Today I post my 500th poem on Rumi and The Shadow! I can hardly believe it.
I dedicate this poem to my Inner Beloved and Rainbow Eagle.
For the No, I’ll stay restrained
Remaining all the same old strange
But for the Yes that feels fleshed
I’ll be the New that’s oddly blessed
For the Yeses that are weak
I’ll be the claw, I’ll be the beak
Pecking at the no’s and nots
Tearing all those noisy knots
For the Yes that is still stuck
I’ll take my talons, rip it up
But for the unbridled Yes
I’ll chirp like the firstly bird
Singing up the morning light
Until the thing itself takes flight
For the undressed Yes indeed
I’ll beat every wing in me
With all my rainbow feathers flocking
Giving all my hearts to hawks
And for the best and brightest Yes
I’ll be the falcon fearless flying
I’ll be the eagle eye so keen
And soar the Greatest Show yet seen
Welcome to my den within
The fire here is bright and warm
All double-heartedness dissolves
A throbbing vital peace resolved
The fire now is strong and steady
Come inside when you are ready
Enter when you’re full of joy
Or when you’re sad or tired
Even with your worries, welcome
You’ll find comfort by the fire
Lay your head in my lap when
All the troubled storms roll in
You’ll find rest by being heard
I’ll soothe you with the best of words
Caress you with my mighty paws
Healing with a sacred pause
We’ll tell tales ‘round flickering flames
singing songs and playing games
For no one else has come this far
into the holy den of my heart
The deepest nook is yours inside
To dream and play or even hide
Beyond the boulder, past the light
Past the last stone stalactites
A silent and still pool abides
Mirroring your moon-heart with delight
And though I am yet a wild bear
Mine is no mere wintry lair
I want to share my cave with you
Begin to build a life anew
So if you crave the other seasons
No need of knocks or even keys—I
Invite you in my deeply den
to craft a cozy home within
This river will be here
long after the country for which it is named
is lost to time
She is her own nation–
one for hearts as young
as she is old
In the headwaters, the pull begins—she sees the sea and commits
In the heartwaters, she finds her flow
creating a new country
with turns and tides
wides and lows
In the bellywaters, she takes her fill
In the soulwaters, she’s finally still
When asked to which country I belong
I said, I’m a citizen of her flow.
Owl doesn’t need to be seen
but occasionally becomes visible as an offering.
When one no longer needs to be seen
one becomes the Big Eye.
Vision as gift of the night,
hoots as prayers of the forest.
My promising career as a mystic-poet
got derailed by a degree or two
by a degree or two.
I cracked the academia nut–I was good at it
but it required my vice-grip head
and not much more.
The other whats/fires/rivers in me needed
to be used, seen and swam, sworn and gutted
I stopped swirling and started focusing
and for that I got:
and ample numbness
that infected it all like giardia
I was a 3-sided dice
winning the wrong things.
I was a devotee surrendering to the wrong things
with the wrong parts
and the doorway closed.
He appears in my dreams—
in the spring I kiss the grizzly on the snout
our eyes meet and I am blessed.
But in the winter he charges me from the forest edge.
And I know there is no escape:
He is wild and I am drunk
I wobble and then freeze in fear—he intends to devour me.
I accept my glorious annihilation.
It is the same bear.
And he is me.