4 Poems About Spiritual Possibility, Including ”What We Want”

Becoming

Source of light that we are,
learning to appreciate
the magnificence of existence.

It isn’t nothing,
the beings
we are becoming—

portals of possibility,
alive with such
innocent evolving,

grace in action,
while life rattles away
under our feet,

spirits loosened,
growing
into our deepest desires,

gutsy enough to hold
our fingers to the gentle
pulse of the world.

What We Want

We want to be seen,
to be known,
to be valued,
to be loved—
for our visible splendor,
even more for our inner selves,
what some may call flaws.
We want to be accepted,
to be cherished.
We want connection
with each other,
with Mother Earth,
with whoever or whatever
we consider our Source.
We want to live in peace,
in radiant health,
the sun’s warming rays wrapped
around us like a soft shawl
against the unchangeable.
We want to create
something of meaning
from the depths of our souls.
We want to be valued,
to be loved,
to be seen,
to be known.

Enveloped by the Tides

Everything shifts with the push
and pull of tides.
Wood, stones, glass get sucked
out and waves give back sticks
of smooth-edged driftwood,
pebbles to hold in our hands,
rounded pieces of coloured glass.
Like the sea, I want to be open
for the world to pull me in.
What can be made softer
will be revealed
with love and attention.
What cannot be changed,
I will learn to release,
let it sink steadily
to the ocean’s deepest abyss,
where the resilient things live.

Humble Praise

Thankfulness is a smooth,
round beach stone
I carry in my pocket
and rub as a reminder
of all there is to be grateful for.
Today it’s the one lone bird
who arrives outside my window,
giving his all
to usher in the dawn,
and me waking up eager
like a child for what
this impossible day might bring.

For the seven wild turkeys
who show up
with their noisy gobbling.
Their sounds are sometimes heard
in the distant hills, but never
on this land where we have lived
for nearly 30 years.

For the cactus that blooms
giant ruby blossoms
only this month each year.
Sunlight soaks the petals though,
radiating prismatic hues
of blues and purples.

And for when I feel
I might never write again,
it is a special grace when precise words
come as a quiet whisper
in the middle of the night.
Half asleep, a thread to pluck
and gently pull,
the lines unravelling one-by-one
into the open palm of my mind.

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