Plague Poems: No Guarantees

This morning, I pulled this SoulCollage® card:

This is one of two cards I have made that I have called Maya.  When I received the name Maya almost 50 years ago now, I was told the translation from the Sanskrit is: the creative principle of the universe.  Most people have heard it translated as illusion.  You can think of this world that way, but it has always made more and deeper sense to me to to see it as consciousness being made manifest.  In any case, it's been a large name to carry.

Based on pulling this card, today, this is the poem that came.

There never was a guarantee,

only a whirling into the life

of the body, a knowing

of the importance of

lifting up the arms to touch

the sacred, the instinct

to wear red as a sign

of commitment

to life.

There never were promises

of ease, of safety, of knowledge.

Only the mystery was ever given,

and a certain useless compulsion

to understand.

There is absolutely no knowing.

There is only the breath, the dance,

the earth and this constant spinning.

Life has always provided

what I have needed.

That is the foundation for trust,

for keeping the arms raised,

for continuing to turn.

I am wearing red today.

Plague Poems: Mating with the Tiger

No, I haven't watched Tiger King.  But this came to me.

On Receiving the I Ching Hexagram “Treading/Mating with the Tiger”

I am dancing with the tiger.

Too close and I might be devoured.

Too far and he will take over my world.

It is my world.

He is the intruder.

Nevertheless, he is here,

and I must ascertain how

to live with him.

A step forward, circle,

feel the swipe of his sharp claws,

retreat.

One of us will rule.

He may be winning now,

as I have nowhere else to go.

But he will tire at some point,

lie down and sleep, or

be pushed out or

enticed towards an exit

not visible now.

Then we will see

what happens next.

SoulCollage® card - The Writer

Plague Poems: Advice to Myself

Monotony sets in.

The daily routines,

so predictable,

can be seen as

either comforting

or boring.

Take hold of the monotony

and make it holy.

Invest love

in what recurs

day after day.

One day,

it will end – this monotony, 

boredom, predictability.

Let this day be

an appreciation

of the ordinary,

a blessing of

continued breath.

Birthday Poem

One more year passed

in a long life.

One more year beginning.

In these times,

no amount of time

can be taken for granted.

This is nothing new,

yet the immediacy

of the moment is

somehow more real now.

It is as though Death

had been looking at us

from a great distance, and now

 it is right before us.

Hello, Death.

I see you there.

You make this day more precious.

I tender my respect.

I apologize for taking so long

to make you an offering.

Relections A Few Weeks In. And a Poem

Evening sky.  I watch the sky a lot, an easy thing to do from our hillside home.  I don't mind waking up before the sun rises so that I can watch the dawning sky.

I, like most of you, am now over two weeks into sheltering in place.  What I've begun to notice in my own family's moods and reactions is that things are really starting to register now, to sink in.  How serious this is.  How long it could go on.  How hard it can be to be alone.  How we miss being with certain people when Zoom and Facetime can't fill the gap. 

I do appreciate posts on Facebook of nature or humor, even dark humor.  I'm having a harder time taking in ones that are optimistic.  Too facile, perhaps?  And talk about the crazy-making discrepancies in information!  First it's wash your groceries with soap and water; then, it's soap will hurt you.  Elderberries are good.  Elderberries are bad.  Sometimes Facebook feels like a lifeline, and sometimes I just need to shut it down.

This morning I heard two radio shows about the difficulties pregnant women are facing.  Man, that is a tough one.  Here is another, on a sort of similar theme.  Some of us will need health care that is not coronavirus-related.  I find myself in that situation, and, boy, is it problematic.  No doc wants to see you come in.  Some of us may have to do so and undertake the risks that involves.  And yet, at least for now, I don't have the dreaded virus, and I don't want to minimize my gratitude and recognition of the privilege I have been fortunate to have.  I have a home, food, family, friends, books, poetry.

I've turned to writing a poem a day.  Many are just rants.  Once in a while something comes that I nod my head to.  Turning to Persephone is always my way.  Here's one of those.

Help

She paces.

Like Persephone,

she knows confined spaces.

She wants to listen

but needs to still herself,

and the pacing

does not help.

Help.

That is the word.

Help.

Is she being called?

Or is she the one calling?

That is the beginning

of finding an answer.