I Spy: Bookshelves

Street Art Portsmouth NH

Fading friends
stand proud
erect with broken spine
on wooden ledges
missing inventory

taking count
this civil story
of war and peace
in all man’s glory
of whitened sheets
of mass hiss

moan and groan
these prayers to burn
in oaken coals
brightly lit
for all to see
man’s misery

and forged history.

Confession

Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.

11/2/2019 All rights reserved.

I haven’t given up gathering resolutions. I have relinquished a resounding voice; moving on to disturb the mystery, in hopes the Spirit rises to meet us half way. 

Silence is a remedy. A modern day deserted course that digs deep to uproot bitter taste and indulge in honeyed foreplay. Patience chooses to swim in the sweet aroma of (inner) peace, contentment and fortitude than muck around the endless anger of politics.

Rumi says my thoughts eloquently.

If you could get rid of yourself just once, the secret of secrets would open to you. The face of the unknown, hidden beyond the universe would appear on the mirror of your perception.

Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it. It will turn to gold. Resurrection will be now. Every moment, a new beauty.

This post probably belongs on my new blog Soul Signs. But in my inner mixings and until the picture becomes clearer, there will most likely be double postings or a runaway thought posted here on occasion.

I am not new to spiritual things. As a child I was highly in tune with the unknown and invisible world. I am a spirit being, as we all are or can become. I am slowly working my way back into hearing the quiet cricket hour. Knowing I am practicing these universal truths, to not rush to and fro like a disobedient wind is a step. To be a calming breeze on a stormy day, a leap of faith.

Oh dear.

Magic Carpet Ride. All rights reserved.

“I live in a shell, so I can’t blame people when they don’t want to crack me. But people like you are the reason I left the nest.”
Maria Elena, Eternal Youth

Mostly this blog is written in an insecure sense of self. There is plenty of advice out there that tells us to fake it until you make it. And I practice that on occasion, until I wear thin that rain-soaked cloak and find I can no longer carry the baggage. It is then I wish to don silken wings that have been packed too tightly in a box.

I have churned out several blogs over the course of 9 years. I have closed down those same blogs and in the process of shuttering the doors and windows of yet another, while simultaneously starting a new blog (Soul Signs) and keeping this blog moving into the future.

Borderline Crossing has turned into both a polished poetry site and a behind-the-scenes curtain call. (Definitely more of the latter.) I was born into a mess and I have only made the world a messier place to live. My inner imaginative world remains quite organized but when I step out the door and enter your mind with word and deed, I leave behind a less than stellar impression.

I am beginning to think I will never really publish a book. Forest Stories is my next brainchild. But then whatever happened to Leave No Stone Unturned or Evening Fog? Maybe just poems in this newest chapbook I propose. (Revision is never-ending!)

I have so many side burners turned on high heat that I am smoldering iron, too useless to make an impact at all. While I am at it, burning down the house seems apropos, with the cold water turned off.

So in fact, this is all my own doing. Right? If I were a plumber, I would certainly fix my current dilemma. Or if I knew a plumber, perhaps I could. Or maybe I enjoy the variety of a well jumbled day. Dishes stacked in the sink waiting for me to pause and enjoy the hot sudsy water. Rooms full of disheveled projects lining dining room table, coffee table, writing room desk layered with linen paper and napkins with jotted notes. Plastic bins stuffed with fabric and buttons lining closet shelves. Boxes of pastels, markers and paper, canvas and acrylics take up as much space.

But underneath an INFP is a deep oceanic peace. Yeah! ✌🏼 J

 

Tell Those Mountain Voices

11/2/2019 All rights reserved.

Problems that remain persistently insoluble should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way. –Alan Watts

Witness faith
tumble those bitter blues
cherry-glossed lips
bubble up forgiveness
to the ghost
of you.

Sheltered to never
tell about the demons
who walk surely,
roam the core,
hidden for half a century
likely living ever more.

Until this abrupt stop
where the old breaks through
to bathe in hues
of plunged bedrock
and will remain
until you disappear.