counting?
—Paul Causey
Idol
There lives a god within,
my own personal creation.
This is a god tranquil as a river trickle.
Cypress roots and limestone rocks
along the river banks collect her.
This is a god as sinuous as wind
that glances along skin.
Bare arms, bare legs, bare skin,
wet with sweat,
welcome the parting curtains of heavy heat.
This is a god that burns alone in rage,
as sudden as the lightning’s strike
on dry prairie scalp,
overgrown, praying for a burn,
for the steam of scars,
the green survival that resurrects back.
There is a god inside,
my history’s creation.
I wish I could atheist her away.
But she is there to stay.
I must restrain, I must care for her,
remind myself
that offerings to her are
an offering to me and you.
—Emily Romano
Tomorrow is a Yesterday
What fun to find
that without my fear
or the lies that resistance insures survival,
tomorrow becomes a yesterday in waiting.
Where time resembles
a canine expectation
on windowsill watch -
a perfect strategy
to stay in puerile fascination.
To know the whole of everything
with that childlike speculation
of what makes sense in this world.
A world that’s still, when my heart is full.
A world not needing much in certainty.
Just being quiet enough to hear
creation in conversation.
And in this world of mine
today is the only thing of value,
not needing trust or hope
but imaginations
that have just enough wisdom
to be confidants of the absurd,
to ask to place a window next to everything
as perhaps I'll need to go out and play.
— Ed Sancious
Lessons in Form and Emptiness
Every morning I write poetry, or try,
Not any great literary act,
But something to make sense of this world,
Well, that is not exactly it,
More for me just to be observant.
This small dog, who now lays next to me,
We don't really know where she came from,
But she so appreciates our kindness now,
Laying, resting quietly,
In her bed next to my chair.
A refugee seeking safety
And a place to call home,
Really, that is what we all want, isn't it?
I took refuge in the Buddha,
Had to leave my home to return home,
Now my "practice" is beyond form and emptiness,
That is my home.
I think this little dog knows better than me,
about that!
I am humbled to be her student.
—Bruce Linton
Your Countenance
Today I changed
because you,
like some great
Zen teacher,
you showed no recognition
of me.
There was no
being seen
or taken in.
I found myself
a true refugee.
all that was left
just the
mist on the mountain
—Bruce Linton
July Poem
Expressing oneself as an image or word
slips like a wet stone squeezed too tightly
to depend on 1 over 0 cuts Growth with growth
brewing within sprawling networks of concrete and narcissism
the boilerplate of Life is outside Infinity
restricts Virginity as caused, conquered, and endured
—Hunter Priniski
sifting through a bedridden orchestra
Clock in.
The day burst full of patients and reports, ripping bread and lunch meats, smashing bites between the teeth. The clouds
outside distend, pregnant with a city’s sorrow
7,000 miles away.
We care for wounded soldiers
They laugh about a sniper’s miss,
the number of rumbles, a 50 caliber gun,
such a heavy cross to bear.
Their lips part, they punch the air with sound, but all that’s flashing in our eyes are
children sifting through the rubble for the place they once called home.
Each breath births another child,
A burned red tremble.
With bandaged stumps they climb upon our shoulders and press down.
We look each dusted angel in the eye and hold out shaking hands for them to climb up high until it’s time.
Clock out
We drive, hungry, numb, the weight of 8000 children on our backs. We drive to an orchestra and sit, bedridden in the pews.
The Magic Flute clocks in.
Our spirits rush the stage.
We tumble through musicians.
Honeyed fingers tickle strings.
We sit in trumpet’s lap.
We sift through black tuxedos,
grab the sparkling gowns,
gawk at each musician’s hands muscled by mistakes, by practice.
Music from another time flows through us.
Mozart resurrects.
He speaks as a poppy’s petals flutter,
as the little legs of bumblebees struggle to the nectar.
His sound
strikes loose the stones that dam a heart.
The symphony takes flight.
The clouds weep
The rain falls down.
Our cheeks get wet.
Brother Mozart speaks relief.
—Sol Frye
What Interests Me
what interests me in science is observation,
wistful watching,
languid and lethargic
like plumeria scented
summer-warm evening air.
considering, with curiosity,
suns called stars
and their radiant offspring
teasing out identity in the dark
in a multitude of mythical
concocted constellations.
I enjoy the confidential intimacy
of the delinquency of starlight.
knowing, in truth, the light’s a lie.
that what I currently see
is light unveiled from eons ago
marvelous spectral disciples
that travel only outward
tiptoeing into infinity
at three hundred million meters per second
with such enviable tenacity
in artful evasion of connection
to its luminous debut.
leaving me to see
this connect-the-dots celestial tapestry,
dust-embroidered myths
of gods and goddesses,
objects and beliefs.
folly perhaps
or fairy tale wisdom
to align mythologies
to earthly agonies.
my solace is to favor
Joni’s notion from ’69 -
to be golden, to be stardust
akin to billion-year-old carbon
crafting bargains
with angels or devils
or whoever cares
to listen to me grieve
that maybe we are
just illusions of ecstasy
and what endures is
love, death, and other fantasies.
—Ed Sancious
How to shoo a bird out of a brewery
Find a finch, landed on the chair beside you
its panting signals its fear.
Resist the temptation to close your hands around its rumpled feathers.
You must allow it to fly to the light and bump against the glass.
Say a prayer that it will stay conscious through the hard knocks against the cold windows.
Wait for it to land, still panting on the ground.
Give it space.
Then, slide forward.
Close off the path back into the darkness of the brewery.
Gently move the chairs, the pillows, out of the corner where the finch has flown to hide.
Reveal the little bird in all its perfect beauty,
still panting, still frantic to hide.
Open the doors to the outside.
Feel the gentle breeze on your skin.
Ask the bird to feel the rustle of air in its feathers.
Allow the bird to flutter against the glass again and again.
Be patient that the bird finds you frightening, when all you want to give it is love.
Place your hands by its side.
When at last it’s too exhausted, it will let you guide it slowly to the door.
Feel the brush of its little feathers like the fingers of a toddler who grasps at your legs for balance.
Warn the others not to get too close, not to close their hands over the frightened creature.
Let the bird find its way outside,
To the light, to the air, to the wind that lifts it up into the sky,
To the sun that warms our hearts.
Let the bird find its own form of freedom.
That is where your freedom flies.
—Emily Romano
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