"The Author-Preneur with Something To Say That You'll Love To Read." #authorpreneurTJM

How Say We Now Goodbye

How say we now goodbye
to them we love and hold 
as ours. A thousand ways 
we hold ourselves in living,

but ten thousand ways 
we hold ourselves in dying.  

Every breath speaks 
to our love, every pore 
speaks to our connection.

Hold me in the silence
and the stillness as I leave
now, to become ONE 
with the ALL.  As I leave
to disappear.  For I am
gone but just around

the bend.  Hold me.


What Place the Dead

What place
have the dead
with us today. Where
have they gone in our
imagination; under what
marker, under what
sod have we hid
them away?  Or is
it under postmodernism
that we have tucked
them out of sight  in a
place where the dead
have no meaning or
bearing on who
we are.  Our meaning comes
from where we stand; and
today I stand on them.
Them, who are in me.
These are those within
me, and those
below
my feet.
My people.
My love.


Broken Light

There is a piece of God in silence, albeit small and kernel-like it is a piece.  Call it a seed if you will or a shard of the broken light. Whatever it is and by whatever name you call it, it is the same small iota of stillness hidden in us all.  Waiting.

Sitting calls it out. Quiet calls it out. Pausing between each breath calls it out. And when it has poked its head out of its hiddenness, be sure to greet it with kindness. For this is where your soul grows out from, this is where spirit touches life.  THE life.

Park yourself by a fire and watch the curls of smoke escape heavenward. Watch the tongues of flame lick at the wood until it burns with their same ember resemblance.  Without the darkness to consume your all.

The ridges along the bark, long fallen from

the tree, are maps of divine disclosure.  Look into their risings and indentations; collapse into the quiet of their agreed upon positions.  For the ONE that crafted their design, beckons you to recognize yours, and calls you slowly into the quiet.


Moon-Bow

There is some grief in everything;  
even in the light. 

A time when darkness is shrouded  
by a hard glow silvery moon. 

A smile in the presence of the dead. 

Do we not feel a damp and subtle  
angst and dissuasive play of emotion;  

a simple collaboration with consent. 
Slowly eroding the fullness of the dark; 

light shines, with varied dappled-ness among the tears a mourning earth sheds. 

Light saturates our bones  
‘til gladness converts the pangs hidden behind  

a gallant exposure to erosion  
and all that seeks to wear us down. This simple tableaux of diminished energy  and satisfied passivity.

The moon gives itself to the river’s tears -  and darkness radiates immense and colorful  bliss.

from, BATHED IN ABRASION by, N. Thomas Johnson-Medland 



Good Morning, Day

The earth
hardens and
turns a whiter
shade of firm
in the frozen 
morning hours 
along the stream.  

Purpling, the 
blackberry branches
grab at me
as I walk the
trap line 
of winter.

Silence is heavy
in the predawn 
fields.  The sun
holds herself ‘til
almost all at once
she rises - hastening
slowly one ray
burst at a time.

The birds of 
winter greet her
with chattered song,
and the stumps of
cornstalks crackle
beneath my boots.


Good morning, day!


Sit

Grow

each day
a bit;

from sitting
softly in
stillness and

silence
a bit;

thriving
not only on

what you find
around you,

but within.

May this
be

your 2019.

Amen.


To BEE

In the gently falling
snowflakes
of the gloaming 
morning light,

I feed the bees
of winter.

Listening,
ever listening 
for the hum 

that comes 
from their 

core of being -

community -
the hive.

For it is nothing 
if it is not a collection 

of all the cells of 
a large Bee SELF.

Each bee a 
molecule of BEE.

For, what is hive 
if not 

the gathered sense 
of an “I” among the many.

Bees expanding and 
contracting between the 
one BEE and the ALL.

The space between 
each bee

nothing more than a 
sign of the hive’s 
own breathing

BREATH.

The space between 
each bee 

the dark matter membrane 
of existence 

UNITY.

This, leads me to ask, “
did Buber 

raise bees?”
“Hummm.”