If my third eye had a tree house! Thank you Jennifer Herm from Pinterest for this!
When my third eye budged it was not
what I expected
not the milky way, a choir of angels,
LSD induced swirls on
some meditation channels
nor lavender sparkly like
the bedrooms of six year old girls.
It was sealed because
of my perfectionism,
an affliction like yapping dogs
that won’t shut up even when
only their owner is at the door,
their barbed tendrils impossible to eradicate.
Grace is the word pivot.
I love the smell on the roadside
when the berries are in bloom,
you have to be riding a bicycle or walking
preferably when the sun is hot.
I pluck warm nuggets,
let their yielding pre-pave,
the way I want traffic and my lover’s affections,
my fondest wishes to flow.
Grace is appreciation of tenacity,
to honor the service in yipping pups
and noxious weeds.
I felt Jesus once.
A “ceremony” was required
(aka taking strange drugs)
and paying lots of money to a “healer”
(aka a white guy with eagle feathers and heart).
I laid on the floor and was crucified.
It wasn’t what I expected.
There were no thorns,
no pain. For the first time
I laughed unconsciously.
Isn’t that the way with most things,
the love of your life
wears polyester dress shirts when you
swoon over crisp cotton,
the child who gave you the most trouble
is the one visiting you in the nursing home.
The pressure in my forehead
culminated in a horn of sorts.
unicornian, flowing mane
in a mossy forest
narlwalian, I swam through dappled ice.
rhinocerian, lumbering with
solid heft and steadfastness.
Most often enlightenment isn’t about ascension,
but to feel ourselves fully on this earth.