The Best Seat on the Beach

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When the rains came down,
I had a front row seat.
While I watched, agog,
from under a beach palapa,
the skyboys beat their drums,
hurled their spears of light,
and the ocean roiled with joy.

The drought broke,
clouds let down
their pounding waters,
and I let loose
a laugh of giddy release.
Soon I was soaked in healing
and accepted the invitation.

The show went on and on,
and the applause! All volatile,
all dizzy with excitement.
The swimmers ran for shelter,
the sand danced with drops,
the fish leaped, the palms
bent in crazy yoga postures.

When the rains came down last night,
the pressure of heat abated,
and cords of tension snapped.
The air, the lovely air,
actually chilled. And I
was blessedly granted
the best seat on the beach.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

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The Hushing of Noise at Wild Acres

Silence floods my skin
and bathes my seventy trillion cells
in music without sound.

Silence knits my disparate pieces
into a seamless garment,
so I move like the snake I saw on the trail.

Silence points my attention
both within and without, as if
I had no membrane at all.

Silence is crammed with mystery
yet wicks a sensible flame
with no fuss, no negotiation.

Silence gathers me in its arms of air
and expects nothing,
accepts everything.

Silence invites
my heightened awareness:
keen ears, eager eyes, each sense alive.

Silence waits for me,
like my final friend,
without a shred of impatience.

Silence. I am her humble companion.
In this turbulent world
she’s the song I have longed for.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

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Arrival at Wild Acres

Today I arrive and already,

time has quieted and stretched.

The stacked logs of the spacious cabin

are trees that still seem to speak,

visiting in muted tones,

as they rest on the stone foundation,

laid long ago with care and grace.

A great green roof of tin slants over me,

like a musical instrument the rain loves to play.

I rattle my gratitude all round the cabin

and blow smoke to the Seven Directions.

All I brought is all I need,

no matter what has been forgotten.

The thrush sings through the afternoon.

Here where artists before me have yielded,

already inspiration

purrs its approach from the woods.

Around me, ancestors, angels, devas

lift me up and call me forth

to the great human work of creation.

Already, I am given over.

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

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The Scent of a Single Iris

Iris photo by Susa Silvermarie
Skyward Iris

The scent of a single iris
renders me a drunken bee.
Indigo edges
scallop each white dream.
Caterpillar tongues
languid lie
on three spread petals.
Between them,
smaller petals cup and touch,
and lift a purple wonder.
On either side of the blossoming queen,
two yet bound in bud
waft promise.
I cannot bow enough!

©Susa Silvermarie 2015

 

Iris photo by Susa Silvermarie
Iris at Laurelwood