It’s Simple, says David R. Hawkins

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First, desire.

Long for God.

More than security,

more than peace,

certainly more than pleasure.

Intense.  Constant. Longing.

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Second, forgiveness and gentleness.

For everyone. No exceptions.

Forgive parents, employers, neighbors.

Forgive the dog that pooed on your lawn.

Forgive yourself the cruelties, avoidances,

the unwitting mistakes.

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Third, surrender your will.

To God. Every moment.

Each thought.  Each feeling.

Each longing or deed.

Turn over stories, then paragraphs,

then ideas and concepts.

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Fourth, maintain focus.

Unrelenting, allow not a moment

of distraction from meditation

during ordinary activities.

Habitual, automatic, effortless

focus.

This is how to know God.

From

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I am from the Light,

the book tells me.

I thought I was from Los Angeles

sprawling city of smoggy skies,

the sharp edges of Bermuda grass

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I am from Perfect Love

pages proclaim, but

I recall a dusty field edged by citrus trees

where I hid from the sun

in a cool cement pipe

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I am from Absolute Truth

in words of prayer

while the scent of my father’s tobacco,

my mother’s Chanel No. 5

floated above parquet floors

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I am from Spirit

in the Sabbath song, but

I hear Sunday’s swish of sprinklers,

the rumble of a lawn mower,

dogs barking in the kennel

Author’s Delight

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*Carl the Third, from Tangled in Magic, book 1

It happened at the library.  I was checking out a stack of books that my two grandchildren and I had selected.  At the other check-out counter, a forty-ish woman in a summer shirt and shorts held up three paperbacks.  I squinted at the covers.  They looked familiar.  Could it be?

I sidled up to the other counter, and yes!  “Those are my books!” I think I shouted.  I must have shouted, because the woman drew back, startled.  She seemed to think I wanted to take the books from her.

“No, no!” I explained (equally loudly, I’m afraid).  “I wrote them!  I’m the author!”

Understanding dawned on her face.  The library clerk grinned, adding, “She’s a local author!”

“My daughter is reading all of them,” the woman said.  “We asked Megan to order the last two.”  She pulled her smartphone out of her pocket.  “Can I take a picture?”

“Sure!” my smiled was wide. 

“Someone is reading my books,” I said to my grandchildren as we walked out the door.  “Somebody out there is reading the Karakesh Chronicles!”

What a gratifying experience for a writer!  I’m still bubbling with joy.

The five books in the Karakesh Chronicles series are available on Amazon or from the publisher, Handersen Publishing. 

Whisper

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His was a whisper of a life

lived distant from mine

the red-haired boy I knew

in fifth grade, moved away

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I thought him lovely,

with his hair and guitar

I wrote him in England

he wrote back—once

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He joined the music scene,

following his parents’ footsteps

Composed, sang, backed up

the famous and almost famous

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He faded out of my thoughts

over the years, then reappeared

in a box of old vinyl albums

in an antique store

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Name and face caught my eye

the album cover, red gold hair, beard

I bought it for ten dollars

looked him up on the internet

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He died at age 59, in 2011,

the year my granddaughter was born

A heart attack, so young

Drugs? Years of dissolution?

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His mother survived him by 5 years

Terrible, to outlive your child

How did he spend the years in between,

that boy I once knew?

At my desk

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my view of the street

three mobile homes

fit into the window’s frame

the dog walkers pass by

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bulgy senior women

leashed to

overweight chihuahuas

or mixed breeds with

Jack Russell ancestry

or a hairy poodle ball

with drippy eyes

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What is so appealing?

These dogs are appalling

ugly, squat,

beloved companions

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My cats are young now,

slim, healthy.

Someday, perhaps

all three of us

will be scruffy and flatulent,

too fat or too bony.

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So God bless people who

love ugly dogs

God bless the dogs who

love old people

God bless my cats

And God keep me from judging

Where

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Where

                  did he go,

that busy, silly man

with the terrible sense of humor?

Look into his eyes

dull, fogged windows.

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Where did he go

the fount of Irish blarney,

trim of leg but lacking rhythm?

Look at him now, silent

wheelchair bound.

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Where did he go,

my companion on Mexican highways,

the agreeable explorer?

Take his hands, warm and dry.

Hug the solid body of a person lost.

Miss him.

Love him.

Hold his truth and goodness

for him.

Music in the hour of waiting

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A youngish man, the music therapist

passes out maracas

to folks in wheelchairs, side by side,

many doze, a few eyes are open

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He glides through the oldies,

Patsy Cline Crazy, Everly Brothers Dream,

These boots are made for walkin’

under the boardwalk

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David, who rarely sits,

shuffles across the room,

smelling of shit—again—

Someone alerts the staff

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Leaving on a jet plane

no one here will fly anywhere

Talking ‘bout my girl

No one here talks much

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The music therapist always ends

with Amazing Grace, this being

a Catholic facility, those

who are here were once found,

but now are lost

high school reunion video, class of 69

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skirts four inches above the knee

long straight hair

ribbed sweaters, knee socks

panty hose, penny loafers

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khaki chinos, no jeans

Madras button-down shirts

pudding bowl Beatle haircuts

letter jackets football tennis

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lunch on the lawn

horseplay and hugging

Vietnam, the Rolling Stones

Homecoming queen

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Crushes and invisibility

(Never in a couple)

Clothes angst, hours doing hair,

Armloads of books

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The golden ones

Know they belong

We others watch

From the shadows

African Dance

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“My mother she one hundred three year old

She drive all over.  She so healthy.  Why?

She dance.  All the time, she dance.

You dance, you live long, long.”

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His luminous dark skin glows with sweat,

He grins, slaps a high five, “good job, good job”

Calls out a rhythm, “gaa-ga-ga-ga, left”

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The drum is so loud it sets off a warning on my watch.

Wide arm swings, fast foot stamps

Sweat rivulets down my temples

Heart pounds—can I keep up?

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I fling my arms, copy his gestures, his steps

Exhausted, exhilarated, big movements,

Breathe hard, hands high, rolling shoulders.

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Nothing outside the dance,

My arms, hands, catch my sight,

I’m startled that they aren’t brown,

The pale skin not mine.

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Perhaps a former lifetime revealed itself,

Or a future one.  The dance swallows me.

My diaphragm is the drum.  I express eternity.