WHY MEDITATION DOESN'T WORK FOR ME

WHY MEDITATION DOESN’T WORK FOR ME


While trying to discover
the realities and facets
of my spacious present,
I become camouflaged
in real physical time,
where senses become
distorted and where
all experience comes
from second-hand energy
and ordinary circumstances.


I am trying hard to stay
within my bony skull –
in order to travel outside
my plane of existence, but…


Can I help it if I am
obsessed with the theory
of beginning and end -
and that I conceive time
to be a series of moments?


OOOOOOOOMMMM…

BEYOND THE VEIL

BEYOND THE VEIL


you mark your days
with rented doorways
and the heavy body
that ticks the hours
swinging on a cord –


this life…
extraordinary sorrow
and more –
a long and reluctant
letting go

IN PRAISE OF THE CROCUS

IN PRAISE OF THE CROCUS


The pastel cultivars
emerge from their
underground
swollen corms
like chalices,
offering us communion
with the natural world.

THE DUAL

The Dual

oil on canvas by Merissa Gilbert Garrison

THE DUAL


Something’s at me today -
a tearing of form,
a stitching of words,
a definition of hours,
like a quiet folding
or unfolding
of the thinnest paper.


It’s like sitting with my back
against my own back and
trying to wrest something
from the sweat of my skin
and the salt of my bones.

SHORTENING THE GAP

SHORTENING THE GAP


All morning
I have been
watching doves -
covering a
silence of light
under their wings,
like a sacred secret,

while…

in the root cellar,
the beets bleed
from their constant
jostling in the bin,
cheeks pale and
withered now

and…

the potatoes, too -
with their wandering
eyes and mocking
grins, beg to be
buried again

now…

I find myself
thinking that
had my electrons
been arranged
just a little bit
differently, I might
have been a
mourning dove
hiding the light
under my wings

or…

a root vegetable
in a winter bin
spending my days
going soft in the head.

THIS ELATION

THIS ELATION


This elation,
this sunlight after the snow,


and this page my lover,
because we are alone.


Look how the cypress trees
edge my thoughts and the


sweet smelling mimosa
peeks her delicate head


into my window to see me
under a canopy of dreams


of warmth and want - and
flowers that grow from


one world into the next,
their fragrance my desire.


Now, your kiss - a languid
fall into love all over again.

TRACKING LIFE

TRACKING LIFE


My eyes are getting milky
from staring at the moon –
the snow moon that hangs
on the ice encrusted limbs
of flesh, muscle, and bone.
I was a young girl, once,
staring at a snow moon
out my bedroom window.
Its soft glow got inside
of me that night and somehow
I was able to carry the light
for a time. And the snow?
It melted inside my veins
and ran like sap in a maple,
clear and sweet and slow.