Living Morganism

Poetry feels like daydreams writing stories out of me. Little glimpses, if Soul may be, captured in some frame more ephemeral than photography. Images that may not stay an hour, or a heartbeat but still can be recalled by the visitor and unfolding each time anew, like a bloom always full with potential and a light, kind of like the moon. 2.25.2015

There is a knowing that pours in with the light when walking in wild places and a peace that comes up from deep to greet it. In this meeting I’ve felt the Beloved. My soul finds its mate where it rises up from within to greet the sunlight and recognizes itself there.

I've found a little faith remains. Some trust, leftover like a small piece of dessert  yet uneaten by the hungry ghosts. A small voice once, now, raising. There is a deeper truth still, there is always a deeper truth. Still. In this moment, this faith alive there is rest. I will lay my head down in it tonight I will dream of a wildness that nothing can touch or taint. When those Guests come sweeping though violently, it always seems, apart from what else Rumi said, they leave also a faith in all that change is. 3.23.2015