A poem about the middle, about the anti-polarity.
We have danced so far
toward opposite poles
that we’ve become magnetic,
drawing each other closer
as we pull so frantically apart.
Our rhetoric and plans may seem
so utterly opposed, but
tones and tactics grow
so similar. At times
they’re indistinguishable.
Today’s most radical,
most Revolutionary route
might be–perhaps–to take a step
towards the center, at least
in tone or tactic,
in the face of opposition
and defiance to throw up
a wall of joy, a flag of heart.
Prompt for Monday
I’ve been wanting to do a dream poem. Since tonight is the Full Wolf Moon, I thought I might ask that wolf to send me a meaningful dream and use that for my poem tomorrow. If I don’t retain a dream in the morning, I’ll make something up. Heh. Join me?
Gratitude List:
1. Wolf Moon rising, caught in the branches of the locusts on the ridge
2. Fiery orange sunset
3. Sun dogs
4. Women of the Faire, and roasted garlic, goat cheese, and hot pepper jam
5. The village who raises our children: Be kind. Be safe.
Much love. May we walk in beauty.
Grandma making peanut butter cups:
Mockingbird Chronicles 
This way. This is so satisfying. I am especially in love with these lines:
I stretch my arms long, stretch
my heart wide, exist in the spaces
between what we can express
and what we can remember.
I remember what I can,
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This Way
“The Middle Way between clinging to memories and taking refuge in hopes lies in living in the here and now, that is, remaining wide awake. But is this not the very end of the way our goal? The end, however, lies in the beginning. For the Middle Way is not a way in the ordinary sense but a way of life. Like the spiritual path, it lies within us. It is us! So let us be what we are.”
-Mary Anderson
A cherished childhood friend
who lives now far away from me
across the blue ridge mountains
and the purple mountains majesty
near the coast of California
once sent me a card
with an arrow pointing
in both directions:
“This way,”
and a hand-drawn picture
of herself with long, long arms
reaching over the mountains
and the plains, the interstates
and the national parks,
to touch me. I grew my arms
longer too, I reached out to her
and held her best I could.
This way
we choose is dutiful and less often
about the path or the design
than what we do when we do
what we must or what we think
we must do in order to get somewhere
we think we need to get
or at least to visit. I visit her card
when I’m not sure what I think about
this way.
I stretch my arms long, stretch
my heart wide, exist in the spaces
between what we can express
and what we can remember.
I remember what I can,
her hands that summer
picking basil, peeling garlic,
making pesto in my kitchen,
the way
she was able to be in my kitchen
with me and my rearranged life
and to help me arrange it again
around what still existed
and the choices I could still make
in that particular moment,
her very presence a choice
I could barely see as I see it now,
this way.
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