Sunflower Shaman

Line upon line upon line
her pen drawn to
aging sunflower,
Shaman whispering
from page to pen.

Line upon line upon line,
inky mandala flows from her pen,
Fall sunflower letting go...
but is it so? When you look again,
pen dances to Shaman's tune
while dreams are given room,
bloom with each vision.

First a kneeling boy with feathers
then faces tumble, ancient measures;
she pulls harvest from her pen
then, line upon line upon line,
her pen it pulls you in...
Shamanic experience,
there and then back again.

Sunflower bends and sends
seeds of our need to dream.

"Sunflower Shaman"
Pen and ink by Tweed Meyer

Cobwebs

If I acquiesce to
a pleaded silence,
there's cobwebs sewn
across my lips,

for my loyalty
knows only you,
not her lover.

If I speak to the pain
of thee and she,
it roils between.

If I speak to her fear
she fights us both.

I would not be false but,
I would not be unkind nor
have my words between.

I pick up the cobwebs,
threads of light, of love.
With each sticky stitch,
I sew the death of secrets
between my lips.

Music is Moonlight and Memories

Auntie Moon she sings
to her a lace shawl,
shimmering
silver and indigo
lit from within,
like intimacy.
Her songs call my tides,
rising to her,
remembering a night
in the mountains
and forgotten
cowboy songs
with an old Indian
in his pickup,
shimmering
indigo and chrome
lit from within,
like intimacy.

Don't You Wish

Don't you wish
some folk still wrote
with chisel on stone,
thereby forcing them
to carry the full weight
of their own words
in that big ol' back-pocket
of humble experience.

A Prayer With Brother Joseph

I wrote this for our fellow "In Your Neighborhood" blogger, Joseph, who is a Catholic priest of open heart and mind.

A million grains
of painted sand
could just flow
through our hands,
forgotten and unseen,
life shifting within
a drifting dream.
Let the Spirit
walk with us,
forgiveness in our face
given over to trust.
Our face in others too,
something blessed
shining through.
To work together
grains of sand,
Spirit called to action
through a human.
Let each of us practice
our gratitude this day,
let each of us be
grain of sand that way

For My Father: WWII Bomber Pilot

There's a Quonset hut in Heaven
where all bomber pilots go.
It sits on the edge of the tarmac
in the pre-dawn indigo.

Inside the doors the chairs are filled
with each re-united crew,
the bonnie lads who saved the world
and gave the devil his due.

The men all spring to attention
when the brass comes through the door.
Not one sound was made,
they were needed once more.

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

Group Captain welcomes the men,
Wing Commander then takes over.
He steps up to the shrouded map
and deftly removes the cover.

The world spreads out before them
but no streamers mark their way.
No routed destination,
no bombs to drop today.

No enemy planes will be in the sky,
No ack-ack fire below.
The Wing Commander smiles and says
He doesn't care where you go.

Today the flight is just for you,
the world is yours as well.
You've earned it boys, Group Captain says,
for all your flights into hell.

Today the sky belongs to your crew,
the flight plan yours to make.
Fly till you touch the face of God,
today's mission's a "piece of cake."*

These were the lads who gave their best,
and they'd do it all again,
for love of King and country,
for love of flying a plane.

* "Piece of cake," was a term the lads used for any destination that wasn't Berlin.