The Wailing Wall


A quilted patchwork of stone,  pristine and immutable to centuries of wind and rain and sun, breaks at the rim to blue.  Jews and seekers and the penitent congregate at the base of the cascade of ivory, a bulwark before the devoted and curious.  Tatters of parchment, icing the cracks and crevices with the glue of hope and heart, silently petition in their presence and poise.  The human condition, an impetus to our collective Muses as we face the blocks and links and layers, welcome of some ethereal ascent.  Motives of chant come in and out of audible, prayers bolstered in voice and vowel, or behind sealed eyes of the reverently motionless.  In the density of those searching and attentive and opening and silencing and sweating, you breathe “the breath inside the breath.”  Indian mystic, Kabir, understood the unspoken fraternity that comes alive in whom and to we’ve always been native.

The sanctity of the Wailing Wall, or maybe it’s a constructed sanctity rising in the air around it, regardless, is still alluring and enticing of a reality commonly lived outside of.

I miss it.

Lost Spry

I remember scrambling over the train, throwing my bike across my shoulder and climbing  stilled boxcars. Sopping wet, singing at the top of my lungs, and setting my sites on upcoming puddles promising the biggest splashes as I remounted from the other side.  In the spring and summer of 2014, the seams of  heaven loosened to historic levels of inclement rains on our semi-arid desert region; intoxicating balcony sessions filled my evenings with a slung hammock, interminable coffee allotments, and soul-wrecking books.

In the mornings, I had a circuit of figure eights I’d imprint around the trees:  praying and laughing, touching blooms and blossoms, whispering to the clouds, listening to serenity’s secrets as the morning bustle awoke, imposing her departure.  ‘Seducive’ has always been the tone of morning’s approach to my awake.  A tanilizing solemnity that enratpures and stimulates with the sensitivity and arousal of an old lover’s touch and presence, forever favored by time and its phlegmatic inducing; who is seemingly a closet, hopeless romantic.

There are trees I remember.  Scripted into creation for my discovery.  Their dendritic patterns lacing the sky as I lay on my back counting leaves, those heroic holdouts left self-commissioned under a moral obligation to grant us with color until winters reprise.  I guess it’s spots.    There are colors that have arisen behind my eyelids in meditation, eternally present.   The cool touch of rocks, whose embrace I still feel touching my skin as the seat to a masterpiece before my eyes.   Those places where divinity speaks without words and serenades without song.  Those moments of poetic glimmers, attuned to and surrendered in.  Symphonic interabiding of colors, breath, wishes, and bliss.  I have rocks and spots and trees held sacred to me. I’ve felt moments lapped in wonder.

I need to remember to be youthful. Remember to play. Remember to sing. Remember the euphoric moments ever present and waiting.


As the Earth Teaches: soft-hippie insights

I didn’t have to ask.  They were and had already been speaking, waiting for a heart to be attuned to timeless truths. The grassses and purples and expanse and silence and sun clearly spoke of a way of being, intoxicating and euphoric and simple and reminiscent. I was wooed by nature’s resident mystics.

The trees taught me to reach out.

Extend yourself and stretch yourself.  Be something for someone.  Whether listening ears to a songbird’s morning litany or a refuge from the sun’s bullying.

Mantras of loyalty to stranger and old friend bind their being.

The little girl, makes her plight, to shade and protect through moments of passing.  The avid book reading depends on your faithfulness to accompany pages of adventure and tear-induced writings.  And we all know you to be the arm we can trust as we swing back and forth to gravity’s invisible dominion.  “Lean out,” the trees say.  “Show up for everyone.”

The flowers didn’t console me beforehand, but thankfully wrote me into the ownership and stewarding of admiration.  I’m now entitled to beauty and all it’s beholdings.  They give me a new definition of self-disclosure, where everyone has already been invited into complete exposure to delight.  They offer themselves so liberally and willingly:  “Please take a pedal, take and pick.  We’re yours to smell and toss, revere and let be, or bind and gift for the heart of your love.”  They benevolently hold and hug the barren, uncovered ground “to reteach a thing its loveliness” (Kinnell).  “Be selfless,” they say.  “Remind others of their beauty.”

Clouds make a mockery of the arts, and their well-manicured, lethargic progression through time, meddling all genres in a day.  I feel they need all that billow and fluff and cushion to soften their oneriness.  Sometimes opting for minimalism in acute, archetypal drifts or void-embellished space in expectation.  You’ve had thousands of suns and moons to introduce and erase your work.  With a ob description “to captivate,” I’m sure therein lies divine protection from artist’s block.  Empty skies are ust time spent churning color combinations behind the curtains of mountains.  Reprised colors and hues, seemingly archived away from the past few generations of onlookers, stir anticipation and attentiveness. Fleeting masterpieces in extravagance.  Castles built for moments. The earth plays the part of easel, commissioned by the sky. Horizon, graciously agrees to mantle their works on his shoulders.  I’m sure the imposed man-made streaks leave them haughty at our feeble attempt to participate, slightly annoyed at our intrusion.  “Be creative,” taunt the clouds.”The world needs your stroke and song.”

Maybe I can be contemplative meets youthful lover.  Here’s to a “poetic instants.”