Beyond the Bubble

I’m blushing with joy that the poems are flowing again. This is the way of it. I’ve learned that anxious desire or wistful wishing doesn’t bring the words. The flow of wisdom is always present—I’m just not always tuned in. And that, too, is perfectly perfect.

But when I do tune in—when I hear the words, see the images, feel the cadence of something waiting to be spoken—I recognize it instantly. It’s a gift, a pulse, a whisper, a flood.

And so, if you don’t quite understand poetry or haven’t historically enjoyed it, well… so sorry for you. But just for now, let go of any old ideas about what poetry is or isn’t. Read it aloud, softly or boldly. Shout it. Sing it. Let it move through you. Notice if your own wise self is drawn to something revealed.

A poem is just a pointer to something grand and lovely.
What it points to for you is yours alone. Enjoy.

Held & Free
In and out, round and round--
expanding, contracting,
tight—loose—tie it off.
Open wide, breathe it in.
Shut down, spit it out.
The sphere
of my experience
pulsates, glitters,
skims chaos,
tightens down--
lovely, cozy,
healing, quiet.

It is a sphere, isn’t it?
Not a circle.
The energy ebbs and flows
in at least three dimensions,
probably seven--
in front, behind,
above, below,
left, right,
past, future,
now.

Some say, “Create a bubble”
to protect yourself--
against… what?
What you don’t want?
I say, shift your perception,
pop the bubble.
Notice—your sphere was always there,
“protecting” you--
if you need protecting at all.

I’m not a fan of protection--
let nature take its course,
trust your knowing.
My sphere tightens,
taking stock, energy
ricocheting through the corridors
of memory, dream, and desire,
brushing past fear,
weaving through expectation.

I’ll take my time inside.
No rush.
Enjoy your chaos, your drama--
I am here, drawn to my light,
curious about its paradox--
shutting down to open up,
withdrawing to advance,
pausing—listening--
to surrender, to love,
whatever comes next.

The soundest truth,
the one I choose to believe,
rises, spills--
pouring from the inside out.
Hello, my Love.
What’s next?

A recording of this poem as a song below. Created and gifted to me by a good friend. Enjoy!

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