I walk the oceans edge
delight in the appearance
of birds landing beside me
walk with me awhile —
Sacred gift of
this unspoken communion
pure bliss of being
free together —
and as they lift-float skyward
there is no edge
only joy residual from
of the knowing
in who they are.
is how my heart
desires to love you —
not with fear
or holding on
or with clinging
jealous hands —
but with unity-freedom
a oneness that remains true
even after your leaving.
The old man tells me of his friend (and I am his friend)
as we drive home from dinner. He falls to weeping
over the buddy he sang with in the church quartet
all those many years ago.
His friend died young, aged 48, and he stopped
singing then (at 72 he sings to me as we drive).
The pain of sad loss trembles from him, the words
and images fall into my lap for safe keeping — this
is a heart opening into hearing as I whisper the normal
“I’m sorry” and “I know it still hurts” because that is what
one does —
But I want say — “I am listening” and “I will put this
in a poem” Your heart — THIS big with love —
“I will save it forever for you in a poem.” But
I only whisper the normal solaces one gives,
watch his tears fall and listen as he shivers —
His frail voice singing a song about a Lighthouse
as I take his aged hand in mine
across the center console of the car.
In the night drive home after dinner
in the shimmer and melody on air
and the spring of tears trembling down —
The ghost of his friend rides with us
on through the dark night
as hands both living and dead
reach out and touch —
And a poem is planted, unfurls —
Grows into a new song.
Memory: Bright-eyed boy telling me about Shark’s teeth — I was above and beyond the mire of irrationality then — as Seger says Deadlines & Commitments What to leave in, what to leave out.
Reality: There are dozens of us hundreds
walking the shoreline of Myrtle
each day —
You will know us by our eyes
cast down, scanning the sand
looking for Grace reflected
in an ebony shine.
We are a greedy and gracious lot
depending on our need in that hour.
because we need every syllable God whispers.
seeing another seeker with empty hands –
we smile and pass a treasure off –
Here, these are for you.
Handing the letters of God to others
because we are all seeking
words to ease the suffering
of all the questions
that convince us
there is any other answer
there is an answer
in the sand
to who we are –
why we love –
how we are here.
Do you remember the nights in dark moon absent hours of deep crashing wave sounds?
You, with your bright flashlight walking an impatient mile-a-minute in front of me — always running — while love-want-mothering-harlot enveloped me in bliss and agony.
Duality — Loving a man-boy who would never grow up. The letting go ending every facet of my known world (and I knew that truth then) Still — knew the agony was my fight with God over what was coming-inevitable-necessary.
I laughed and cried together as we roamed the sand looking for treasure on those deep warm summer nights, saying goodbye to both of us in every step. Your flashlight dimmer as you raced ahead and as I followed, I knew I was becoming less afraid of the dark.
I find shark’s teeth now every time I visit the beach. God and I, hand in hand, walking together. He gives them to me — a way of loving-forgiving and remembering you.
Her fear enters the door ahead of her.
The fragile-silk side-step fear of trespass
that tells you she knows too many dark
hours — that she is a flower from the shadow
blooms beneath branches blocking
sunlight. Moves and changes come
with strong winds, tussled leaves
and limbs spinning the orbiting petals
upward — into this fragile day of sun
that she both worships and fears.
The sun is a powerful god she loves, but
the trepidation and fear of transgression,
suspicion, uncertainty — the suspect knowing
of humble plant to mystic star, child to Lion,
needful flower to the light which sustains it.
These fears sit down as a group on the ground
around her roots, crawl up to perch on nearby
leaves and wait and watch and then — Wisdom
cradling Mercy in her breast, breathes healing
and the fears recede for now into the shadows.
King Solomon asked God for Wisdom.
The boy David said how dare you speak thus
about My God,
picked up a rock and went to war.
The Queen of Sheba sent useless gold
to a King and then refused to forfeit her throne.
Bathsheba, with her innocent beauty,
a King and Kingdom overwhelmed.
Deborah got tired of waiting for a man
to do the work God needed done –
took up the Sword on her own.
Ruth was meek and holy and followed
Naomi where they were bound.
Stand up — King — Soldier!
Don’t fear this fierce Grace of God!
All you lose is the false “me” — do you See?
The Mother comes in many forms,
humbled and in tears as
Mary at the foot of the Cross,
in silk, shame, and scent as
Jezebel at the gate, or as
the whispered breath of Holy Spirit
a gentle breeze across the lake.
The Divine, sublime, all consuming
Fire of Self Discovery. The Feminine
Power, though disparaged and maligned,
burns deep in the Trinity.
So, step up
Cowboy — brace those pretty boots in the sand.
Sometimes you gotta trust God enough to Stand!
My mind is always trying to talk
my heart out of this madness.
bickering battle between them —
My soul watches — laughing.
These two contrary companions
endlessly scrapping and tussling
like kittens learning to grow up —
Meow! Shriek! Hiss, attack, tumble —
Oh, this joy of mock battle
to be ruler of the kingdom!
You are water flooding into each open crevice;
You are fire and red-flame lava burning me to ash;
You are space, silence, the great wash of wind —
across my body like cool breezes on warm days.
Electrical impulse of cell and synapse —
You are light exploding in every particle of my being —
And I am dying into the invisible storm of You —
And it is the most beautiful place I have ever known.
Dying to Love is the sweetest madness:
One never wishes to come back from that!
We Creatives share a cutting-edge vision, a specific energy and enthusiasm, and a way of seeing the world and life that is desperately needed during these difficult times. I would like to give you a sacred space to speak in and the opportunity to speak — in whatever medium you call your own; be it art, poetry, writing, music — and so here we go … it’s an Open Call!
If you’d like to know who in the world I am – check out my artist bio above for all those official details. Or, read through some of these blog posts if you just want to get a feel for me. If you’d like to see other artists and writers and work I like– go check out poetryisaverb.wordpress.com. I post occasionally on here and I read and select pieces off the web at random and by my gut — if I like it, on it goes!
Currently, I’m working on a slick-glossy style lit mag/art mag/mindfulness style quarterly. This will be a print publication and I hope to have the first print run ready to go by Winter 2020. I’d like to invite you to join me!
If you have an interest in further details, or in being included or having your work included on Poetry is a Verb (also on Facebook as Poetry is a Verb!), then simply drop me a note on here or you can email me at Marissamullinsphotography@gmail.com for more details and so we can chat!
I look forward to hearing from you and to our Co-Creative efforts!!
I am neck-deep in this wave-water of You.
That, all my life before
I only could stick my toe in –
there was loud-splash and timid-step, You
surging up around my ankles –
or, other times
in the bravest neurotic mad-laced hours,
I would close my eyes and run barreling
into deep-dark-swirling waters up to my waist.
But — Always,
as the sand ripped away beneath my feet,
the dizziness spun and fear gripped me,
out and back to the safety of shore I ran.
no solid ground-safety-land beneath my feet.
Your waves flow-wash-lap at my throat –
Your water forces–kisses-enters my mouth –
I rock-surrender-float, two toes touching bottom,
in this bliss of dissolving into You —
My soul begs You — fill me, immerse me, consume me.
My Mind cannot understand this madness.
My Heart knows insanity in love with the Beloved
is the only way Home.
Gulp the words down like bits of sushi.
They swim – gather – coalesce – become fish.
Drown the fish-words in wine and bourbon.
They grow mouths – whimper like babies –
mutate into screams.
Starve the words screaming.
No pens – no paper – no ink.
They transform become heartbeat, sweat,
blood – They cocoon into
emotions – fears – paranoia –
Ooze out of dark places in wrong moments.
Beat the words back like fire, with a blanket.
They burn deeper into the molecules of being
and merge with the soul of the mouth.
Speak the words that grow in your infinite silence.
They transform into vibration of echo and return —
There were a thousand lies on each side.
No one —
Won the war
Turned out to be right
Gained the spoils.
There was no trophy given.
The soul whispers for Desolation
and he comes when called.
It starts as one Want above all
in a fresh grass field
populated by children, flowers, butterflies and
becomes darkness and fire
becomes burning and ice
becomes a ravaged field.
Only space, emptiness, openness remains
after Desolation does his job.
When the lies have spoken their spark
When the fires have burned their burning
When the rain has gone away, the river receded
When the sun drops from the sky
When fear drives the chariot of victory
And his kingdom reigns supreme in your mind
When mercy closes her eyes and her voice grows faint
When the storm is unceasing and the flames of
Self-devouring grow higher than flight