Child of White Light

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Who is this child

so small

her smile in full bloom

I pick her up

I hold her close

she brightens the room

not like a light bulb

not like the sun

more like a pure white energy

who is this child

that appeared in my dream

holding her I walk about in this small house

from room to room passing people I feel I know

there are no faces

there are no voices

the house seems full 

as if it were a gathering

I hold this smiling child close and tenderly

as I walk from room to room

there are no walls

just beautiful, contented white light

who is this child

that came to me in my dream

this child that brought me peace and contentment

this child of white light

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Birthdays

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birthday

what and why do we?

is there something for to see

i feel no memory vibrating in me

nothing left by the queen bee

while she was in a mating spree

even if so briefly

 

a miracle as such

should surly insomuch

gift us initial touch

hidden in our memory hutch

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if our minds truly are 

the greatest computer created

should I not then be able to retrieve

all the memories that created me?

to feel the warmth

to feel no anger no fear, no resentment 

to feel the miracle happening

temperatures rise and fall

the walls move in and out

then there it is

the one seed that is meant only for me

other cells peacefully disburse

leaving the dance floor open for the transformation

only what was meant to be will be created

one becomes two becomes four becomes eight

till a dotted spine appears

two large eyes, webbed fingers, little toes

floating softly, hearing, sensing

we do not retrieve this memory as our birthday gift
that moment when turbulence forces us out

perhaps that is why I am so drawn to the ocean
could that be where our memories are stored?

why it pulls at my umbilical cord 

why the sound of its movement calms me

could that be my memory 

my birth day?

listening to Dan Evenson’s Sound Healing.

Grey

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with peanut butter and rye toast

waking my tastebuds

with a stream of caffeine flowing down my throat

with Galloway’s flute filling my room with sweetness

I sit in my wicker chair

waiting, and watching the morning wake

 my sky with so many shades of grey

grey, a word worthy of a metal

it dances for many others

without taking the lead

at times it will soften the edge

or intensify the starkness

grey is so misunderstood

even speaking its name we tilt our voice downward

giving the impression of sadness

grey is not sad or empty 

it’s not the void of light

grey walks with everyone

it prepares you for the brilliants of a fuchsia morning sky

or sets you down gently in the evening light

grey is courageous and trustworthy

it will hold on to your tears

for it knows they are precious 

often returning them to you as a lullaby 

my grey sky is waking

it’s opening the door for the hues of gentle pink 

grey is calling me and it wants me to dance

for the morning sky is coming

the morning sky is coming