Thirty days of poems coming to a close
And it seems there’s been little but prose.
Rain Prayer Breath
In the rain.
On my back.
Drops fall slowly
Out of the sky
Dance off my chest
I exhale completely.
Hold.
I love God
I love myself
I love this moment.
Gift of body heals.
Blood flows.
Mind watches.
Birds wake and sing.
Rain pats around.
I inhale deeply
Stretch
Body wakes.
It is a good morning.
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Swept Into The Answer
Pray gratitudes and questions.
Open to receive.
Patient and peaceful.
There is power in the asking.
God knows what you need.
Keep praying.
An Intermission
Distracted before adventure.
Gathering gear.
Learning terrain.
Preparing.
Incorporating fear.
Resting mind and body.
Refreshing spirit.
Fueling.
Anticipation weighs.
Enacting the Journey
We are actors.
The journey is story.
The metaphysical becomes physical
on six peaks called Devil’s Path.
We will test mind, body, and spirit
in God’s country.
Metaphor made real.
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Tzatziki Dashiki
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Living the Myth
Story within story.
Narrative and subnarrative.
Journey within journey.
Lives within epochs.
Writing my story on fate’s tablet.
Enjoying the show.
Grateful to God for this adventure.
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Mastering Monsters
We go to the swamp for monsters.
We go to barren fields for beasts.
We go to caves for demons.
We meditate and incorporate.
We learn our dragons.
We master our monsters.
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The Cave
Skeleton faces hold us down
Pushing poisonous flowers in our noses.
We sleep.
We dream of howling.
We wake bound in a watery cave.
The howling is real.
Blue light refracts from somewhere
through mineral rich pools.
The animal crys are distant.
Are they animal?
Are they distant?
We writhe within vines
binding ankles and wrists.
Scrape against rocks too smooth.
Slimy algae grows along the water’s edge
We roll into it and coat our constraints.
Working and worming until we are soaked and spent
But free.
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A Grave Field
A clattering like hollow bones
echoes through the rocks.
With each hand and foot hold
white dust sticks to our clothes and skin.
Nowhere is the way level
Each movement demands attention.
Breath is interrupted by chalk in our throats.
The clattering rises as we traverse
the endless field.
It takes on rhythms.
We see no life
But something is
at work on that sound.
We dare not pause
until the rhythms cease.
The silence transforms the rocks
into gleaming white tombstones
over our heads.
At every edge of our sight
is movement.
Pale figures against alabaster stone.
They close in around us.
Covered in ashy chalk.
Some carry large bones.
We are surrounded.
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