the knowing day

SONY DSCas it was that day
the sweet sorrow,
tangled memories
my clumsy struggle
to fill the empty boxes,
nonsensical laughter
because what else
could be done there
facing the sober truth
your hand in mine,
the one that once
wiped nightmares away
now waiting the footsteps
the words that hung
across the room such,
barely understandable
yet, even the neighboring
old woman could hear
how the heaviness
melted the sunshine
as she smiled, telling
what good daughters are we,
these things between us
echo again and again
lingering quiet moments
trying to smooth out
the wrinkled sheets
of what remained
those heavy, heavy rocks
the burdens carried
yearning for comfort
that blush of grace
dismiss the fading horizon
the ‘awefull’ knowing
in the silence of day
watching the ocean roar
across the TV screen
while all I could say was,
“it will be okay,
it will be okay.”

Intersections

those last few days
together wove
captive moments

intersecting

those lucid dreams
your tender hands
knit the story

reflecting

those notes divine
raindrops glisten
span the silence

resounding

those expanding skies
imprint reflection
lingers time

abounding

this fragile glimpse
our tangled heart,
our tangled heart

fading.

i2a47

-Photography by Klaus Kampert

 

under lightning

Remembering you…

searching for simplicity

it was under
the
lightening
glow that there
silhouette
the curves
love caressed
flowing waves
swept
your knees
from under you
collapsed upon
the loamy lawn
rolling in
dandelion
laughter
your arms
around
my waist
as tender lips
touched again
my hurricane.

– Previously published August 2008

Love+Kiss+Wallpapers+(7)

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happenings

How the endless night
hugged your edges
made darker the lines

things that lie between
what was said and
what was meant to be

all alone, there, crumbled
in the corner space
knees held tight, anchoring

sorrow remained in place
while waves of loss
splinter the rock buttress

what held your grace
now downy sand
sifts through such hands

with vacant stares
reflecting yesterday’s stars
those fragile happenings.

Corner

Confessions

Poema de Explicacão
(Para Yeda)
– Lina Gadelha Peterson,  August 1, 1960

Ah! eu me lembro
eramos jovens e simples!

Na verde as coisas
permanecem integras;

Nos é que sofremos
o longo tempo.

 

Ah! eu me lembro
eramos jovens e simples.

E essa tristeza de agora
e este cansaco nos olhos;

Vos é que descuidamos
da paisagem mais intima.

 

(Assim, o mar é nosso
as flores se entregam

Ao nosso gesto, a chuva
nos perfuma da mohado

E os carneirinhos ainda
são os mesmos eternos e puros!)

 

Poema de explicacão:
Nos é que morremos.


Confessions
(For Yeda)
Poetic translation by Maysa Peterson, January 1, 2018
For you, mom because I promised to write your story. And so it begins…

Ah! I remember
when we were young and naïve!

The green things
linger and remain

It is us who suffer
as time passes.

 

Ah! I remember
when we were young and naïve

With this present sadness
and the weariness in our eyes;

It is you who discarded
our most intimate landscape.

 

(Thus, the sea is ours,
for the flowers to indulge

With the wave of a hand, the rain
makes us wet

And all the little lambs still
remain forever pure!)

 

Confessing:
It is us who die.

10341439_10202882525615438_1379695712744539469_n

 

Ohm

silent the twisted logs broke upon the shore
the endless crashing once peaceful, lines the horizon

It was the darkness she walked toward. It was always the darkness

Those places where the waning light distorts shapes into ghostly trees

Fiends and devils haunt you there

Squinted eye seeks definition never found along the edges of life. It’s mystery calls

through with glimpses from past dreams and the sleep of the dead, disjoint, now lost

And wandering. They have their own names. Like the secret names of cats that can never be spoken. 

The universe sighs. 

Ohm

  • photography James Whitlow Delano

The Winding

between the tiny threads, the seeds, a root
softly brushes beneath those painted toes
when up from the darkness, a song emerged
thoughts of spring and new beginnings
smells like fresh cut grass and hyacinth
finds for you a painted sunrise pink and new
the winding years weave together visions
leaning intentions toward reaching dreams again.

In the grasses.jpg

of what remained

I saw you there
in the shadows
shuffling,
awkward and tearful
your gaze passed over me
again and again
misplaced puzzle piece
pushed aside
no words
laying there
lines in veins,
the cold cotton gown,
the painful wires protruding
endless waiting
long empty halls
those sad little roses
red again,
deficient and frail
spoke softly
what could not be said
shattering all that remained
of my broken heart.

Post surgery

Photography by: Daniel R. Wilson

farther

three days passed one into another, lengthening
such agonizing silence twisting and flashing
swimming through the tar of incessant thought
until the heat broke, shattered the thousand tiny bindings
that held you frozen in some enormous, translucent web

in the new day’s cool, the softly pinkening light distanced
a longing only felt after the barrage, the straining reach
stark in comparison, reverberating a glimpse of hope
too precious to gaze upon directly, revenant reminder
straddling the worlds you embraced so tightly,
farther than your hands, then gone.

Zero Dean Photograph

Photography by: Zero Dean

You Matter and What to Do About It

Reposted from This Just In!
by Daniel Wilson

We are born with a joy of being. Children show us what that looks like.

The joy does not always last. A lot of people work hard to discourage us as we grow up, and it intensifies when we get a job.

We receive little or no instruction on celebrating our own significance. We may forget that we matter, and if we remember we might not know what to do about it.

I use the word matter to mean that we have a place in the natural order of things. We have virtues that we do not recognize because they are obscured by fear, or guilt or a combination of the two. Our role emerges over time as we continue our practice of exploring the true nature of things.

The first thing to do to honor our significance is to take a careful inventory of who we think we are. Chögyam Trungpa tells us not to judge what we see, but simply to notice it. Many people blame themselves for who they think they are. Blame does not lead to freedom, we are told.

The next thing to do is give up the quest for security and safety. This effort is merely a distraction. Life happens. Our lack of control does not indicate that we do not matter.

Then we go on to practicing love and affection. The Sanskrit word for this is maitri. Trungpa’s book title is Smile at Fear. I think what he is telling us in the book is to smile at everything, including our notion of self.

Smiling at everything, we are told, invites the universe to dance with us. Good fortune emerges out of thin air. Smiling also creates a shift in us that awakens our enjoyment of dancing.

I have published about 30 books for myself and as gifts to friends. My friends matter to me.

I am not in this wondrous state of being. I still think of mundane things to do. I practice simple things such as photographing people. I maintain this blog. These acts are expressions of myself consistent with how I see myself at this stage of understanding. I recommend being real as you understand the term.

I recommend shrugging off the morality of the crowd. I read a quote today that said the body is not a temple, it is an amusement park.

I like to keep track of what I have done, and celebrate it. I publish books to satisfy that intention. I encourage people to express themselves, and to take notes in some form. Notes demonstrate respect for our experience.

Finally, don’t indulge those people who don’t recognize that you matter. Hang out with people who appreciate you. You deserve it.