Home From The War

Cat Meets Buddha (photo: Melanie Lee)


Home From The War
by Melanie Lee

When glory days are done

wounded soldiers always
come home. 

He was a soldier of fortune once,
returned home to lie alone
upon a shelf, closing his eyes to a world 
he couldn't really see,
soul windows wrapped in gauze.


One day emboldened,
he slowly unwound fuzzy bandages
covering his almond eyes
and  wiped away the ointments
covering his soul.
 
He sees now his youthful flings and folly.
It was the fight, the battle royal
the noble stalk
that had seemed so
grand and satisfying. 

 He remembers yet the thrill of the hunt.
Claws en pointe,
 orange fur flying, tail poised,
piercing yowls retorting.
 Possessor of flesh wounds,
regal bearer of scars.


 How soon those days were over.
He has come home now
to live on a ledge
enfolded in the afternoons
 by quiet emptiness,

 the solemn tomb of a once proud king.

Watching himself in wonder he notes the
 efficient and tidy rhythms of

one errant but stalwart heart, the
 marvels of two old, heroic lungs
 bellowing in and out, 
 a spray of stubby whiskers thinned by time 
but useful just the same.

He is faithful to this new place of silence
awaiting his moment of illumination.

The time will come
to roam free again
 joining lady feline angels
with twilight treats
 of sacred fish, magic mice, 
ascended birds and holy bugs.

                                                           Until then
                                                 he keeps his weekly satsang

with the Buddha
who reminds him gently
 yet again...

The alchemy within your soul

will soon give birth

as you sit 
and learn to stay.

Timing is all

growth ripens,

fullness happens,

life asks your permission.

Home from the war
the sun shines,

the Light returns.
You will see anew.

Grounded In Stillness

Sitting Still, Lotus Pads in Lankester Botanical Gardens, Cartago, Costa Rica photo by Melanie Lee



 The Art of Stillness
by Pico Iyer

 At some point, all the horizontal
trips in the world stop compensating 
for the need to go deep, into 
somewhere challenging and 
unexpected; movement makes most
 sense when grounded in stillness.

In an age of speed, I began to think,
nothing could be more invigorating
than going slow. In an age of
distraction, nothing could feel more
luxurious than paying attention. And in
an age of constant movement, nothing
is more urgent than sitting still. 

 --from The Art of Stillness: 
Adventures In Going Nowhere

a TED book (small books, big ideas)
 by essayist/travel writer Pico Iyer

Passage To Summerland

Passage To Summerland
17 X 15
Watercolor on Paper by Melanie Lee

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Passage To Summerland                                                     

Our guide was a Trickster

who always smelled skanky

we held our hanky

discreet to nose

 hoping fair winds

would deliver us gladly

from  armpits gone badly.

 Asses in gear sweeties!

Trickster yelled with abandon

Sashay up that hill, 

sidle over those humps.

 I  see ya, I gotcha

    now don't be a goose 
just look out for the bumps.

                                                                           

Darkling lowlands now behind,

ascent ground on blind

through smokey webs and blackened barbed wire.

Came a lonely blue valley with dusty red fire 

hosanna, we  fell on our knees in surrender

 to a large happy lemon

                                                       oozing hope from a blender.                                                                                                                                                                                

 Noon blazed high

when the end burst in sight,

 resurrection stood by

 Trickster shone in the light.

Fresh shirt, sweet pits

 cleaned up right smart as 

 lilacs from heaven bloomed out his heart.

                                                          Let go of my hand dears

he said with a wink

 I know what you think 

but I'm merely a link.

  That yellow? That mirth?

Pay homage to Summerland,

you're now guests on earth.

.

 

In Liminal Time

 

  Liminality  Acrylic (detail)  by Louis Michalski

In Liminal Time
by Melanie Lee

She rode in on an indigo dream

 all divine madness 

and sweet melancholy,
a cackling Crone in liminal time 
whose shadowed brilliance

promised voice and valor
speaking truth to power.

               Her wrinkled face of textured lines
held nubbin teeth in a Revlon Red mouth
 smiling blue rain and purple rivers,

  spurting wild ecstatic knowings
bleeding crimson hot and hard
 molten drops of
 apples, rubies, iron.

          It is when we are not sure 

that we are most alive.

How did she know what she knew?

                And why did she say what she said?
Her red lips opened wider now,
 our frightened ears came alive
Thus she spake to show us how
to tell the truth,
to learn to thrive.
       

                                            What do you count on to have a voice?

                                                      Something to say,

                                                    Someone to speak to,

                                                     Someone to listen.

 Too late now to turn back truth

 body hugged soul, we opened our hearts,
  our minds unchained, we watched her mouth. 

Out walked courage

followed by anger

surrounded by love
wrapped in light.

On Terra Nova

Grace (Pastel) by Melanie Lee

  The Graces smiled
as we approached, 
casting blue light
on places green and gold.

 Introductions not needed

 we knew who they were. 

Beauty, Creativity, Wisdom

sang their siren song that night,

insistent, raucous

hooting, tooting, rooting,

 loud enough to wake the roosters,

 sweet enough to turn the tides. 

  Polite but pointed we asked outright

Can you tell us where we're at?

Creativity shrugged. Beauty blushed. 
A sidelong glance as Wisdom sat.

 Be  here now, they said, 
simple as that.



Surrender, they urged,
Butter melts best in a warm oven.
Sit here a spell, call this home.

 Too tired now to roam again
wondering if this truth
 lay too far beyond our ken. 


The indigo night's embrace
tempered our fears so
  we laid our bodies down
like pats of butter on the ground.
Surrender now, we may be home
 Tomorrow, we said, then we'll know.

.

 

Hearts Left Behind

Hearts Left Behind (watercolor/charcoal) M. Lee

We traveled a purple road

just to behold
 blooming exotics

on crooked trees,

  lying in wait where

juicy red hearts

shouted pick me pronto.

La Magica took
one  look,
eyeing fat blossoms 

nestled in thorns.
"Get out of there right now,"
she screeched
"they're on to you!"

Scrambling then, and I mean quick,
no time to gawk or fret
gotta go, gotta get.
I'd learned to trust her
she-who-must-be-obeyed
"Listen up old sweetie,
surrender now or don't get paid."

Didn't know, didn't care,
what it all meant still up in the air
running fast now on my toes.
Look out! hearts shrieking in glee
 so close I could see
they ran redder than blood,
 flinging poo at me.

I turned then, faced them down
"Let me take your photo?"
 Startled they agreed, ogling, smirking
at the sight. Then
shocked at their thorns, they offered
apologies...so sorry, didn't know,
we'll leave you alone, we'll let you go.



Turning their backs they slithered away
   I cut up their pictures,
gave as good as I got.
"Be still," Magica spoke wise,
"forgive and forget
for they know now what they ought."
Pacem in Terris.