All That's LeftAlong the never-ending iron that lay,More Like This
Living, the small town of Whistle Stop sings
Breathing in the blessings and blowing kisses to the laments that leave
Person and person, equal in spirit
Was different only in outer garment
On skin pale and browned by sun
This is not right, what they do to you.
Earth-- churning honey in the hands of the cosmos
For as it turns, nothing is still.
86, the age of the woman that lay
Years, like dust that scatters in the autumn wind
And with that final grain, she goes.
This was her life
Is- her life.
All but memories just faintly grasped.
That is that.
Left behind, a woman in tears,
And just a shoe box full of old papers.
. ~Ariel~ .
AuthenticityI want to flow freely, open and presentMore Like This
to all the worlds and dimensions through which
my life, my experience, travels; along the way
meeting old friends for the first time,
inviting each of them to their honored place
in my biography, taking my place in the songs,
stories and lore of their soul's native landscape.
I want never to be all things to all people
but simply to be one; to be real; to be true
to each person, each soul. Not to follow
the way of the chameleon, shifting color or shape
to meet external demands, but that of a
fundamentally different animal, perhaps
some mythical creature, whose core identity
can gently embrace all it encounters without fear,
being false to none, staying hidden from none
who earnestly seek it. I want to let go
of mental schema that others have consciously
or unconsciously imposed, and freely enter
each interaction of spirit to spirit, soul to soul,
ready to know and discover and rediscover
and learn and unlearn what it means