In my previous post I concluded with the first in a series of new prose poems, along with its companion drawing--a vision of an Angel holding a lamp illuminating the good green path of life. This is my Spirit Guide and Creative Muse. These prose poems represent the next evolution of my writing, but only as that literary change corresponds to the further evolution of my soul. With these earliest prose poems I was still tentatively feeling my way into new territory--which is why "A Branch", although already in the three stanza form which characterizes each poem of the entire series, is so brief. But in the second prose poem presented here--"Facing It"--I began to expand the size to nearly what it would be for the rest of these pieces.
This commitment to continuously "make it new" is the only way I know to prevent burning out and drying up as a writer--keep growing, keep changing, keep reinventing my creative self, keep starting afresh with Beginner's Mind.
A BRANCH
forking this way but not that it's my life both green and dried out fruitful and barren once the buds crowded and jostled for room now I carefully tend each never knowing if there'll be more
certain olive branches were extended but I refused them others I offered were spurned I craved peace but feared touching the branch of my being angled farther and farther from the rest
but still a branch still connected to something immense unknowable with roots that plunge deep beyond sight or hearing when the wind takes me I dance not needing to understand why
***
FACING IT
face it that's what we say about death truth facts the music even as our face itself breaks apart sags down splits up into creases and fissures I try willing my words to crackle with the fire of twenty years ago! but something's missing and won't come back a billion brain cells or maybe just the delusion that what they thought actually matters
little by little like it or not my face turns slowly away from this world my attachments here my craving for another body to hold and be held by another heart to break with my going faces that once were fixed stars gradually disappear long forgotten names stare blindly from an old address book I release them all they fall through my hands
turning slowly away from this world what is it we face into? what new world compels our attention requires our gaze? I can't see it clearly yet but certain contours are forming certain shapes emerging their meaning seems to be this: what we call "love" is only a fraction of the Reality we must be emptied out and cracked wide open to receive it!
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