When I Tell Her (Lanie's new dress)

What vision is this,
glides across my sight.
Wings over brown shoulders,
blue and white; windy hair.

Does she know?
Is a vision aware,
of its own beauty?

If not, will she believe me,
when I tell her?

The Calling

The ages think,
and their thoughts produce worlds.
"But look! You can see the stars."

The worlds think,
and their thoughts make universes.
"I am here, and you are over there."

The tiniest whisper of mind,
extends forever.
In its freedom, mind can imprison itself.
"What is here? What is there?"

Try and give it back,
what was never taken.
Place a limit on the unlimited.
I vs I Am.

How does that which is everywhere,
expand? Yet it does.
I am with you always.

Your prayers are paper wishes,
over a cliff.
Your wish was to be someone else;
far below, the crashing surf.
I will never leave you.

The Self you are,
calls to the self you made.

You are the prayer and the prayer's answer;
wishing is not creating.
You were created to create.

The physical is not extant,
a system into which you slid;
a hand in a glove.
You made it all up.
That cloth is whole but never holy.

Your make-believe huddles in shadow,
as your creations glitter in the light.
You have but to turn.

You think your raging is real,
because you forgot What you are.
But turn now,
turn to the light.

Your prison has no walls,
and I am right where you are.
I am beside you,
yet I am you.

The ages forgot to remember,
and their forgetting led to dreams.
A great amnesia fell,
descending like a dark and final curtain.

Once, you knew you were the sea,
and the rocky shore, having invented both.
Now you think you're only the rock,
the unrelenting sea a force outside.

To this past vision you cling,
battered by the awful rhythm
of a nature of your own design.

There is no outside,
and words are a fleeting rain.
But words are what we have,
caught in barrels under the eaves.

Love Eternal

Whose rain falls outside your heart's window, each drop its own soul, that when it strikes the scorched earth, yet it lives?