Simmer down little tea pot

It is only a phantom demon

Roasting you on a spit

Munching on your toes, perfect morsels.

Thus consumed we are pooped out a new.

Descending is not safe but I recommend it anyway.

 

 

 

She’s bored, waiting around receptively, tossing the golden ball

It falls into a deep well,  retrieved by a male frog

Who  wants as a reward to sleep upon her pillow

Not liking  the situation she finds herself in, she hurls him against a wall,

Freeing him, to be the youthful king, that he truly is.

His man, Henry,  who has suffered  from steel bands of grief around his chest

Is freed of his constriction also with this happy ending.

Here is the cosmic over view….The princess is  the receptive-yin feminine

Who then  uses the yang, assertive feminine to transform the phallic masculine back into his original form.  All  is made well including the liberation of the bound testicles, represented by Henry ( the man who rides behind the penis, King)

Bingo, all four gender forms are activated and free to influence each other for the health of the planet and it’s daring people.

 

 

How beautiful we are even as ashes we are lovely.

Anne and I completed this task today, she is the ashes and

I carried the basket and the shovel.

But who was it who burned a hole in the basket with the lite smug stick

and who was that masterful caterpillar wiggling  its way across her  field of white?

 

 

 

 

Our small dog rests with ease, legs open in the sun

Such utter repose.  I feel it myself,

After a restorative yoga class,  only four poses in an hour;

My nervous system is at rest

Sitting here, next to the dog in the late sun,

I gaze at the light on the water,  the edges blur

The day and the moment are mysteriously functioning  without me

My people, living and dead are curiously peaceful.

I am restored.

 

 

 

 

 

This is me and Charlie

My people have big challenges,

Sometimes I lay on the earth to  be healed,

Or me and Anne, my neighbor in her 90’s

A writer and a reader and it is getting hard for her to see.

But when she saw John today, she said to me

“Sally I hope you appreciate John’s  shoulders!”

We, old ladies ,can get away with murder.

( Anne Ripley  writes murder mysteries)

 

 

Nothing can be said

No explanations please

The female experience

The Father, Her Mystery, My walk as Spirit in form as earth

Yellow leaves enter the door

Her broom, My hand,

The inexplicable mystery.

The woman is the door, wait there a moment before you hurry on

And you just might catch her

Holding her skirt above her head,

Laughing, leaves in her hair.

Remember?

 

 

 

 

Nancy Wilson is a 60 plus rocker who  does justice to her song ” Love Hurts” on You Tube.

Check her out, black lace dress, old woman arms, all bad ass.

“Love hurts”  as my  unacknowledged  grief  doubles back on me,

Distractions, like  ranting at my husband, will not save me.

It is pure madness to roam too far from the pain

Much better to belt it out with Nancy—  Love Hurts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I say out loud,

“Here I am Lord! Hineni! Send me!”

You do so much for me, such risks you take on my behalf,

Even today.

Here I am, send me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We painted the teepee poles blue

And soon, they will go skyward in a circle

to form a spirit house, a place for Jesus to stop by

When he is in the neighborhood

Or my sister Anne or my mom with her adorable smile

Or Leonard Little Finger or Gerald One Feather

Tetsuko of Cold Mountain.

Bright beings on the other side rooting for us,

encouraging a softer gaze, a broader perceptive

an exploration of  feelings without  story

They take us in every night

Housing the spirit.

 

It’s Lady Godiva Day, Day of harvest, Lammas.

The Divine Feminine rides naked on a horse

And so do we.  Love Sally

 

 

 

 

 

And  a small pink,  hand knitted, hat

was on the cover of time magazine.

We are called to mother a nation,

By actively loving

In the places we find ourselves.

Or as Cortney E. Martin wrote,

“Just as our mothers have, from time immemorial,

Loved without condition, we must now love this nation like mothers

We  must parent it into a new maturity

We must not give up on it, no matter what.

We must be prepared to be surprised at how beautiful it will be.

We must do all this without knowing what form it will take

But knowing that whatever it becomes will be rewarding

If it is shaped by fierce, unending, active love.