The F Train #6

 There remains, then, some poems that seem to want to be included in this work. I did eliminate a fair number from the original book that I felt no longer worthy of seeing the light of a book or website [not that there aren’t a number of other ‘survivors’ who should have probably suffered the same fate]. Anyway, some of these are fun and span many years.

 I Can
They say
If I look into the Sun,
It will hurt and
I may be blinded.
But . . .
What an attraction!

Early morning,
When light
Scrapes its fingernails
On night’s shell, and
Shades of rose
And milky caramel
Wipe away night’s
Pin-streaked brilliance.

Behind my eyes
Beats a pulse –
A crazy throb . . .
An opening
To what could be
Is rent into my perception:

I can;
I really can . . .
(I think)
Into that Sun.

White-maned horse
Ridden up and down.

We sit,
Holding onto the life
In our hands
And under our seat –
Riding it, all round.

Music and bells,
Raucous noises,
Merry’s own
Tower of Babel
Fills the ears,
Rising and falling
With our ups and downs.

Wind flows as pace quickens,
Around again – and again.
The blurry whirl,
Scenes and faces
Once thought known –
Stretching and bending
To drive senses inward,
Screams in delight,
In fright for our plight.
So close on the right,
There you sit
Glowing bright.

Merry-go-round –
I reach in the whirl
Before it slows;
Can I grab
That illusive pearl:
The golden ring
For which I reach out
To see if I can
Get from life
Another whirl.

Another fling,
Another chance,

On your horse
As you fly
Reach and seize
Whatever dream
You want to try.

The ‘F’ Train
NYC’s subway system is an interesting puzzle. I think I never mastered the map or what line would take me where. Once I got which train would take me from here to there, it was hold on for the trip and pray this really was the train – there were ‘locals’ (stop at every station) and ‘expresses’ (usually flying by your stop). The manners (or lack thereof) for getting on and off and for travelling in the cars always left me curious. And then, compared to other cities (e.g. Tokyo), there was and is a whole new story. Here comes your train, get in.

The F Train #6© Mary Lou Quinn

Crowded spaces,
Empty faces,
Masked together,
Talk is about the weather,
Souls all alone –
Where is home?

Turns in circles,
Issuing chortles
Hither and fro,
Coming and go,
Any destination
Throughout the nation . . .
Where is home?

Out in the field,
Joy-forcing we wield,
Romp and play,
Stretching night into day;
Forget the trend,
‘Til crashing it ends.
Where is home?

Descend into the hole,
Steel-hardened moles,
Rush to ennui,
Cry: Notice Me!
Doors open –
Cares never surcease.
Where is home?

She enters . . .
The day is now splicing –
Each on a side
Of the pole
Seeking to become
Just one whole.
Now, cover that pout –
Her stop . . .
She is out.
Where is home?

Day’s end,
And, again, we wend
Through the masses,
All classes,
Each seeking to lay,
To rest
For the next day.
Where is home?

So in the underground holes,
Holding onto the poles,
Is it O.K. to try
To catch someone’s eye?
To say to a new friend,
I hope your day’s end
Will get you to peace
And the joy of your home.

There are so many places,
Infinite spaces
Nooks and crannies –
Spots to be.
Each is a setting,
Time used for letting
Me to be with you,
Sharing life’s hues.
Our mortal anchors;
Our daily hankers;
Tie us too tightly
To well-defined spots.
It is our task
To free ourselves up,
So we can drink again
From Universe’s cup.
That sip will open our sight
To being all and nothing,
Expanding to light.
I have caught that feeling,
I am ready to go reeling,
Head over heels,
To forever and NOW.
Patience be with me,
Each day and each night,
For that mortal vessel
Anchored so tight,
That spirit of light
As weightless it flies,
Cavorting, intertwining,
Filling my sight.
I sit and I ponder,
Sending Spirit over yonder,
Knowing it may never return.
Perhaps, that’s the end
The goal that we tend,
So devotedly desired.
It is scary,
Weird, crazy absurd.
Mind wanders,
Deep thoughts
Do I ponder,
Looking out the window
Of Mill Hill Road.
Whose Dream?

I like to read the last page or pages of most any book recommended or that I pick up. And, it often drives friends crazy when I do so. “you will find out the butler did it!” or “you need to go through the whole argument to understand the conclusion.” O.K. So, I am writing a novel: “The Ultimate Author.” I want to bring to a wider public (or better understand for myself) the world of Life Between Lives that Michael Newton, Ph.D. and those he has trained how they have unveiled and continue to unveil through the use of deep hypnosis to get their subjects back through past lives to understand where they go and what happens when they die. 

One would think that this field would be of GREAT interest. And, it seems all the work done (perhaps thousands of people who all seem to come up with the same ‘stories’) should get more play, more publicity, more examination. 

 Anyway, the end of my novel – when and if it ever gets done — is a scene where the two main characters are having a deep conversation and the jist comes down to: “O.K. we agree that all this ‘stuff,’ all our experiences, the Universe, consciousness, EVERYTHING, everything in the end is all a dream. So . . . the ultimate question then is: . . . whose dream is it?- Yours or Mine?


A glow
From the void
That is every thing
And no thing.

It wooshes through space
And consumes
Calling, singing, entwining.

I am light,
Almost weightless;
Buoyed by a laugh;
Encaptured, enraptured,
Yet free
To whatever BE.

The glow has ignited;
Membranes are excited;
You can feel –
Without touching –
Reach out from within.

Soaring on currents
Of our own creation,
Propelled by juices
Of our own elation;
Crashing the cloud tops
Of dewy-spun threads;
Lying in splender
On nature’s mossy beds.

Time is on vacation,
NOW becomes ALWAYS,
Partaking of NEVER –
Brain melds into head.

Real becomes fairy;
Mountains are for leaping;
Truth is our plaything;
Impossible – merely a word.

Whose dream
Is this dreaming?
Whose pawns are we?
Who is it scheming?
Is it a game
Of hide and seek?

So I fly o’er the mountains,
Soar through the valleys
To unite my Being
With that glorious
Golden glow.

I am touched
By its presence,
Filled by its essence –
Renewed, directed;
I know . . . and
I grow.

Still On Course

Early in the beginning of this ‘book’ there is a poem: “On Course.”

Having now gone through these pages, these thoughts, these attempts to share ideas, visions, descriptive words, my optimistic self – the part that knows it is ONE with all else and is busy experiencing so that it may enrich its return to The Eternal Sea – that droplet still feels [and here I get lost as to what is the ‘right’ word – how does a holographic piece of the Whole react – what would be the right term?

THINK, BELIEVE, FEEL, DEVINE, CHANNEL, INTUITE, – WHAT? Anyway, join me in this discourse about being On Course:


In this I call my life,
Nothing ever went wrong;
Each heart lived to love,
Each voice gave song.
I still believe that
We are ‘here,’
Spread out,
Smooth, not knurled,
Spirit’s manifestation
Experiencing the material world.
A part of the Creator,
A chip off the sublime,
We are energy existing
In space and in time.
In this I call my life,
Nothing ever went wrong;
My soul lived to give,
My brain made its song.
Each time I awakened
From the eternal soup,
I went off a-questing
And returned to regroup.Unconsciousness creates our reality,
Consciousness bears her fruit
It is for us only
To conceive
As we would suit.The new quantum physics
Teaches how we exist,
More studies will show us
(If we persist)
That souls and energy
Have a synergy,
So very clever
That we exist . . .
Forever!So, in this I call my life
Nothing ever goes wrong,
Each spirit lives to unite,
Each voice to give song.

Let us ‘sing’ together!


The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay



Nature And Nurture

Nature and Soul NYC #2

My stack of poems is dwindling down – almost like the words in September Song: “and the days dwindle down to a precious few” and “ the wine dwindles down to a precious brew.” So let’s see if I can brew up some precious words and thoughts about nature, actions and reactions, and some relationship to experience and The Eternal Sea.

Natures Way
When the balance
Of people and nature
Is mostly nature’s way,
Life seems more tranquil,
In order, with reason –
Day, happily, follows day.
How much of life involves fighting –
Struggling for the “progress’
We’ve made changing this natural balance;
Changing it so we may hurry,
Be taller, talk faster –
Shutting off the envelop
Of nature’s lovely glade?
We manufacture:
Noises, gases, garbage, toxins,
Stuff’ that needs more ‘stuff’
To take care of it.
This waste creation,
Fulfilling the pursuit of happiness
And the “American Dream,”
Is for ‘Progress’ – A better life;
Having more than . . .
For what?
We forget (or ignore)
The ‘Way(s)’ of our ancestors,
The time when all lived in harmony
With each other and with Nature,
When getting and giving
Were the underpinning of the cycle of life.
So the course, we are told,
To follow, to pursue, to ‘success,’
Is one forgetting nature’s balance,
Its rhyme and its rhythm,
Plunging on, straight ahead,
Unblinking and unthinking.
Is our course so charted, unswerving
That, however, we try
We are locked into a pattern
We have dubbed “progress?”
What upheaval, at what cost,
Can the burden be righted, again?
Is the burden of ‘progress’
So fixed and so heavy
That it cannot be thrown off
By today’s mortal men and women?Can we relearn, teach, experience
Lessons from another day,
When the balance of people and nature
Was mostly nature’s way?

With that balance,
Life can be so tranquil.
So, then, in order,
With reason,
Have season follow season;
Walk the path
Of Nature’s way,
And life will unfold,
The story gladly told
Of day, happily, following day.

Sitting with our remotes, clicking away at the fare being offered on the TV, what is it that we really are seeking? Perhaps more than anything else a surcease from the striving to understand what is going on around us; what is it that allows the events that are played up on the ‘news’ to be so attractive – events that involve pretty much human kind’s dark side and/or nature’s way of reminding us who is really in charge. Here, the click of the remote brings forth the scope of the lives we live – lives that rush through the seasons and years and with the flick of the wrist could click us to answers to those basic questions.
Click (Being):
The twinkles become reality.
Spring has sprung –
From bare and nothing,
Greening comes forth:
Everything is possible.
Fresh, joy, no cares;
Playing freely, no rules:

Click (Doing):
Days are full,
We become ‘responsible,’
Segueing from nourished
To nurturing.
Warming, maturing,
Living in the ‘real world.’
Time is precious and presses,
Balancing spending and storing.

Click (Being/Doing)
Daylight is shortened;
The prism of life
Transforms the greens
Of our summers
Into multi-hued blazes –
Breaking the intensity of
Summer’s ‘doings’
Into a panoply
Of memory-driven
Times and places.

The “September Song” tells us:
‘When the Autumn weather
Turns the leaves to flames,
That we haven’t time
For the waiting game.”
Yet, we have been blessed
With many extra decades of this life
To once more chose among the paths
That open before us.

Click (Being):
One ‘next’ path
Is (forgive me Nike)
Being all we can be;
Being what fits in the center
Of those separate circles of
What you Like/Love;
What you are Good at;
What is Needed.

Click, then,
Into that place and space
Of memories, talents, networks –
The future beckons.
Click that remote
To live the life
You came to live;
The life
For which you were created.

Season’s Song
When I leave this body,
My aura, more spoor,
May I be like Autumn’s leaves:
Multi hued, flaming;
Set in clear contrast
To that awesome blue sky
On a cloudless day in Fall,
Attracting and reflecting the sun,
Low in the heavens
As it rises and sets.
When I ‘die,’
Remember me as the one
On a Quixotic Quest,
Searching for meaning,
Feeling alone and apart,
Swimming in the context
Of Love’s eternal soup.
The seasons of the year,
Like the seasons of life,
Have been given to us
As canvas and paint
To create our picture
Of time’s journey.
And, what is time
But some made-up measure
So we can box experiences –
Storing them
On the Shelf of Life.
Ah! Autumn,
When we can harvest
The fruits of lifelong learning;
Of lifelong yearning –
When all the ‘this’s”
And all the “that’s”
Line up,
Coming together.And, all the colors
Of thought and deed
Do come together
To flash as Rainbow –
No longer whispering;
But making a bald,
Bold statement:
Live, harvest, expire –
Be, be in each moment.
The bare, still, colorless cold.
Is this a season for passing?

Or rather, a season for resting?
The pause in the cycle of creation;
The contemplation, the stock-taking
Before ONE’s re-borning?

Season for preparing;
For recycling.
The re-coiling
Springing forth.

Ah! Listen! Regard!
The seasons sing;
Life’s stages harmonize.
We, in the end, are ONE –
And Love is the answer.


Nelson County Sketch #5© Mary Lou Quinn


We sit in a circle,
Breathing in the smoke of elderhood
As we watch the flame
Reflect life’s turnings.At first,
There was the time
The time for springing forth,
Full of energy, dreams, desires;
Tilling, planting, cultivating –
Wide-eyed and impressionable
As we now see it
In life’s rear-view mirror
Greening turned to
The full colors
And active buzzing
Of our Summers.
Life was like the circus performer
Running back and forth,
Spinning so many plates
On sticks overhead;
Did it matter
That some fell and shattered?
What was growing then,
So important, bursting forth:
Bearing all kinds of fruit,
Now changes as viewed
Through the glory
Of Autumn’s colors.
Let us luxuriate,
Making new tracks
In the colors of Autumn,
Celebrating the days past;
The work done.
Time to share the harvest.
Our seeds now drop,
Some to take root –
Even as Winter
Stills the cycle,
Covering the fields
That once were plowed
And yielding.
There is fresh space,
Time is stretched,
Memories bring smiles
And “Ah Ha’s!”We sit in a circle
Around the fire,
Fashioning solutions
From the smoke of memory
And the joyous living
That was/is our lives.

NYC Weekend
I lived and worked in NYC for many years after my college days upstate,four year’s of law school living in Greenwich Village, and a year on a Fulbright in Spain launched me into several careers there including a relatively long stint on the 56th floor of ‘30 Rock.’ [30 Rockefeller Plaza] It was exciting, there were special opportunities to learn, to contribute, to truly experience many, many ‘things.’ And, after having moved away to the quiet and friendliness of Upstate New York – and then other places like Charleston, SC and Charlottesville, VA – returning to “the City” lost its charm and attraction. This poem reflects where I’got to’ on a visit sometime ago.

Nature and Soul NYC #2© Mary Lou Quinn

The most exciting thing
In New York City
Is the robin
Building her nest
Outside the kitchen window
Where I am staying.
One can bring nature and soul
Into any nest –
Pile in the shining leaves –
Create a hiding spot underneath.
Weave pieces of string
Into a nest that is “home.”
The most exciting thing
In New York City
Is the robin affirming life by
Building her nest
Outside the kitchen window.
People, faces,
Noises, graces,
Shops, cafes, taxis,
Sirens, barking,
Couples sparking;
Unimaginable diversity:
Museums, universities,
Slums and alums –
If you can’t find it here
It ain’t anywhere.
The most exciting thing
In New York City
Was the feeling
That the robin gave me:
A feeling of being safe and secure,
In the tree
Outside the kitchen window.
Two weeks’ salary
To park your care;
Anything you could want
Ain’t very far –
Except perhaps Nature’s balm,
Babbling brook’s sound,
Senses becalmed.People, faces, noises, graces,
Shops, cafes, taxis, “Oy-veys:”
Sirens, barking,
Sirens, hawking;
Shopping, charging,
Pushing, bargaining;
Humanity spilling out everywhere;
Their hearts, their souls, their cares.
If you can’t find it here,
It ain’t anywhere.

The most memorable thing
In New York City this weekend
Is to know that a robin
Is building her nest
Outside the kitchen window.

Manhattan Island (the “City) has a deep rock base (although lots has been added with fill). This allows the very tall ‘skyscrapers’ to be built. When the deep holes are dug, there was usually a fence constructed around the site, with holes in the fence to look at what was being built. One thing I tried to do when I served as Assistant Commissioner for Cultural Affairs while the first World Trade Center was being built was to have artists design a light sculpture for the steel shell as it was going up. The building law required light bulbs to be scattered on all floors during construction. It didn’t happen. It is still a good idea as new buildings go up – Anywhere.
Bottomless hole,
Disembodied bowels of
Subterranean connections;
Cut in the base rock of
Clay-footed Gotham.
Storehouses for the choking wastes
That convey, not transport.
Hollow skeleton,
Cold, linear, unfeeling –
Empty skull,
Whose sockets lead to pulled buckets.
Steel-roped nerves,
Synapsed with non-feeling.
Sprayed and stuffed,
Added to dress cold steel.
Fibrous sinews
That will never stretch,
Seeking new horizons
Covering wired nerves;
While liquid conduits
Are added to serve
Each cellular unit.
On this base,
This unfeeling monster,
There is created
A home.
A home
Away from home;
How to humanize?
As a bee seeks nectar
From all kinds of flowers,
Seek teachings everywhere.
Like a cow that finds
A quiet place to graze,
Seek seclusion to digest all
You have gathered.
Like a freed slave,
Finding the ‘beyond’
Of former limits,
Go wherever you please.
Live like a lion,
Completely free
Of all fear.
We are here to experience;
To learn;
To take back all we become
To the Eternal Sea.
To The Eternal Soup
With color fading
Into all shades of Orange and Brown –
Leaves cry out for more paint
And creative outpouring.
I ride through it
As I move my fulcrum,
Still thinking
I can move the World.
That I can add
From my experiences –
Those unique and special
Gifts and opportunities
That have emerged
From the Eternal Sea –
Is the conscious understanding
I have evolved to reach.
These spark the incoming whooshes
Of angels and energy and
Drive out to all kin
A table of delights.
Life is full, and my cup
Is forever open
To more love,
More experience,
More offerings,
More opportunities
To add and serve.
I awake each day praising the Creator
For the opportunity to be present and aware.
Thanks be.
Here we are – as ONE.
Thank You

I got to spend a lot of time working in various ginseng gardens that I set up, both under artificial shade and in natural woods settings. Not wanting to use chemicals to keep down weeds, it turned out the weeds [plants in the wrong place] loved the beds that had been made. So a lot of time and effort was invested to pull weeds and free up the ginseng plants so they could breathe and grow. I truly loved this physical labor as compared to all the ‘desk jobs’ that I had and the “tiredness” at the end of the day was such a good one! So, this poem is what the plants gave back. I did have one relatively transcendent experience relating to harvesting the entire crop at the garden along the Hudson River. There was disease and the crop wasn’t at all what we had hoped. We decided to plant another garden back into the 

Catskills where it was cooler and the soil more conducive to this crop. 

I had a conversation with the plants from several rows and told them that I would replant them in the new garden if they would promise me that they would resist any disease. I thought I had agreement.

Fast forward . . .  three years. The new garden, again, got a fair amount of disease and pretty low yield . . . except, except for the two long rows of plants that had been transplanted and with whom I had an agreement. Yes, these plants prospered, did not get diseased and produced a lovely yield. I leave it to you to ponder the interaction. I am a believer and continue to dialogue with these cousins of creation.


Give us a chance.
You made all that effort
To give us
Now clear the path,
Give us air, food, Love.
We’ll grow and contribute.
Whew! . . .
That’s nice!
Jumble, jungle, straightening:
Air, light, space.
Bring ‘em back around!
Hidden and lost,
Restored to their space.
A sigh . . .
A stretch . . .
Gone are those neighbors;
We are ready
For nourishment,
So, good friend,
Go fetch.
Let’s make a deal,
And this is for real,
Keep us breathing
And for you we’ll have appeal.
We can exist,
We can persist,
And all we insist
Is that no weeds shall persist.
We can
Be.Thank you!


The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay

Men, Women, And Happiness

Men, Women and Happiness Cropped

Maybe it is a non-starter, an impossible dream, or a complete non-sequitur when one puts men and women together and anticipates that happiness can somehow be yielded. Or, is a real basis for happiness the joining of the two sexes in a truly loving and mutually respectful and mutually supportive relationship? In my forays looking to find bases for happiness, I ran into John Cowper Powys (1872-1963) who was described as “one of the great puzzles of 20th century literature.” He wrote over 50 volumes, including novels, poetry, essays and philosophical works. In his “Art of Happiness,” Powys portrayed women in a very dated way (at least to my way of thinking). He held women on a pedestal that most women today would not climb upon. In any event, I was inspired to use his musings as a basis for some descriptive-type poetry that I suggest could best be enjoyed by being read aloud (as are most poems I do believe).

Just to be clear:
I am of the belief that women are a superior race.

A woman is an artist
Who creates an atmosphere
Into which she can escape;
Where she can stay
Whole and independent
While her mate
Is perpetually dragging her
To engage in purposes,
Undertakings and mental images
All of his own.
Her world and his
Are separate crystal spheres
That actually touch
At only one point:
The point of enjoyment of each other
–An enjoyment
That would lose its zest
If what touched
Were two flat boards
And not a magnetic point
On the curve of a planetary circle.
Women are closer to nature;
Women savor deeply
And mysteriously
The general spectacle of the world.
They relish, with an indescribable glow,
This motley procession
Of sights and sounds;
Of changing moods
As the fitful fever of life
Foams and ferments around them.
The sub-aqueous pleasure of theirs –
In the chaotic motion of the life-stream –
Belongs to the innermost
Nerves of their being.Only the wisest of them
Are aware of their deepest happiness;
And, aware or not,
They all enjoy it,
Drawing their miraculous endurance from it.
They are all mediums
Of its occulted revelations.
Every woman is a sea shell,
Within whose hollow curves
The great ocean of life
Murmurs it hidden secrets.
This mystic realism of theirs
Evokes that indescribable smile
When they listen to man.Man: the abstractor of essences;
Man: the projector of theories;
Man: the creator of ideas;
Man: the discoverer of laws –
Droning on like a great metaphysical
Bumble bee on the high shore
Of the many-sounding deep.

A woman’s world
Is a coral pleasure dome,
Built upon the depths
Of the fabulous gulf-stream
Of life.

It is hard to re-enter
This earthly paradise
When the pressure of common life,
Of custom and recurrence
Have once closed those magic gates.

She escapes into her own world
Of sensation and creation –
A world that links her girlhood
With her womanhood –
A world that all other women
Can make shiver to its foundations;
A world about which
No man –
From the beginning of history –
Has any clue!


Men, Women and Happiness Cropped© Mary Lou Quinn

Happiness And Love
When a woman loves,
She loves a man’s inalienable self
(recognizing here that love can span one’s own gender also)
That self which his dignity –
His pride and his masterfulness –
His grandiose gestures,
As well as what his lust
And weakness conceal.
These things are concealed
Not only from the world,
But also from man, himself.
A woman’s happiness
Is rarely a mental thing –
Rarely a self-conscious thing.
A woman’s happiness is indeed,
At its deepest and most natural,
Just that very pleasure
That there is in life itself.
For a man to be happy,
His pride needs to be satisfied;
His lust satisfied;
His conscience satisfied;
His love of work,
And his love of play
Satisfied.For a woman
It is much more complicated.
Conscience has nothing to do with it;
Pride very little;
Lust hardly at all;
Neither work or play
Emerge as of primary importance.
She – woman – must have
Scope to live to herself:
To build a self-stylized
Work of Art that surrounds her
Like a mother-of-pearl shell,
Projecting her essential soul.

Happiness For Man And Woman

So, is there, then, an answer – a formula – to achieving happiness in a relationship? Let’s leave aside for this exploration same sex relationships although the roles assumed may also benefit from this one.
To be happy –
With that deep, fluid, pervasive happiness –
Waiting to brim over
From the Sacred Fount
To invade every nerve and fiber –
A woman needs to feel
Her desirability.
Her desirability relates first
To her relationship with the common elements –
Things appearing solid
(which we know they are not)
And things so related
To how the things
She interacts with –
To the cosmos.
Then, with regard to herself,
To other women,
To her particular man:
She needs to yield herself up
To that mysterious
Embrace of the Universe
Where she feels
That she loves
Everything in the world –
And everything in the world
Loves her.
She becomes
A bride of the Universe.
What man loves
Is girlhood in the abstract.
He then becomes possessed
By a mysterious and strange Being
Whose ways are not his ways;
Whose thoughts are not his thoughts.
So what is he to do?
Confess his sins,
Offer up on the altar
His conquests and his pride.
It is better to be a shameless fool
In Paradise,
Than a discreet and honorable gentleman
In Hell.
Hold her as
The wickedest of all women;
And when you have gone the limit –
Think of her
As you love her best;
As you admire her most:
All fault forgotten.
The wickedest will then have died
And your angel returned to life.
Assume it is impossible for her to change;
Yet always possible
For you to change.
She is an elemental force of nature.If you, as man, are to be happy –
Your first rapturous epoch
Of love-making now past –
You must forever stimulate
That magical lust
Which a woman’s body
And the expressions on her face
So excite you.
Use every passing glimpse
Of other long-for caskets of mystery
To enhance diffused satisfaction
In the one at your side.
This “bird in the hand,”
Is a living embodiment of
All the infinite allurements
That so attract you.

So, in the end,
What is the formula –
The equation, the potion,
The posture, the stance
That will enable each –
And together –
To recapture and hol
The magic of romance?

The whole glory of going onward
Is wrapped in the formula:

That he should be man to the limit –
That she should be woman as she was born.

Happiness is then
Forever being renewed
By the eternal building of new bridges
Over the everlasting gulf.


The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay



AWR website #3 #4 Invert Colors

 Creativity, of which poetry and other writings is a part, is not a one-way street. And the experiences and stimuli that engender what gets created are often shared and not just something affecting or relating to the author/creator. Some of what follows I categorized as “incoming.” Love and feelings and perceptions are spoken of and shared. I have taken a few ‘liberties’ with the writings that were mostly shared on ‘scraps’ of various kinds of paper. There were few titles and a little punctuation has been added here and there. The rest is pretty much as was resurrected. Enjoy!

A Message
I received this message;
I sent it on to you:elements in a universe
realized we are in space
the largest we become in each other’s arms.

are we to be alchemists joining in the answers
while we are the forces pulling wonder to form?

there is a part of me which is the worldless scientist,
star gazer,
earth mender
serving the perfection
of mind and desire.
a hugeness about us,
an open-ended scheme,
mandate: explore and record
react together,
opening our time to weightlessness, there are no wiser fools.

The Playground With The Fastest Swings
you and I awake,
having a cup of tea,
nothing set before us in the day;
the sun would break through;
the rain would seem to stop.it became a much more
crowded world last night –
a place for lovers only in the mind.
there is no doing away with
the other’s lover – no thought of it;
but is there a ramble path through the other’s?can the stroking of black curls
in Ashland up to the morning
be felt in Woodstock hollows
on a walking head of salt & pepper
pressed to the life of another
found soul?plow horses riding the early morning,
a bluesy yawn, and all the solemn promises
play the futures on a nod.you’re an important man in my life;
your presence as “evolved” man
shapes a space for my womanhood.
you’re an environment for my history, present and past;
the Playground with the fastest swings;
the museum with the lushest walls.but time is tight this year as
everyone knows and creative centers
close early – may the luck of
being locked in, staying all night –
do gents gossip?the preview of the growth
ahead of you excites me
like the promise of a carnival
for one night only.the notion
to become lovers is a sweet notion;
strangers exchange lives in a moment –
carbon arcs.the need to talk to you;
the must of dialogue
last night (Sunday, Our Town)
set you as “not me,”
“other than me” –
Separate and beyond the region of monologue.so I write you, two cups of tea,
music to move me along,
and spoken conversation awaiting
a call.I find this all interesting,
the way humans feel;
what they choose to sustain recreation
(I love you)
can I touch your sweet lips?after speaking to you –
in the most complicated
two humans,
I speak in images of simplicity,
almost ritual.tea, the smelling of air
with rain stuck in its teeth,
the licking of sandstone,
the making of each other human;

perhaps the creating of each other by touch,
anointed with sun, lips, earth, wind.
we are of the same mind.
there is consent to exchange knowledge.

I lie open to your imagery.

Carpetbaggers Of Love
I am exhausted and walking with
the thought of you.The evening light is a saturation.
words are forming like February
buds on my limbs:
skin gardens of poems for you,
aiming one love on the light
and the other is held
like mercury in crystal.

as I drive,
the sky melts on my eyes,
clouds are holding the romantic era
and I travel in the folds.

We’ve made summer plantings of winter’s gardens
(we become carpet-baggers of love)

Winding My Way
Light fades:
Each day
Shorter.Tree’s soul signals,
Leaf’s lifeline dries;
My spirit, using rainbow brush
Touches leaf.

Spirit also paints you;
But mind’s eye,
And soul’s touch
Won’t cover your glimmer –
Your inner radiance.
God! So lovely!
Formed by that laughter
You patented and own.

Another laughter comes to mind,
Touched off by sensual play:
The music that you make
As I ride along.
You peer from familiar spot:
I put you, your light,
In favorite places to be.

My alone time is with you
As I reach, stretch out.
My senses try their wings
In ways I can’t fathom,
Except by touching thee.
My thoughts brush softly
The sides of your cheeks:
Finely covered,

Pink spheres introverted.
I salvate,
Seeking your tongue;
Juices flowing,
Seeking those fields
Where your puddles lay.

I am sky and cloud,
You mountain –
To lay upon and surround:
So softly,
So lightly,
Finding ways to unite.

Our skins, our covers,
Shatter as souls, juices, thoughts
Burst through
To unite . . . to fly;
To mix and tumble;
To intertwine;
To become as ONE.

The effort is exhausting.
I have changed.
I have given all.
All to know that I love
And am loved:
Knowing that fills
All  my days.

And as the days shorten,
Light fades –
And so doth our time together?
Perhaps not;
There are ways . . .
Summer lovers?
Comets touching?
Wildflowers mating?
Trying phase after phase.

Remembering and re-living:
Intertwining by the fire –
Becoming the fire –
Touching, licking, burning,
Flaming side by side:
Two bear hides
Slowly rubbing,
Interminable hibernation:
A different way of dancing –
One of Love’s
Many faces.

Oh, there is something
Burning inside:
Growing spirit
More in love with you –
It is so easy then to fly:
Just plug into DC.

So love, I’m connect;
I draw from your current;
Your flows and your energy;
Your spirit and drive.
Your swings are the fastest
And on them I do ride.

Keep the flag flying
When tears we are crying;

They make a river
On which we can flow.
In these waters,
We can join and mingle
Our hearts,
Our minds,
Our souls.

Our ripples come together:
Under and over –
Making circles and eddies
That will forever remember
Our lives and our loves.
What, then, does it matter
If our bodies are apart?

So shortening days
You are welcome;
The change of season
Merely stimulates other ways
To reach out and be touched.

May I now paint you
With rainbow;
Blow upon thee with cool breeze;
Cover you with falling leaves?
I caress your sweet warmness;
Your lumpy nextness;
Your twinkling presence;
Your luxurious languor.

We exist forever
In our togetherness World.

My Cells Howl
Lover, who are you, gentle in my bed,
the power of lions in your jungle strokes?
my cells howl at the moon for you:
man who’s very, very bright –
soul and passions as soft and holy as candle’s light.particles, waves,
ether suspensions and a floating walk,
until the touch –
the teeth shown, the tongue coiled:
the deepest heaven.rest,
fold your hands held in my arms,
tones burst forth around our love.
We Are The Players
tumbling forward in the autumn light,
lovers peel back my eyes,
hello my sweet.
lascivious giants –
carnival jugglers with my possible lines,
and I prefer you
feeling your way through
and giving
shelter in the personal unknown.Sunday
There is instinct urgency
and the opening of a smile at the “ain’t that just somethin’”
lunar docking, click, of no touch – vapor joy –
desks and furniture wise as all get out.my love,
we are the players of each other’s mystery.

AWR website #3 #4 Invert Colors

© Mary Lou Quinn

Our Galaxy
Bright star
From afar,
What magic attraction?
You could be cool,
A mere fragment
Of that mysterious firmament,
Forever adding just a spot
To my dreams of you
And night.Eyes wander
With forced thought
To other constellations –
Other bodies who spin and glow,
Who call with siren’s song,
Falling on my ears
As only the static
Of the Universe.Bright star,
Growing sun,
Filling my nights
With blinding glow
Of all the suns
Of my days.Days past, whose clouds
Are burned to nothing
By the light and warmth
Of each tomorrow’s sun,
Shining through my heart
To inner eye,
Delighting my soul.Shining star,
From afar,
I rise and grow
To fill the space
And time in between.My dust and parts
Coalesce and burn,
Falling in, while falling up
To critical mass.I, too, am star.
I rise and grow,
Gaining equal orbit,
Matching light and heat.
Twin suns,
Feeding each other
As matter flies
In passionate exchange.
Symbiotic orbits,
Drawing in from near and far –
Matter and force,
We spin –
Each a sun.Together we suns
Are a new galaxy,
Finding new power,
New force,
With each orbit
Of our special days.I rise and grow
To your call and light.
This truth
Is our fate,
Is our destiny.
my mind is muddled –
dreams from days ago fall into
morning tea –
as unresolved
as the future.I’m afraid
Of the truth in worried ideas,
pile on the load;
there are no endings
in the bleak tenderness,
just building corrals
for the quality of life.I am clattering
the knives on the bars.
Molecular Fog
roving internal burn alchemists,
with standing onslaughts
by ‘aura.’
dazzling molecular fog,
lipstuck to our skins and
falling in veils.molecular fog –
particles of our spoken thought,
ranging desires
and color
chewed on and spit.love me the color of
moon’s skin tonight.
In a spot for reverie,
Love’s sacred and roaming monks set the tones;
I cannot carry anger or cynicism within it.I go there for the secrets we discuss most freely academic.
I lay me down on springs of laughing souls –
simple cacophonies (of blown notes)
tune the buoyant lunacy.

embers cross my lips with songs
(century twine)
slung like South American sleeping hammocks
in this rambling mind;
a restful perusal of all that has been;
(that you are laying in a hammock
of centuries from which you gaze
at times).

I’ve thought of a luxury I’d like to share with you.
The luxury of laying about, sometimes propped up,
with books each held in silent opportunity for thought –
that active passion we rarely share the enjoyment of.Each of us reading quietly, agreeing, passing,
breaking in inaudible cheers.

Side-by-toe or head-to-belly
Until an extravagant break into kisses ‘’
Exchanging the workings of an author’s ideas
as we fold them into our minds.
The exuberance of reasoned reaction to someone’s work;
The pleasure of expressing one’s sense of it all up to now –
making the love of scholars pleased with themselves
and looking for the perfect mean.

Walk But A Bit With Me
Why can’t we sometimes see
The forest for the trees?
Sun’s glare, moon’s glow,
Casts out the mind freeing
And never ending possibilities
Of a trip through the vast Universe
That lies beyond.Spirit entwined
At the mouth of the cave,
High on purple mount
Struggles to free itself –
To look first
At the endless green and stretch
Of the fields and valley below.Spirit yearns to soar
O’er peak upon peak.
But how, when entwined,
At the mouth of the cave,
High on purple mount?I stand and grow,
As forest over tree;
As Universe beyond sun and moon;
As endless valley and reaching range
Of snow-roofed peaks.I reach
To clear eyes and ears;
I call to show the way
And light the path
To realization.Walk not ahead or behind,
But by my step
To test the tread.Listen but a bit to words,
Echoing the mumblings
Of soul’s furnace,
And to the sounds
Of wind, of bird,
Of rustling tree
Of roaring brooks,
And snowy tread.Share a bit –
For no matter what,
It will stretch your soul;
More room for feeling and giving.Walk a bit with me;
Look at forest, Universe,
Plain and peaks.
Fear not for yourself
Your love,
Our seed.I am gentleness born on the wind,
Riding a leaf over gushing stream,
The sparkle in the web
Lit by fire’s glow.Fear not –
Motes In The Air
it is in my soul that I love you,
so it is that I read:
(skimming centuries; a sleek flat rock on mind’s skin)
Pythagoras, who grants us to be born
with the music of the spheres
in answer to its silence
and souls pulled from the void as numbers.The soul is the motes in the air.
Motes of their own nature continually move,
even in complete calm.The soul is attunement.
The soul is . . .
but the body.
the body is to receive it;
diving to the soul,
we love in tender storms –
the day is held,
and we are the day.In the afternoons
I dress in the muse,
exhausting myself
on fantasies and rhyme,
leaning on the evening light
‘til fallen asleep by.I accept lovers,
and all of them
are you.
Where Silence Thundered
We minded the crystal jewels
from surfaces of moon glitter
and rode them
down snowy dunes
into shadows of stillness
where silence thundered.I thank the gods for sweet night
which opens heaven to my soul.
I thank you, my sweet friend
for flowering in my sight of joy.you coached the morning
pastel colors to my door
and covered my wakened eyes
with your soft glow of rose
hovering over mountain breasts.
Moments Of Ours
suddenly it hurts
to think of you
or touch lip to face and palm to falling hair.
a thousand times we’ll never laugh together;
time chews you open and I am alone.there are moments of ours –
a kiss lasting or when you,
with ancient hunger only, wet my hair
with your tongue and chew soft circle
of darkness in the gold.

tell me the truth with your hands,
you know that thought blows wild,
invisible in the gathering woods;
warming dragons’ bone dust, and
century-old light to burning night,
we will sustain the flesh of summer.

Apart – For Togetherness
Give me some air,
Some room,
For growing;
For looking down
And around.To me,
Inside has to grow.
All about you,
I want to know
The bits and pieces
I want to sew,
Creating the fullest life
That we can have.We will make air,
Room and space,
And time for soul,
Body and face;
For smiles, laughter, and delight;
For tears, turmoil,
Pain, and empty nights;
For rekindling flames;
Relearning names;
Contemplating from below,
Aside and above:
Time, space, room
Researching the love
That was there,
Covered over and hurt;
If it is true and strong
Out it will spurt.So it begins –
This experiment,
Testing strongly
If for each other
We were meant.I throw myself in
With strength;
Confidence and grace,
To let love
Come back,
Through time,
And Space.
Do I Reach You?
I feel,
I can project my thoughts;
My experiences;
My feelings
To you
Across whatever time
And distance separates.
It is scary
And exciting.You fill empty pockets
In my being –
Blank spaces
In my thoughts;
Dips in my emotions.Here,
On the edge of so many things,
Are you to be a part –
A partner –
A vehicle?
A destroyer of recreation?
What?I’ve been reaching out;
I’ve been aching.
Do I reach you?
Can you feel those threads
Moving around you,
Running up your limbs,
Caressing each patch of flesh,
Brushing by and rubbing against
Each hair,
Resting in warm spots –
Moist spots;
Running and flowing
With your juices,
Being swallowed
And entering the inside of you –
Maybe becoming a part?Do you feel that?
Do I reach you?I ache from
Loving you.
The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay

Loving and Losing


Perhaps of all the things that motivate one to create poetry, number one would be the joys and sorrows – the elation and deflation – the almost indescribable feelings and thoughts that are engendered by romantic attachment and detachment. This Chapter from the Eternal Sea is very self-centered in the most part. Chapter IV is in the same vein and also has a subset that includes some ‘incoming’ poems that were sent to me. There may or may not be a ‘match’ among the poems included here. Looking at what has been written, I can picture just a few situations that can be ‘tagged.’ The rest let’s just dedicate to this most delicious of sentiments and experiences, and to lovers whomever and wherever they are.

Make When Now
When I am with you,
I want to be
The person I like.

Too often,
I’ve been driven by ego,
Claiming abject love.
Too often,
I’ve been a petulant kid,
Ready to run when rejected.

When I am with you,
I want to be
The person you like.

I want to fit in
The nooks and crannies –
The interstices in your life.

When I am with you,
I want you to be
The person you like.

There are lots of joys
And wondrous moments
To share, being together.
There is spiritual delight;
Closeness and ONEness,
And oh those EQ’s
[Emotional Quakes].
There is mutual appreciation,
Sharing of experiences –
Sharing of sadness and cheer.

There is a fit
Where the individual piece
Is preserved
In the jigsaw of life.

So, it is time
To celebrate
Our joys and wonders.
It is time
To bury petulance,
Together with ego’s fantasies –
Being fully aware,
Each of the other.

Can we walk those paths
That from time to time
Criss-cross in ecstacy?

Can we make when

Love’s Gift
Is like
Each growing thing:
It needs to be
Nourished to grow.
Weeds choking it
Need to be plucked.

Sometimes the weeds
May be perennial;
Other times
They may quickly bloom,
Fade and die –
Never to grow again.

Some love
Yields food for the body;
Other love
Nourishes the soul.
Once in a while –
Sometimes it is a long, long while,
That very special flower blooms.

It has no reason;
It has no rhyme;
It just IS –
Is sheer joy
Happiness to behold, to savor.
A love to be IN,
To be a part of and share.

No point asking why or how;
No real way to resist.
Just roll it ‘round –
Savor . . . enjoy.
Give thanks!
Give great thanks
That life has dealt something

Is like
Each growing thing.
When nourished
And allowed,
We all become
A song to sing.

This poem won me “Poet of the Year” award at the State University of New York, Morrisville – Kudos to the English Department there.

CrossroadsImage by Pixabay

A crossroads,
Creeping through those inner parts:
The interstices of marrow;
The backstairs of the psyche;
The third eye’s retina,
The final jangle
Of each ganglion’s pulse;
Memory’s yet-to-come input;
The light rushing ‘round the corner
To confront my soul’s
Beyond tomorrow.

A pulse, a beat, a cacophony –
Sounding and playing
That ‘other’
Who’s been a part of you;
That soul who, of late,
(So sad “of late”)
Whose vibrations have set off
That who wave
Of sympathetic notes,
Until each mini-second
Of each hour,
For every day that I live,
Sounds with the potential
Of the love that who will deny . . .

Of love that cannot be denied;
Sounds of the realization
Of wishes – past and present –
Sounds echoing but a moment
In the eternal span of time.

A crossroads, I devine,
Is near – or here.
Which path, which road,
Can we kick up
In harmonious steps;
Joyous dust that will play
Tunes of delight,
Sorting itself into masterpieces.

Kaleidoscope of love,
Fusing with growing strength
Until its power and light
Melts two super beings
Into a galaxy
Whose power sweeps all before it.

Or, do the lovers
Take separate paths:
Tears moistening
Purple forget-me-nots,
As distance renders the bond
Between two suns.

Have been etched in the paths –
Yes, bittersweet renditions
Of nagging regret and uncertainties
Over what Union with realization
Might have yielded.

There spins between these orbs
That gentle, lovely soul –
The “we” –
Springing from the essence of each
That grows with each day;
Each revolution
Spinning off a mass
Whose light may outshine
All others.

Though spirit drags
Crossroads there is.

Here is my hand,
Tomorrows call
And we must go on.
Will you take that hand
And match my tread
On the road
We both can trod?

The Last Note Of Your Song

I really like this one – the concept of being “the last note in the song being sung,” in the final ‘act’ of someone you love – unconditionally – just shivers my timbers (love that phrase also!). Music, to me, is the universal language – it speaks to all who hear it and creates a whole other sentiment and understanding from words – particularly if the words are ones you don’t understand because they are in another language. Life itself has an eternal music – an eternal song.


The fire of life
Burns bright and burns strong,
Energy is singing
Life’s eternal song.

That energy flows
Into matter and music,
And we human spirits
Are created to use it.

We were created,
Humans, tigers and doves,
To experience life’s dealings,
It’s travails and its loves.

The fire of life
Burns bright and burns strong
I want to be
The last note in your song.

The lesson is simple,
Open and clear,
Be in the Now,
Be Present, Be Here.

Do understand that the eternal quest
Is to be at ONE,
In the Creative Spirit’s nest.

The fire of life
Burns bright and burns strong,
It’s the space between the notes,
In Love’s sweet song.

The music you play,
It’s best loud and strong,
Makes me want to be
The last note in your song.

My Love Lies Inside
I can feel
The spot
Where you lie.

It’s on the left side
In a revolving curve,
My heart.

I reach out
To bring you in.

The melding seems
Not terribly hard.

I tuck you away.

My love
Lies inside.

Life’s Magnificent Charge
Bubbles burst;
Rainbows disappear;
Warmth and light
Are followed
By biting wind
And darkest night.

Joy can dwell inside.
Visions paint
Our brain’s eye
With every colored hue.

So, too,
Love sits in the saddle
Of a charging steed –
And, oft times,
Falls off.

Nothing, here, though
To stop
Life’s magnificent charge:

The struggle
Up the hill
In stickered wood,
Reaching the exhilaration
Of the top.

Life Is For Living
Is, oh, so many things
When a smile surrounds.

Grabs and holds me
When I listen to your sounds.

Life is for living
When love is a-giving:
Life is, oh, so many things
When you are around.

There are many forces
One can’t ignore:
All the Kings’ men and horses
Are here to assure
That life is, oh, so many things
When you are around.

Life has its reason
In each and every season,
My senses get pleasin’
When you are a teasin,’
And life IS for living
When you are around.

So keep up the music,
Be with it
And choose it;
Love is the harmony
That the soul sounds.

Life is . . .
Just so complete
When you are around.

Sweet Nectar
The sweet nectar of life
Moistens the dewy petals
Of the lovely flower
That is your soul.

Fly to draw
The nectar
For my new hive.

I leave
But enriched.
Blessed be YOU:
The flower
Whose nectar
Has become
The sustenance
And sweetner
Of this new life.

NYPL (New York Public Library)

The big central public library of the NYC system is at 42nd street in Manhattan – (no one ever says ‘Manhattan’ – it is ‘The City’ or New York). The main entrance is framed by two stone lions. I stood there fairly often and wondered what they were saying and what they cared about – if anything. And such riches inside – although relatively hard to access.


The lions turn
The other way –
Cathedral of knowledge
Framed our joy,

Temple of learning
Knows nothing
Of the twists
Fate can employ.

Cold books,
Scratchings on paper,
On shelves
All properly in a row.

Yet, outside,
In the warm drizzle,
Create the glow.

The spark
Grows to a fire;
The flames fanning
“True Love.”

The lions turn
Another way,
Which condition
Is the real one?

Which state
The ultimate Truth?

Can all those collected words
Give the answer?
Does it lie
Under that roof?

Was all that
A temporal flush of emotion,
Or rather the coming together
Of the one and only truth?

I am caught up
In the challenge;
Where is the answer?
How to pick,
How to choose?

They are inseparable
And by choosing
One would lose.

At First

I met a woman during dance classes at The Omega Institute – I was single at this time, having relatively recently gone through a ‘friendly’ but still difficult divorce. Would another woman enter into my life? This poem reflects the ‘odyssey’ that ensued.


At first,
You smiled at me –
Just an ‘innocent,’
Sweating through five shirts,
Trying to figure dance steps
For a performance
I would only get to watch.

At first,
You enticed me.
You came back,
Smiled a lot,
And was always ‘there.’

At first,
How nice it was
To have someone
Excited to see you
And seek you out.
We talked;
It seemed so easy and ‘nice.’
I got “hooked.”

At first,
You confused me;
And, yes,
You told me
It would be four months –
At least –
Until I could come to your house:
I came the next weekend.

At first,
I slept as a guest;
Then I held you –
God, holding you
Was the nicest place
I’d ever been
In my 21,870 days.
It made me feel
That I wanted to do it
For another 31,930 days.

At first,
You drove me crazy;
And then there was raised
The specter
Of discomfort and mistrust.
You didn’t believe me;
You thought
I would intentionally hurt you;
God, that gave me
Such pain.

I trusted the truth would prevail –
And it did.
The scars healed on us both.
I came to want to be near you –
To refocus my place
Of Being in life.
I wanted to be a support system
For your life’s goals.

And then,
You said I was crowding you!
The ground fell out
From beneath me.

At first,
You had opened for me
A new door to love.
I loved your music,
And making music with you.
I loved your laugh,
And laughing with you.
You picked me . . .
There I was, laughing with you.

I loved
The comfort of your home
And being comfortable there.
I even loved
Your regal pair of felines
And figured we all
Could have a wonderful life together.

Where was this explorer to go?
I thought I was
On the ‘right’ path,
Yet kept running into
“No Trespassing” signs,
Seeing nothing
But brambles ahead.

At first,
You had picked me.
How nice it was
To have someone –
Someone you grew to love –
Excited to see you;
To seek you out;
And make you feel welcome.
Oh,so good!

Holding you
At that time
Was being so close
To feeling at ONE
With the source
From whence all comes.

So, now,
(that now was a couple of decades ago!)
Can we move
Past picking out
To create what comes next?
So, now,
Is there a path
To your heart
And love’s life
I can follow?

Will you take my hand,
Will you take my heart,
Will you dance with me
To the Universe’s beat?

At first,
You smiled,
Enticed, picked . . .
Confused –
Where will it end?
(It did)

And as my friend T.S. Eliot said in The Hollow Men:
“This is the way the world ends,
not with a bang, but a whimper.”

My Soul Just Ain’t The Same
Head kinda heavy
And chin hanging down,
Fighting through the
Earth-bound fog;
Eyes, mind,
Lifting up.

Then rose salmon
Cotton-tieredn cloud.
Mountain tops rounded –
But not bowed:
“You are your own best friend.”
To live, then, I am learning . . .
Damn well, how.

And this think
Is an essential part —
A true nub of me:
My soul ain’t the same
When it is not
Connected to “WE.”

In fantasy land,
Church into theater is re-made;
On the screen
Don Quixote’s a-questing,
Seeking Dulcinea
A scullery maid.
And, yet, I dare . . .
I do
Dream the impossible dream,
And turning homeward
Search for the path
Upward to the sky.

Crescent moon,
Long and erie,
Piercing through earth-bound fog;
Then still looking up . . .
Arriving –
But not going inside.

Stars fixed in random beauty:
Fixed by each of our searching eyes;
Crossing then –
A flash of light–
A “shooting star” . . .
Fate; Kismet;
Calling to Westerly shores,
To goals near and far.

My soul is a good one –
So welcome journey-mate and friend.
Somehow, somewhere
(Oh, I know)
I have discovered (with you)
That place where that road
Has an end.
There are beginnings:
Myriad dreams.
Gazing upward becomes normal.
Life is so much fuller,
It does seem.

So choice:
Here you face me (us).
We know it’s no game,
Something is not quite right –
And to fix it I aim.
So hear you this message;
Think of the shame
When we are not together . . .
Our souls
Just ain’t the same.

Special You
Whose muscles stretch
In joy and freedom.

Wide, absorbing,

Unmixed, real,

Grasping the rumble,
The deep depth
Of you.

With a special scent.

Limbs and blood,
Nerves and muscles –
Body alive
As it draws
Breath of you.

The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay


Life’s Gifts

Mariposa #4

These poems fall into a category that salutes the gift of life and consciousness. If it is true that we are ‘here’ to experience – to expand the Creator’s creations – then tapping into those aspects that we can access via our creating out of all possibilities those manifest things, events, emotions, thoughts – the creations of consciousness – means we are ‘doing our job!”

The Joys of a Moment

The droplets of life
Are held in a crashing,
Tumultuous Sea –
Riding the tides,
Their ebbs
And their flows.Sad it is
That what was once
Washed upon the shore
Is gone –
Except that we know
They were here.
They have existed;
They have made their indelible
And distinguishing marks.Life is richer for the cycle —
The chance.
May we never lose
Awe of what transpires.


All the times;
All the places;
All the people;
All the events.Remember
The specialness of our planet;
The sweetness of air and water;
The magic of a smile;
The lift of sound, of color, of light –
The way a baby ‘knows.’Remember
The thrill of sensual
And sexual attraction:
The letting go of orgasm;
The loving of a partner:
Giving and receiving.Remember
The getting caught up in a game;
The forgetting of time;
The Being
In the Here and Now.Remember
The beginning and the end;
And the beginning – again;
And the trip to the edgeAnd beyond.

The Day The Rainbows Came

Here’s a triptych of Rainbows – catch ‘em! They ‘played’ in and around my trailer home at the Omega Institute.

It was Sunday morning:
Father’s Day –
I ‘slept in:’
6:40 A.M.

The sun hit the crystal
Hanging at the upper window
Of my trailer at Omega –
Rainbows appeared everywhere;
The first time
I had seen them
In the 75 days I’ve been here.

“Hey, y’all,
Yes, this is a place
For you to dwell.”

And how they arranged themselves . . .
Everywhere and all around.
A twist on the crystal’s ribbon
And multi-hued angels
Were flying everywhere.

It was Sunday morning;
I returned later –
The rainbows were waiting.
All the ‘stuff’ out there:
The brushings poor ego
Has to take;
The “I don’t know why’s,”
The “me,” “me,” “me’s.”

Maybe I can climb
Into the crystal
And shoot out
Into Rainbow World.
Hurry, though,
The sun is moving,
My rainbows are almost . . .

It was Sunday morning,
A little later.
The space was empty –
The rainbows gone.

Can I visit Rainbow Space again?
Is it in my heart?
Can I climb into Rainbow World
And spin in and out of the crystal?

Sunday morning:
Rainbows . . .
Life, love, experiences.
If you are patient,
The Rainbows
Will come.


Sharing Rainbows

A rainbow,
Crystal focused,
Moves across my wall.
It is long;
It is warm;
It is magic;
It is a gift.I am transported
To times
We shared rainbows
On your wall.Think of me
And “we”
When you see rainbows.
My love throbs
With the pulse.Oh . . .
To share
With you.

Hello Rainbow

Form on my walls.
They float in air
And light on the ceiling.Sunlight,
Captured by cut glass;
Focused in spots,
Bringing a smile.
Look directly into the prism:
The world explodes!I remember the light
You brought into my life –
The full spectrum of feeling;
Of being alive.
I call the rainbows
Directly into the prism –
What do you see?Each morning,
The rainbows come.
They are part of my life:
The sun, the light broken.
Love.Hello, you.

Letting Go

If I had to pick one piece of advice I would give – one thing that I have learned: 

  • from the good and bad ‘stuff’that I have directly experienced 
  • from the training I received as an Empowerment Facilitator 
  • from all the studies I have done through the years I have been privileged to enjoy on this planet, and
  • from the wisdom that so many of those who have shared their wisdom in so many ways,

What I come up with is the great gift there is to be able to “let go.”

This involves ‘letting go’ of all that holds you from moving on in life; from forgiving yourself and others; from being in the Here and Now; from conquering the fear involved in change – in coming up with what you really want to put into the space that is created when you let go.

Perhaps the most significant thing I have read comes from Carlos Castanada in describing his walk along the mountains in Northern Mexico with his mentor, don Juan:

“The twilight is the crack between the worlds.” don Juan says. “It is the door to the unknown.” He then points with a sweeping movement of his hand to the mesa where you are standing. “This is the plateau in front of that door.” He then points to the northern edge of the mesa. “There is the door. Beyond, there is an abyss and beyond that abyss is the unknown.” 

You stand transfixed, looking across the mesa at the edge. “You will now be like dust on the road,” don Juan tells you. “Perhaps it will get in your eyes again, someday.” Don Juan then steps back into the darkness that has descended. 

You feel very alone. It is unbelievably quiet. All you hear is the beating of your heart. Suddenly – a strange urge, an irresistible force, seizes you. You run to the northern edge of the mesa. You see darkness ahead. You jump off the edge. You are alone. 

At some time in each of our lives as we travel our path, we come to an edge, a challenge, a decision-point. What do we do? Some decide not to take the challenge and fall back to the road they have been on. Some jump and perhaps crash. Some jump, survive, and resolve never to do that again. Some jump, survive and can’t wait to do it again. 

So: tomorrow’s task is to plunge into the unknown by yourself. Sit there and turn off your internal dialogue. Go to the edge and jump into the abyss. You may gather the power needed to unfold the wings of your perception and fly to that infinitude. Create. 

So, walk to the Edge, spread your wings, fly off to that infinitude


Letting Go #4 Cropped (2)©Mary Lou Quinn


Letting go –
Is a place;
Is a time;
Is a space.

Letting go –
Sometimes a pain;
Sometimes numbness;
Sometimes gain.

Letting go –
Of the memories that are bad;
Of the arguments we had;
Of times that were sad.

I let go of those things;
Of those times;
Of the zings.
Instead, I choose not to ever lose;
And I will retain those things where we gain.

Smiles and laughter;
Creation and elation;
Security and maturity;
With these make a nation.

Letting go isn’t easy;
And, yet, we know
It’s the path to take –

And, yet, we know
It’s the path to take –
From the learning
We grow.
So – let go . . .
Of what fails thee;
Focus on
What enthralls thee.

There is a beginning
To each end;
Letting go
Can be your best friend.

The Untangle Machine

At first glance,
It seems there is no way
The morass
Can be ordered.
Step back.How does an untangle machine work?
Find the beginning
(Or the end) –
Of the tangled thing,
Be it a space station
Or a piece of string.Then . . . be focused;
Be meticulous;
Be ordered.
Wear the Buddha Head,
The Royal Robe;
Assume the mantle
Of the Creator. And, then . . .
Hear those who are restorers;
Hear how it all matters.  So . . .
Step back;

Just a Tag End

Is endless time’s
Beginning ravel? Can I find
Just a little end
To hold a moment
To see what is gone;
What is here;
What is to come? How often
Will I slide
Under and around
To come again
To face the same frustration? Under and around,
Over and through,
To come again
To face the same frustration. Just a tag end
For clinging,
Just a tag end
To begin to right
This imbalance.

We Turn

Curled up, around
Pulling so close
To make outside
How can you know?
And you doTime is split;
Each meeting
Becomes a new dawn . . .
Rising tentatively.
Heat and light
Begin again, and . . .
The sun really doesn’t rise. We turn,
Making the warmth rise,
The smiles flow –
Creating an aurora
Of peace and bountiful silence. Time
Pushes and pulls.
It is forever.
Can we lay with it? Let it flow all around;
Keep it close’
Celebrate together,
As all are joined
By the fleecy edges
Of breeze-blown fluff. Thunder and lightning:
The gathered energy
Of the infernal machines
Carry the bright, speckled eddies
To quiet pools at sky river’s side
To wait forever
Until . . .We turn,
Making the warmth rise,
The smiles flow.
The aurora of peach
And bountiful silence
Flow on fleecy edges
To silence
The infernal machines forever
Until . . .

Lost & Found

One can get lost
On the River of Time,
Navigating the Past,
Questioning things
That don’t rhyme.One can get lost
In the Forest of Time,
Never looking up
To the light
Of the sublime. One can get lost
In the vastness of sky,
Exploring nether reaches,
Always questioning:
Why?One can get lost
In the bowels of the earth,
While the weight of the world
Obfuscates all of our mirth. One finds one’s self
In the Here and Now;
Enjoy it,
You know how.


Butterflies are perhaps my favorite flying things. Their colorings and shapes so attract my eye and my imagination – they are such a fabulous example of transformation. In special times in my life, butterflies seemed to ‘show up’ – certifying that at least at that time that what was going on, what I was seeking, was there and was blessed. Mariposa is the Spanish name for butterflies.


Mariposa #4©Mary Lou Quinn



Winged friend: Mariposa;
You flew circles
While I waited for love to arrive.
You incarnated in each place –
While bathing in the vibes
Of love’s unfolding.
Winged friend: Mariposa;
You were there,
Trailing twinkles and love dust
Wherever we looked.
Dear Mariposa,
Winged friend –
Love’s messenger –
Come fly
On the bosom of enchantment.
You have earned
A place in our hearts.

Morning Glow

Early orange glow,
Whose source is hidden
Just beyond the end of the street:
Or is it up,
Or just plain out?
Thinking about finding
The pre-dawn chill,
And by bright caress
Producing (pollution-fee)
Would it be the same
Without: street, buildings,
Trees, lights, cars, dogs . . .
These make a funnel for my eyes,
And inject a spring to step;
A life to mind;
A turn at each corner
Of my mouth . . .  UP
The glow is cool,
The color illusive.
Words here serve
Only as picks
To memory’s eye –
And, as a lid opener
On capped feeling
Of early orange glow.


The mountains rise up on all sides;
The valleys pierce the peaks
To sky’s falling off.
Paths run off everywhere
Through the wood;
While white-streaked streams
Rush off this way and that.What to follow?
Which to conquer?
Why follow?
Why seek to conquer?
Why choose at all …
Just because they are there?
Because it is
Our God-given mission?
Because heritage calls?
Meanwhile psyche pushes —
And that nagging knot
Incessantly pulses.Love
Whispers, beckons,
Flashes its signals;
And that hook –
That handle inside
Which is for reaching for
And pulling upon
Exists.By reaching out
And opening up;
By giving, and giving,
And giving . . .
The choice is made;
The road is covered;
Mountains are bridged;
And valleys flown.I  flow out to all,
Cover each crevasse,
Walk each path
Its full length
Until . . .
It begins again.Remember
It is all an experience.
And so we live.

Beach Thoughts

Strewn weed and pebbles,
Fascinating hordes
Of shell shapes,
Washed upon a shore,
Driven by yesterday’s winds;
Shaded and baked,
Stepped upon and flung up;
Caressed and admired.
Some kept for only a moment –
Others perhaps for a lifetime;
Alone or crowded together –
According to the whims and wiles
Of today’s fashions:
The gathering group
Of babble-tongued hue.
Together and indistinguishable –
Is there a goal?
Survive for now –
For this life  —
The current ‘eternity.’
Shine bright in light;
Move in the still struggle
To the top –
Efforting to be admired
And picked
.So many pebbles;
So many straws;
Too many decisions
About which shells to pick.
Destiny to be broken
Into myriad pieces;
To lie a hundredfold
Beneath the glistening surface
Of the Eternal Sea,
Waiting for the next Eternity.
In the while,
Seek to glisten
Just a bit more;
Strive to be taken up
And cared for.

Floating Souls

In cool, ice-strewn waters,
White-flecked with the floe
Of our humanity,
Float our souls.Iceberg camouflaged
With volcanic hearts;
The tips only show
Of mammoth Being –
Stretching into unfathomed depths
Of unsounded potential.
The sun curtsies
To sister power:
Light and heat shared.
What shoals to traverse;
What temptation to resist –
To lay quiescent
Within the weed-laden tip,
Hidden in backwater,
Stagnating and barnacle baiting.
Far horizons glimmer,
Sing and call honeyed songs of promise;
Of fulfillment, of worth.
How far the voyage?
Which way the course?
How true is the company that points?
From whence the power
And drive to traverse?
Each soul in its casing
Works a wide swath,
As it attracts and grows
Within the Sea.
Veneer-stripped rumblings
Approach critical mass;
Explosion and power
To feed the souls –
Both beneath and above,
To glorify
And fulfill the Mission
To go, open and burst forth.
The life of a soul.

Floating On The Sea

(Aboard the SS Nieuw Amsterdam on the way to Europe – 1963)
What you push down
Rises up;
Time and space are the vital dimensions.
Round about, all buzzes:
Burgeoning banalities boom;
Cacophonic calls crack;
Delirium dementia droons . . .
As one seeks a sounding,
Surroundings close in with a surge;
And as we bottom,
We rise.The loftiness becomes exhilarating,
Fluffy white,
Myriad shades of blue,
The air filled with salt spray,
As gulls cry and soar.The mind is restarted,
Kindling the fire
Of the soul’s burner;
Stimulating a panoply
Of raw, half-baked, and full loaves –
Conceptualizations to feed the path
To conscious realizations.
What, then,
Are the vital dimensions?

What Could You Be?

Try this formula:
Humankind in some
Not too distant future
Is to humankind today
As humankind today
Is to caveman and cavewoman.[past future]
Our skills, senses, thoughts, capacities
(so advanced today when looking back)
Are but primitive waking
To the offspring
Of our offspring.
This is why
We negatively hold and categorize
So many tastes, smells, sounds,
Sights and touches.
Our senses get lost
To the media gods
And electronic devices,
And to all the other companions
In no-think-land
Why do we outlaw
Mind-expanding substances
But legalize depressants?
Why is the creative thinking
And experimenting soul ‘crazy,’
While “normal” is
The lowest common denominator?
Do we fear the creative voice we hear?
Shouldn’t we be evolving
To be more of ‘our’selves?
Can we let go of the image
And fill the space created
With the visions
We get to allow?
We incarcerate the true self.
We analyze until we paralyze –
All in the name of law,
Of progress, of normalcy.
Let us remove the barriers;
Let us move the line;
And move the line:
I am more than “me,”
You . . . You
Think of what
YOU can be!
The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay

Cosmotic Exploration

Universe Connected Cropped

These poems focus on a variety of ways that the questions that underlie our perceived existence: “Who Are We? Why Are We Here?” – questions that serve as the foundation for examination and for finding paths and some answers that have come to me over decades, where these get explored. I don’t really ‘know’ if there is AN answer that is universal – although I do postulate one for exploration and pondering



Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle
Implies that every particle,
Without exception,
Relies for its existence
On a ground field of energy
That is interacting
With everything
Energy as explicate order
Is enfolded in, and emanates from,
An implicate, transcendent order
Of pure energy
That is infinite and absolute.
Our material selves
What is called manifest form –
May be compared
To a standing cloud
Of no substance
Over a mountain peak
Where a dynamic process
Of condensations and evaporation occurs,
As droplets of water
Form and un-form
In the air
Over the mountain. 

How did it all start?
Where will it all end?
Through science and religion
Mankind has pondered
And wondered.
These are questions so immense
That the answers may come
Only through the eternal
So, day by day,
We take thin slices
To occupy ourselves –
To apply OUR science
And OUR religion.
In the day by day world,
We seek rest, change, learning.
Peace comes in the babble
Of a flickering screen,
On a playing field,
At a resort,
For the weary mind.
It comes in the silence
Of a meditative mode.
You know what? Whatever Is –
Is all that there Is.
Is the physical world,
The imperfection
In the otherwise Perfect Universe? -Or-
Is it that
In our perfect Universe Contains
What we have Otherwise thought
As imperfections?
If we are moving
Away from Creation (The creative force)
At just over
The limit of our ability
To perceive –
Then we will never
Be able to perceive Creation -Or-
Is it rather that Creation (and the Creative Force)
Is infinite.So,
It continues,
It continues
Throughout the Eternal Sea
It continues
On Course
In this I call my life
Nothing ever goes wrong;
Each heart lives to love,
Each voice to give song.
We are here, spread out,
Smooth, not knurled,
Spirit’s manifestation
Experiencing the material world.
A part of the Creator,
A chip off the sublime
We are energy existing
In space and in time.In this
I call my life
Nothing ever goes wrong;
Each soul lives to give,
Each voice to make song.
Each time we awaken
From the eternal soup,
We go off a-questing
And return to regroup.
Unconscious creates our reality;
Consciousness bears her fruit;
It is for us only
To conceive as we would suit.
In this I call my life
Nothing ever goes wrong,
Each spirit lives to unite,
Each voice sings that song.
You and Me
All is ONE, and
One is ALL, and
There was God, and
There was a beginning,
That was, is, and will be
Evolving (or ending?), and
This Path,
You and me – 
(We are one you know)-
We are traversing from
Beginning end
End beginning.Then,
How to figure out
What is the job
We have to do
In this SPACE?
If it is so
That all there is
Then presence –
n this NOW
Is what is required.
Of the glue
Holding the atom,
And holding
The three hundred billion galaxies
Each containing three hundred billion suns –
So vast, and
Space even vaster.Space,
Absolute zero (we thought)
Around Black Holes
Absolutely hot
(‘We” haven’t been there yet).
ME and YOU,
YOU and ME,
Devine energy.
The saying goes:
“You can’t see
The forest for the trees.
”How to be ONE –
Lost in
You AND me?
Listen to the whispers
Of the Universe:
The eternal vibrations
That underlie all sounds.
Listen to the sensations reflecting
Each soul’s story
In this time
And in this place
We call our life.Listen
Listen to the thundering silence —
The silence that inspires;
The silence that supports;
The silence that determines and defines
The vessel that contains the bounds and boundaries
Of existence – of possibilities;
Of all that ever was;
Of all that is;
Of all that will ever be.
The notes we play
Have a deeper melody –
A baseline and rhythm
Underscoring the top notes.
Listen to a melody that knows the sounds –
The sounds of what was
Before the Beginning;
The sounds of what will be
After the End.
No crashing symbols;
No Ode to Joy;
No Angel’s choir;
No thundering God.
. . . A Silence . . .
That is much,
Much more.
Listen to the ebb and flow,
The ebb and flow of
The Eternal Seas of Creativity.
It laps upon each shore,
It soothes the weary,
It inspires and uplifts.
It is from where we came,
And to where we shall return.Love
Love is created from the silence;
From the space between the notes.
Listen to the music of silence!
Listen to the music of love
The Restless Sea
The restless sea
Once again returns
To its seduction of the shore:
To tempt, to caress,
To tenderly wet and smooth,
And, at times,
To frothingly pound and ravage,
All according to the mysteries
Of the pulling and pushing forces.
We, as the ultimate shore,
Pounded or caressed,
Smoothed or roughened,
Await the next surge –
Not quite sure in our expectation.
We await,
Knowing surely that it,
IT will come,
Then withdraw,
Gone once more
Returning to the Eternal Sea,
Leaving us with the memory
Of a wave from the Ocean of Time.
May we appreciate then,
The majesty of the shore,
Proud in its existence,
As the waves hit and withdraw –
Some as smooth and impeccable
As the infinite grains of sand
Washed between the ebb and flow,
Some grow or incarnate as
Jetties of rocks.
In the jetty of humanity,
Extending into the Eternal Sea,
We are worn and changed
By the restless sea –
Finally dissolving
Into the Sea’s mass –
Becoming once again
Part of the whole.
These infinitesimal parts
Combine to form the shore,
The substance of what we call
Life –
Clean and white,
The Foundation for the future,
Building on the past
For a purpose, undefined –
Yet divine.
Give thanks.

Universe Connected Cropped© Mary Lou Quinn

The Droplets of Life
The droplets of life
Are held in a crashing
Tumultuous sea,
Riding the tides,
Their ebbs and their flows,
What was once
Washed up upon the shore Is gone . . .
Except that we know
The traces of their presence,
The legacy of what was.
They existed,
They have made their indelible marks.
They have returned
To enrich and make
More perfect
The Eternal Sea.
Life is richer
For the cycle –
For the legacy,
Their contributions.
May we never lose
Awe of what transpires.
Who Sayz?
Two hundred billion times
Two hundred billion,
Someone sayz –
That’s how many Stars they say there are –
The calculation is
10^24 stars.
That’s a 1 followed by twenty-four zeros.
Where did they come from?
Where will they go?
Someone said:
“They come from the Creator –
From a Big Bang.”
Imagine that noise!
Someone else sayz
There’s lots more ‘stuff’
We don’t know about –
Real dark stuff:
Stuff that really holds things in.
What’s on the other side of that?
And, by the way,
What was before the Beginning?
What will be after
The End?
Someone else sayz
There’s another way
To look at things:
Move our concept of
Beginning and End,
Move our concept
Of left to right,
Of yesterday and tomorrow
To only NOW –
And NOW,
And NOW is infinite –
Not only is IT “possible,”
But everything just “IS.”
The two hundred billion times
Two hundred billion
May be just a drop in the bucket.
Think about all the life
Teaming here
Just on this ONE planet.
Think about all
Your thoughts, and
All your dreams, and
All the possibilities
You KNOW are possible . . .It is like
A long row of eateries –
And just as we stop at McDonald’s –
Not because it is good,
But because we KNOW it –
We aren’t threatened;
We are comfortable with the familiar.
So huddle the masses;
Who wants to walk to the edge
And jump?
Of course it is scary,
And FEAR is so controlling –
So determinative.
Two hundred billion times
Two hundred billion –
That is a lot of sunshine.
Walk to the edge . . .
Why not jump?
Who sayz
You can’t?
The Many Are One
The many teachers are ONE,
The voices become a chant,
Sung together.
It is variations
On a theme:
The beat of our ONENESS
Is solid, pervasive,
Resonating and filling all space.
The melody is simple,
Clean and compelling –
Like the notes of
Master Beethoven’s Fifth.
And, AH!
The variations:
Billions of us
Playing with these notes
On instruments we have modified
And individualized.
The many composers are ONE,
Their names,
Their silences –
The space between the notes.
Such communication:
Playing the spheres
Of Eternal Spirit’s Orchestra,
Communicating more than we know
How to hear.
Listen, listen,
The music is eternity.
The many players are ONE.
At first, the discordance
Of the orchestra tuning –
Each on her own instrument,
Working to create the pitch,
Striving for harmony.
Then, attention to the conductor,
The baton falls,
Enlightenment enters;
Cacophony becomes waters
Falling over the cliff,
Plunging into a deep pool . . .
We move along
A green-white sliver,
Bending back upon ourselves.
The brain machine functions
For the unnamed mechanism.
It seems man’s quest
Has been to find that label.
And all science’s endeavors;
And all philosophy’s semantics;
And all of discovery’s yields
Have been a left-brained tour-de-force
To come to another layer
In the onion-layered Universe.
Sure, some of us inhabit,
Maybe even understand;
Some, maybe, can even commute
Among the dimensions.
Onion-layered Universe.
We peel back the green-white slivers,
Looking for the truth about ourselves.
Then what?
The quest gets Major League status.
Our onion plays with untold numbers
Of other onions –
New dimension:
Onion/layer/onion –
A universe of onions.
Beyond that?
Onion Universe plays
In a league
Of all kinds of vegetables.
Each, put together,
In different ways.
Beyond that?
Leagues of all kinds
Of growing things.
And beyond that?
An infinity of beyond,
Of Universes,
Of Gods.Onion-layered Universes,
Peeling back the green-white slivers,
Opens the mind and being
To answers
And more questions
The Quest is infinite,
Going to two points
The Center-In, and
The Center-Out.
And the line that connects them
Is everything, is creativity,
Is the eternal Now.
And you and I – “we”
Can even start from that line
That is everything
And explode it,
And stand on it,
And be with the infinite other lines.
And explode
And Explode
Wow . . . wow . . . wow!


Stars and flashes;
Spining wheels –
Streaking meteorites;
Foaming rapids.
Throbbing temples;
Pounding heart;
Panting breath;
Funny stomach;
Swollen brain.
Turn on . . .
Turn on . . .
Turn on . . .Whew!!
And I Sit On The Deck
The Sea calls.
The human race
In its petty pace
Is evolving
On the shore.
The masses of cells,
That within us dwell
Stretch back
To a spark from the Sea –
Nothing more.
And I sit on the deck,
Wondering what to expect:
What has this life
Got in store?
Out past the horizon I gaze,
Filling out all the
Parts of my days
With creative energies
Coming to the fore.
What is the Force
That charts the course
And, in the end,
Tallies the score?
Who pilots these senses?
Who creates all pretenses?
What is it
Behind life’s door?
And I sit on the deck,
Wondering who gets the check –
What has this life
Got in store?
Each of these cells
Is connected
One tells;
We are linked together
Forever more.
And the Sea calls
To each part of the Race
To pick up its pace
To move in,
Away from the shore.
Connected we are:
Each cell,
Each star –
Listen . . . here it is:
Big Bang’s Primal Roar!
And I sit on the deck
Oh, what the heck,
We are Now and Here,
We are all ONE,
Forever more.
Minutes, hours, days –
Steady flow of events,
Upon events,
Upon events.
Things, places, people –
Remembering lives and loves;
Lines in space;
Creating past . . .
Anticipating future.
Blessing or curse?
Remembering no time,
No place –
Blissful all nothing.
Remembering at ONENESS
With things and no things;
Going past creation;
The eternal void.
Meeting pure love,
An ‘interesting’ creation
For embodiment to relate;
For being on a plain
Where material selves
Can dance.
Hear the music –
That is the eternal language
Of the Universe.
Engage in the practice
Of Being –
The place and space
That time underlies
And surrounds.Time:
Hold it in your palm;
Turn it around
And inside out:
Play with it.
Time flies;
Time drags;
Time stands still;
Timeless –
Whose time?
Got the time?
Tick . . .
Blessed silence.
No time.
Forever more.
Tops a comely landscape
Of gently weathered
Hills and vales.
I walk proud and strong
On the high road to selfdom.
Has that brilliant flame
Always burned to drive
Down the path to tomorrow?
Did spent sands
From The Eternal Sea
Cover molten creativity,
Stuffing the eruption?
Domesticated sun,
Spinning in monotonous orbit
Within the Universe
Of endless circles,
Flies off in a tangent
Of creative confusion.
The magnetic attraction
Becomes irresistible.
We Can Be One
More –
Than the obligatory
Saying in words
And knee-jerk reactions.
More –
Than external acts
For others to see and applaud;
More –
Than recounting what was;
Or anticipating
What could be.
I reach into the ONE
That is The ONE
That moves you,
Thinks you,
Spirits you,
Is you.
I experience a soul
That is wise and whole;
A spirit that dances
In the space between the stars;
Lighting not only galaxies,
But also, other souls.
I bathe in that light –
Holding a mirror
Of clearest cut diamonds
For you to see
Your many facets
And how your soul glows.
I feel and I “know”
That we are ONE in many ways.
I sense that attraction
Will pull us into a world –
A world of answers;
A world of contributions;
A world of meaning;
A world of knowing –
Knowing Who We Are
Why We Are Here.
It is the trip we came to take;
It is the path to be followed.
As you so wisely said:
“It never gets boring!”
With love . . .
That is, in the end
What is the best and only thing
ONE can offer.
We can be . . .
We are
Liminal Moments
Liminal moments
Imbue our lives
With mystery and meaning.
These are the inexplicable experiences
In which the visible
And the invisible worlds overlap.
This is the intersection
Of timelessness with time,
Expressed through metaphor and poetry.
These are the soul-level perceptions –
Subjectively significant –
Understood in the heart.
These moments,
These experiences,
Provide intimations
Of a divinity in ourselves
And in the Universe.
These moments are the basis
Of the perception of an underlying ONENESS,
And of after-death communication.
They are called sychronistic,
Psychic or mystical experiences.
They are.
The Eternal Sea
Image by Pixabay