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Category: Poems

Dream Walker

Dream Walker

 

Dream walker, conscience talker

Wading in, endless places to begin

Darkness provides, what is hidden inside

Images of disguise, hidden behind tired eyes

 

Memories prevail, lifting the veil

Stories engorge as characters forge

A path to the end, forever looking to mend

All the pieces together, yet lacking a tether

 

Dream walker, lifetime stalker

Disoriented mind, lest you remind

All is not as it seems, you know what it means

Read between the dye, wet ink never lies.

 

-Lavinia Busch, 2018

The Lonely Road

The Lonely Road

 

This lonely road begins with me

Wading into a roughly paved sea

No one else in sight or sound

Anxiously, frightfully I look around

 

Hark! Anyone walking this way?

Never a voice came to play

Only the quiet breathe of a gentle breeze

Settling in a sense of unease

 

Alone, afraid with no one nearby

Peaking out of my half closed eye

I see a dark form off in the distance

All I need now is some strong persistence

 

Willing my feet to move one by one

This road stretches beyond the rays of the sun

Never ending, yet traversed by lonesome souls

The road to nowhere beckons as it goes

 

As I approach the form becomes clear

It is only a reflection of the almighty mirror

Hence my walk continues, no answers abound

Loneliness my companion as I circle around.

 

-Lavinia Busch, 2018

 

Let The Trees Speak

Let The Trees Speak

 

Quiet a voice and silence a mind

Listen for what those know, remind

Ancient, regal, centurion and true

Reaching, never quite touching blue

 

Long knowing what is hidden below

Secrets, stories buried deep in the snow

Mystical, magical, wondrous and true

Let the trees speak as if hearing you

 

Listen for words etched with the pen of time

Just with caressed skin, releasing what binds

Wells of energy deep within all that begins

Streams of light shimmer, radiating from within

-Lavinia Busch, 2018

Becoming

Becoming

Trail of 100 Giants, Sequoia National Forest ©Dylan Mattina, 2018

 

Becoming

Every second, minute, hour and day

Stretching of skin, silent and frayed

Lightness reflects, unfolding of limbs

Becoming undone, staring over a rim

 

Overwhelming confusion but craving more

Fear as companion, leaning into the shore

Sprays of water quenching the greatest of thirsts

A soul in need of water most certainly bursts

 

Water as salvation, washing away

Fear, frustration, apathy and malaise

Resistance is futile, this much is true

Disruptive discovery, wading deeper in blue

 

A blossom becoming, a flower is born

One petal at a time as if adorned

Beauty is never the goal in the end

Purity, kindness and grace will mend

 

Slowly, effortlessly, light becomes free

Unlocking the door, holding the key

Deeper and deeper reaching far and between

Sewing together, becoming the seam

-Lavinia Busch

The Full Moon Is Calling

The Full Moon Is Calling

Trona Pinnacles on a Full Moon. © Dylan Mattina 2018

 

The full moon is calling and I must go

Dancing in the path of a most glorious glow

Adventures await for those brave enough to dive

Into the depths I must go to arrive

Lost in the Middle of Everything

Lost in the Middle of Everything

 

I stand in the fray, noticing the dancing light on the coming horizon.

Alone in this abyss, I gently sway to the vibrations of others as they pass.

My feet are firm with restlessness, my heart is resolute with hesitation.

Everything moves at breakneck speed as the flickering light teases my senses.

Confusion is the emotion of the day, lost in the middle of everything.

 

Air tightens its grip, as if a noose of suggestion.

Moving nothing, the light playfully dances on my skin.

This echo chamber is deafening, my silence, the others noise.

The traffic is unbearable. It is oppressive. Hiding the why, the how – everything.

Peering into the cosmos of questions, lost in the middle of everything.

 

People move with such speed, blurring the lines of truth.

Everyone in a hurry to get nowhere, stalled in the rush to nothing.

Refusing to be stuck in reverse, I lean into the dancing light.

From my vantage point I see everything that was and every possibility.

Yet still here remains, a soul lost in the middle of everything.

-Lavinia Busch

The Golden Hour

The Golden Hour

 

 

Looking to the east there you arrive,

Washing the darkness with light by your side

Smiling, I glance hiding shyness amongst stars

You follow my shadow lending brilliance afar

 

Upon this highway between you and I,

we dance another dance until it is goodbye.

A highway made only for intimate embrace

Of candles, windows, treetops and grace.

 

Silent only a few moments as we sway

Music sounding that beckons to play

If only today, tomorrow nothing is sure

Dance with me, dance with me, as the starlight endures.

 

-Lavinia Busch 2018

Dive Into Your Wells of Everything

Dive Into Your Wells of Everything

 

Dive Into Your Wells of Everything

 

Leaving all that remains undone

Earnestly I look at the sun

Radiant beams of blinding light

Circle around, pulling me tight

 

Leaving all that is misunderstood

Bravely I dive where no one else could

Beyond the universal orbit of green

Beside and between the seen and unseen

 

Leaving silence by the breath of the wind

Neither afraid of damnation or sin

Deeply intrigued but never disturbed

Leaving many confused and perturbed

 

Standing aside wishing for more

Leaning into a turbulent shore

Alone and naked with nothing to bring

I dive into your wells of everything

 

-Lavinia Busch

Words have Meaning

Words have Meaning

 

Love after Love

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

 

Midlife is a strange and unfamiliar territory with the tapestry of my life becoming a colorful cloth woven from unique experiences of old and of what is yet to come.  Even with the underlying sense of fatigue that accompanies a full life, I remain optimistic that patience, understanding and growth will sustain as I continue this very humbling and human journey. To this point, an area of introspection that still eludes me is complete self-acceptance. It is one thing to write, teach or talk about self love. It is still quite another  to feel what can only be called a lingering sense of unease with parts of myself that I find less desirable. With an embarrassing level of honesty, I wonder if feelings such as these will ever go away. In addition, the “love thyself” dialogue of late has me flustered. I find it exceedingly difficult to find a place of belonging in this narrative, leading to even more feelings of separateness from the group.

 

Words matter and in my case nothing more than the written word. The constant search for inspiration has provided some peace in this chapter of life. When I am totally spent and exhausted from constant reflection, I find refuge each and every time in the thoughts of another. Reading others words without prejudice somehow makes my confusion less so.

 

Love after Love by Derek Walcott is no different in this regard. His words soothe me in the most gentle of ways. “The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door….” How wonderful to greet myself with elation as I might a dear friend that has been deeply missed. In truth, I have missed the girl that was creative, gentle-hearted, sensitive, curious and thoughtful. I have missed the girl that worried less about what others thought and more about big ideas and important questions. I have missed her and have begun welcoming her back with open arms. It is in this return to wholeness that I see myself apart from others opinions and begin to open as was meant only for me.

 

Life is a winding road peppered with diversions and distractions. It is curious that at this juncture I am returning to a more authentic self, before the self-critique took over and silenced all the beautiful uniqueness within. These words say it all; “Give back your heart, to itself, to the stranger who has loved you, all your life, whom you ignored…” I apologize to that young girl whom I left behind in an attempt to “blend” in. That beautiful child that was filled with such a loving and creative spirit. That child that was loved but often misunderstood. I welcome that child at my door and into my home. We are one and without each other I am lost.

 

I am forever thankful to all the intrepid writers that have continued to write regardless of audience. It is in your words that I have rediscovered self in the most glorious of ways. Words continue to matter. Nothing speaks to a seeker more than words of self-discovery. Keep writing my beautiful ones. It is within our words that we will be set free.

 

Quiet Butterfly

Quiet Butterfly

 

Keeping Quiet

by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the man gathering salt

would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded

about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

 

Quiet. I crave it but never seem to get enough; quiet in my external environment and quiet from an internal dialogue that haunts me. It is only with quiet that I find clarity, especially during periods of great transformation. As in the metaphor of the butterfly, I feel the delicate strands of a self-imposed cocoon restricting at the moment. Discomfort is necessary for growth and I wonder how much I must bear before breaking free and stretching my new found wings. I feel a constant hum of the other, a sound in the distance that beckons me. The sound being the steady march of possibility, the limitation being a tightly wrapped cocoon. I have the urge to burst forth regardless of circumstance, common sense tempers this desire with a litany of questioning. A constant risk assessment visits like a bad habit, it baffles the mind.

 

Having flirted with uncertainty before,  memory replays moments of flight apart from this ever tightening cocoon. Even so, I am certain that I have stifled transformation by allowing the opinions of others and even myself to further restrict.  It is difficult to admit that in learning how to fly the atmosphere will become unstable. Wings must be taught how to catch the air, glide effortlessly and land softly while still enduring bumpy rides and hard landings. The discomfort of it all is like an itch that can not be scratched, lessened only by the ever present hum of possibility.

 

“My imagination functions much better when I don’t have to speak to people.”

― Patricia Highsmith

 

Tuning into this hum calls for solitude and a clear mind.  Only in this space am I able to separate fear from possibility, often becoming shaken by the speed of impending transformation. Life is so very short and if not soaring what then? I have only myself to blame if I do not escape from this cocoon with a certain measure of immediacy. It is only in flight that all pretense is left behind and beautiful colors that are uniquely mine appear.

 

“The quiet sense of something lost”

― Alfred Tennyson

 

In this space I sense those who have come before, living in the most unusual of ways.  Having unabashedly taken flight they experienced both the joy and heartbreak of a life well lived. Feeling the void of sudden departure it is clear someone will fill this space, this vacuum. Someone will be the free spirit that shines deeply, unafraid of the cuts. Someone will live dangerously, taking chances and relishing results. Someone will approach all others with unconditional love, no expectations or judgments. Someone will break free and fly…. Looking to the sky, I smell the air, feel the breeze and absorb the rays of the sun. It is only in failing that one can be transformed. I silently pray that I become this someone. I silently pray for wings.