A Book

A book is growing in me like a child.

It bumps against my insides

from time to time

I hum to it

when I think to,

I settle into the gait

of its weight

I sense the course of its development,

chapters like ears of corn,

words like the kernels 

Things remain mysterious,

like how it will all come together —

it isn’t mine to pry the answers out

A book is growing in me

like a poem. It will come out

when it’s ready.

©Wendy Mulhern

August 22, 2019

Dry

I felt my vessel

had become a sieve,

suddenly unable

to capture and retain

that which would slake my thirst

For though the day was not devoid of brightness,

I found no pool within,

in which to reflect —

just a dry concavity

in which to feel alone,

a place collecting shadows

and the sound of bones.

©Wendy Mulhern

December 13, 2018

Purging

I will clear out

all that doesn’t serve me,

books I never read,

shelves of past regrets,

all the inner stories that stunted my unfoldment,

wily and continual betrayers

I do not need

memories of weakness,

dire affirmations of historical shortcomings,

don’t need all those old complaints

or that dusty disapproval,

don’t need those assumptions or constraints

I’m getting rid of

anything that’s broken,

anything that’s worn out or outgrown,

I’ll let the spring shoots

fill in all around me,

I’ll let fresh new views

become my own.

©Wendy Mulhern

April 3, 2017

Creativity

Being creative

is part of the plan,

part of the everyday joy,

not for some but not others —

a primal fact of life

You are creative as dandelions,

as flickers and robins,

as today’s breath of wind

and quiet rain

You are creative

as the delighted adaptation

of everything

to the moment’s confluences —

It is your due

that every step be creative,

as needed as comfort,

as close as home.

©Wendy Mulhern

April 22, 2016

Under

No answers, please —

no answers from me, anyway.

Let me go down

to that place far underneath the words

where the rich shadows

snuggle like blankets,

soft undulations of somber colors,

and the subtle hammock swing

rocks me to stillness,

weighty as sleep

tugging me deep

to where the silent waters

wait to spring.

©Wendy Mulhern

April 13, 2015

Crucible

Oh, these things we are so proud of

and the things of which we’re so ashamed.

these things that cling to who we think we are,

these things we carefully arrange,

These things we call ourselves

and what we call each other

all must melt

in the rising heat of change

And what we are

beneath our self stories,

What we are

beneath all our facades

will seem a small coal

when we first see it

but we will know we must acknowledge it

as ours

As ashes fall away, we’ll see the glow,

and as we hold to it, we’ll see it grow:

It will survive the fire,

it will endure —

It may be faint as yet

but it is pure.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 18, 2015

Clarity

I need these moments

where the perfunctory subsides,

where its detritus —

the weariness, the dread —

ceases to be tossed

against my eyes

And the clear burn

of fervent purpose

lights my steps

and takes me deep

where the life cords course

in swift, braiding channels

surging me sure-footed and alert

through my day.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 8, 2015

Gestation

In the gestation

of any new idea,

there is a time for silence —

a time when the currents of words

would warp the fragile budding,

when the stream of story

would make it something other

than it otherwise could be,

when blessed stillness

lets it unfold

from its own impulse

till it’s strong enough

to hold its own.

©Wendy Mulhern

January 6, 2015

Photos by Eric Mulhern

Gifts of Light

Light dances in memory —

Images form from ripples

Under closed eyes

Scenes resolve, dissolve

All the harvest of the day’s sights

jostle and arrange themselves, 

parade

brightly down the path

that leads to dream,

weavings of pictures

forming themselves into story,

crafting a narrative

for the ambient sounds

There is joy in this,

Joy in the surfeit of beauty

that springs from each frame

of my eyes —

Everything, all day long,

So rich to look on,

Plenty to pour through my vision,

enchanting me 

all through the night.

©Wendy Mulhern

July 18, 2014

After the Effort

OK. Breathe deep.

Sigh of release.

Back from the surge of exertion

fall

the elements of me —

falling to rest,

falling to quiet.

In a while there will be little stirs —

What has this meant?

How have I changed?

(though for now I’m less than eager

to inquire)

Maybe who I am 

is the feeling of the movement

and of the stillness,

not as a form that moved and stopped

but as the impulse

in and of itself,

as active in the stillness as the racing,

as undescribed as waves

thundering home.

©Wendy Mulhern

May 6, 2014

Saturday Late Afternoon

I like this curl on curl

of you and me together

I like this curve at your neck

and how my face fits into it

I like your warmth

and the warmth I feel

as I hold you in my heart

We don’t need words for this —

the breathing is enough,

and the intersection

of our days of work —

Work of our hands

Work of our hearts

Following lines of fulfillment

all the way here

to this well-earned

place of rest.

©Wendy Mulhern

March 15, 2014

Magical

Well, the fact is,

we are magical.

All of us.

And we will see it

in any medium we engage with —

clay or iron or words,

seed or song or smiles —

Each will yield its magic

in response to ours

And the voice that scoffed,

“Be real,” was just the screech

of chains, the wing-clipping 

croak of bondage and despair.

It holds no place

in our right mind.

It is befitting

that we bring magic

to all we do,

that we call forth

profound cooperation,

hitherto unseen gifts

from what we work with,

that we be magical.

It is the secret key of wisdom,

forged in love,

and it is real.

©Wendy Mulhern

December 19, 2013

Supply

Within Love’s infinity

there’s enough 

to craft everything —

enough scope, enough minute attention,

enough mastery, enough variation,

enough presence.

No fear or failure is required

for any true creation.

Here we are.

Here is the current canvas

and the moment’s brushstrokes,

Here is the object of our inspiration,

Here is our power to wield the artist’s tools

and bring each hidden gift to view.

©Wendy Mulhern

September 21, 2013

Living at the cambium

I start to understand

living at the cambium —

that thin and vibrant layer

between structure and protection

where everything is new-born

and anything can change

I may have viewed my life

projected over time

as some determined specimen

which could be judged and graded

and would end

But here in this experience

of ever-new creation

in the eager greening 

before the form —

this place of generation

which pushes out the growing tips

and thrives,

There is no noun of me,

no stepping back for an assessment,

no self-image, nothing to defend,

just this new greenness,

this reverberating verb, 

the forming of a now that never ends.

©Wendy Mulhern

July 25, 2013

Incubation

There is great value

in the unformed place

where the bee dance of particles

buzzes and clusters,

groups and regroups,

and a new understanding

can start to emerge,

something that’s shared,

something that joins

entities that had been separate

in some grand and wild

sliding together space

where all prior sets

of intents and opinions

are widely thrown away

And in the fresh fertility of union,

quick shoots start up,

vigorous and smooth.

New air is touched

in wonder by leaves

that had been, till then,

unimagined,

that now can take their place 

in the lush, emergent forest,

doing the sun work

to bring the great dream into being.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 24, 2013

Still

In the absence of words

the mind still does its melodies

sometimes with attention,

sometimes not,

and images may rise to meet the tunes

In the absence of conscious thought

the breath of life can still entrance —

so many variations to its inrush,

so many swirls within the currents

of its outward flow

In the absence of direction

the heart’s impulse, still present,

guides the mind into the stillness

before the words —

the quiet spring,

the soft upwelling

of what most needs to be heard.

©Wendy Mulhern

June 19, 2013

Art and Song

Even art,

even song

Rise up from the joy of perfect systems,

echoes of the primal dance of oneness

which everything that thrives

must celebrate

Or in its absence

Art and song reach forth

like species pioneers

beneath the damaged soil

and spread their green above

to help restore that primal dance again.

©Wendy Mulhern

May 26, 2013

For Heather at finals time

For you to be

exactly what you are

doesn’t take a miracle

That what you are

is astoundingly perfect

in each creation, every interaction

should be no surprise

That “perfect” be defined

by the eternal laws of Life,

of seamless symbiosis, joyful thriving,

pure delight,

Makes perfect sense,

for the great source

from which we all have come

Gives us our impulse, our guidance

and our home.

©Wendy Mulhern

April 28, 2013

An Invitation

Change my mind —

I invite you —

For though I may resist

at first,

I welcome

the free fall that comes

when my prior suppositions

are knocked away —

That airy, floating weightlessness

in which begins to coalesce

a new perspective,

And I start to grasp:

The world is bigger than I thought.

There is more room than there was before

within my mind’s horizons

For expression,

For free flying,

For opening outward and outward,

Unfolding in new bloom. 

©Wendy Mulhern

April 7, 2013

Learning to draw

On this canvas of depiction

Forms are made of interplay

of light and shadow

Gradients from grey to black

and grey to white

Train the light to show a depth of landscape

Light behind or light in front

Shadow from above or under

Where the eye will go

is led by light and dark

Now mine to choose, to bring out, to discover

Such a simple touch

invokes so much!

I walk amazed

into the world my pencil has created

On such a tiny square

with so few strokes!

©Wendy Mulhern

December 16, 2012