Tag Archives: daily living

Crafting

Posted on by
Reply

Going in, I need to be
completely clean —
no burrs, no barbs, no sticky spots
to catch at the fragile web.

If I am to piece together
from these parts as soft and thin as petals,
a garment that will serve to cover us,
give us a name, a role,
a way to hold ourselves,
Then I must sew it deftly —
no rips or tears to render it
in need of still more sewing

So let me pause here first,
let all investment fall away
that I may be
a good instrument,
and my work true.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 15, 2013


Transition

Posted on by
Reply

I stood in transition,
hip deep in now-quiet waters,
feeling the melancholy of change, of stasis,
of muted gray and green

Then to the west
appeared a crisp rip in the clouds,
bright blue streaking out
clean and deep behind the weather

And without knowing just what prompted me,
I slid, snakelike, into the waiting water
to slip my skin and swim.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 13, 2013


Praxis

Posted on by
Reply

Sing, people!
Stretch, meditate,
Pray, make love, dance —
Fly to the thing that brings you light!
Seek out friends to laugh, to rant,
Climb mountains, find wild rivers —
Whatever will expand, restore you,
rush through you, ignite, fulfill you.
Give it enough time
to refresh your luminescence,
For when, in my usual ways,
I can’t find mine,
I can then turn to you
and be lifted.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 11, 2013


Sun Turn

Posted on by
Reply

We rounded the bend
into the precipitous edge of fall,
the sky’s dynamics
dealing real cold air behind the clouds,
the sun’s warmth 
playing for higher stakes
and sometimes losing.

It was worth it this morning
to dress at three fifteen
and walk, almost blind, through the dark house
to find and muffle a light
and walk down to the water
to see if the stars
(so many, so bright)
would cast a clear reflection —
many did.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 6, 2013


Martha’s Vineyard, Labor Day

Posted on by
Reply

It’s still hot and muggy,
windy and cloudy,
but now, baptized by salt spray,
I move through the air
as one who belongs here,
easing into the familiar lightness 
of bone, expansiveness of breath.

Crickets and small birds
sing songs of evening.
Masts of moored boats clank,
engines of boats and planes
stretch out loud against the quiet of the land,
the rain and thunderstorms
still pent, unspent,
but I’m no longer waiting,
now fully here.

©Wendy Mulhern
September 2, 2013


Symphony Road, Boston

Posted on by
Reply

Through the city windows throb
music and voices from a life
that is not mine,
though the tendrils of connection
from my past
still reach deep into my psyche,
and the allure
of living that life
with the skills I have now
tickles my dreams.

But my face in the mirror shows me
this life is as far removed from me
as those voices,
close across the narrow street,
stories and walls away.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 30, 2013


Logan Airport — Ground Transportation

Posted on by
Reply

Certain things can be written
in the roar of the airport terminal
where buses wheeze and screech
in the echoing concrete beneath the interchange.

The words are not soft,
though there’s a calmness in our waiting
and good-naturedness in others
in this slowing space
along the disparate trajectories of travel.

It’s too loud and hard
amid the engines and the beeping carts
to find an outward peace —
It is a time to patiently endure,
a din to send my focus inward.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 27, 2013


Designing

Posted on by
Reply

It’s a funny thing
that I could so totally inhabit another world
as to make a double exposure
for my eyes:
Though I am driving here
along these roads, against these skies,
I also breathe papaya
and avocado
and sheets of rain arrested in their slide
down a humid landscape,
and cool tile floors offering respite

And if there is a way
to really harness this power,
we’ll be off and away,
making things real,
bringing one or more new worlds
into the light of actual day.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 13, 2013


Harvest

Posted on by
Reply

I kept walking through spider webs.
Even when I tried not to,
even when I held out my hand against them,
still I would feel the sudden threads across my face,
hear the tick of breaking strands,
feel the sticky tickle in my hair.
As I’d recoil to free myself,
I’d hit another.

Yes, they were busy.
But I still got a free harvest
of sour purple-blue berries
pulled from their red stems.
I boiled them with sugar
to obtain a bright elixir
And I felt rich
and grounded,
at one with the earth
on which I have a right to walk,
on which I belong.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 8, 2013