The Power of Sound

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The trick of the eye
that sees what is not mine,
of skin touches what
remains external to me
of a mouth ready to taste
and imbibe from the world,
but then – of the ear that receives sounds
which find their landing in the heart,
filling my body with a shared
vision of our humanity.
I think about this,
and close my eyes
and without sight I can
contemplate what is left of me,
I still my thirst and desire for touch,
but the sounds – they remain,
the soft wisp of breeze, an insect in the throes of life,
the sounds whip through all the hollowed spaces,
cutting into the parts of me that come from behind
generating the possible spaces of our universe.
A picture is a slice of we have seen,
but a sound whispers and rattles,
beckons and haunts and braids our lives together,
and harkens to our ancestors and our unborn children,
and knows nor beginning nor end.
 
– TS

Life is Me

 

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We are not here to hide
behind the veil of our fears,
glimpsing out into the world
as though it is not always
running wildly within us,
as though we are not
part of the bright evolution

We are not here to be
more faint, muted or faded
than the world we balk from
as though we need to be smaller,
or for our actions be less brave
than the the bold expressions
that stir our souls everyday

We are here to sing like the opera
that glitters under our skin,
to dance to the rhythmic cadences
that spring from Earth’s core,
to sculpt our bodies like gold and
feel it rise through us like fire:
This life is ours to claim!

– TS

A Deep Kind of Love

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Of all the ways I am
if I could approach the varied
splendor of even one flower petal
 
Of all the ways I try
if I could forget, for a moment,
that the doing is already done and here
 
Of all the ways I ache
if I could remember, often, nature’s
thunderous power of renewal
 
Of all the ways I love
if my love could sprout full, deep
and harmonious into the world
 
– TS

The Mountain Dreamer

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The Mountain Dreamer
 
The mountain dreamer
trembles in awe
at the majesty
laid out before her
in two dimensions
on a misty morning,
the gradations
of grey and pink,
the cloudless milky sky
keeping her tethered,
still, to the sticky and
tentacled dream world
she is not quite ready
to leave behind.
She, too, casts no shadow,
her feet rest
on dewy ground,
a cow grazes nearby.
As she watches,
the mountain emerges
from the haze,
her shape etches
bold and clear against
the sky of new day.
The mountain dreamer,
still caught between
the parts of yesterday
that cling to her bones,
and the many forked trails
of her tomorrows,
lifts her gaze to the
great heights before her,
contemplating the mountain,
risen from tumult
to tower over the ground,
under the unimaginable
depths of sky,
on top of the world,
but still at the very beginning
of it all.
 
– TS

Starless Dark Hours

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it is not my job
to understand;
it is not the work
of a moment or
a lifetime to
be consumed
by the questions
that prey on the
starless late night
hours

that hold
and stick and
won’t let go
until the sun
makes its
bold ascent
and freedom
comes again.

The questions
are one mark
of our human
existence, yes,
but so it is
that our
persistence
in the face
of uncertainty,

our will to
proceed along
even the most
shadowed paths,
these are what
imbue our humanity
with its gold,

this and, of course,
our love,
both seed and
flower of our
understanding.

– TS

 

Our Essential True

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the creek receding into the heart of the jungle / the hydrangea telling of the coming rain / and there is no receding / and this blue / so rarely found among nature’s offerings / is already here / as we wait / even as we’ve lapsed in our believing / for our belief / does not give us all we have / (we are all that we have and all that we have is us) / but gives us the blood of hope / the still rock of our essential self

– TS