Riding the Light –

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  • In the Sights

    In the Sights

    They’ve got me now. Yesterday I fell again. I didn’t say anything to anyone: no one saw me tumble, tripping over the step at Ingo’s stage as I looked at something draped across a chair. I looked away for half a moment.

    I am about to begin my Lightworker status. I need to guard myself much more than I have only flirted with before this now. I must do my moving meditations (my meds! / my media) with purpose & solidity, every day & continue them in my mind all day. I need that buffering shield at a time when all I wish to do is grow outward into the world. I’ve kept a low profile, but they can psych me at anywhere & have a vigilance level I care not to live at. The light comes on, I register on their board, & they reach around my shields to swipe me.

    In split-second timing, Spirit has already moved me, tossed an angel wing between me & landing. I am placed elsewhere, out of harm’s way. And Harm has nothing in it for me, after all, I wouldn’t think. Just carrying out some kind of program. Running the mazes. Needs to be repurposed.

    I have signed affidavits for the Confessional, I’m so clean. Right fire toe, right elbow area, bounced up off my front as my boobs provide a cushion. A little bit about left knee (are you kidding?) I am being brought into some alignment by both sides…by that I mean my ‘good side’ has no qualms about moving into heightened territory if it can be logged as a viable shortcut. I have asked my right arm, no matter what, continue to write.

    There is no holdback: there’s no other direction anymore than forward. The need for lateral moves releases by ones & twos. I continue to presume upon Eternity. I agreed to this unlikely path, wandering through the dunes of life, finding it to be on purpose after all. Now I bring shields up. Now I pour on Grace like no tomorrow will ever come. The more I use, the more I HAVE. The more I Am.

    There isn’t even time for pain to slow me. I will have healing by dial it up notch by notch again. “I’m ready” sings the voice on the radio all through this entry. I got news, Spirit says you’re ready, there’s no holding back. This is what I came in for.

    I’m letting go of the narrative there is good & bad because it’s so mixed in right now I am not sure of that. What I put my faith in is events on their own time can land hard or soft, but land they will & often at the strangest times. I asked for the comet to land.

    No one will make me guilty anymore. Everyone proceeds “as if.” Life here is conditional, it’s the ‘and limb’ part that concerns me at this age.

  • Transformational

    Transformational

    GRAND CENTRAL LIFE

    I see now, it’s become a spiral stair.

    That was wide open once, everyone together

    Rushing up to meet the golden world.

    Aglow with their eagerness.

    Yet one by one

    They moved by me,

    They moved around me

    As I wandered off to a side.

    I wanted to stand still & watch

    The people heading by.

    Sometimes I’d be joined in a swirl

    Of like-thinkers for a while.

    We’d connect in a literal 12-step program;

    at 13, parting ways.

    Most times, tho, I climbed along

    An edge, over there, into where.

    Alone

    Not by choice,

    But growing weary of departures.

    That’s where the spiral stair began.

    An idea “you’re better alone, at this point.”

    That only fits one at a time.

    I was unquestioning.

    I notice now the tower around me

    That when I emerge, I cross bridges.

    NEW INFORMATION

    My grief is not in my lungs, it’s migrated to my heart,

    swollen with sorrows

    not even my own.

    I am annoyed to have to pay attention.

    I am not sickly; my scars are well-earned…

    Reminders & I stayed on a good path.

    I did well when I remembered to

    Search for these with my heart-compass Guide.

    She tells me now to let go of it all, to go for the best

    Which I can expect since my expectations will fuel nothing less.

    I reach again Critical Mass.

    EXTRAORDINARY

    When it is time for Ritual, I test a chord in my solar plexus

    If it says, “Go fill up.”

    I leave the dry sand I’ve been shaping

    where it is.

    I turn towards outside in degrees

    longingly, almost fearful from being In.

    One word can set you on a path of looking through

    The Window at yourself, instead of staring out.

    Now you are in the Ritual world

    Where shelter is reversed from your norm

    Where you are a little less plugged in all the time

    Since it’s so much more meaningful to be unplugged.

    REMAINDERS

    I am sifting, seeking whole pieces

    Here there is one, a spotted memory for

    My back pocket.

    Who cares if it’s not mine?

    Life can get curious enough, but can

    Never satisfy our Curiosity.

    AND WHILE WE’RE AT IT

    I have overcome fear for long periods of elation

    Especially in traveling the road.

    I auto-resumed balance

    While here, on land, I am off-footed.

    I would know my chart

    To see if this streaking comet

    Of self-worth & reassurance soon arrives:

    To know to stand with my arms wide open

    In welcome.

    I just found prayer is the remote, pushed the button

    To jump-start my transformation.

    It is begun.

    Now I need take my bearings

    For the center of me,

    The spirit core, the one who knows

    Where they keep the wings.

    Angels fly because they can?

    What’s to stop me then?

  • Inner Child Stuff

    Inner Child Stuff

    No worries. Just a bit dug around in

    Like some dry earth garden

    Attacked with an unmerciful hoe.

    This happened when I realized

    That thing I used to say, that I didn’t like kids much

    (There was no understanding to be shared?)

    Well, an impossible little Jack popped from the box

              When I wound it up:

    It turns out the child I didn’t like is me. My inner, to be exacting.

    Now what?

    No wonder she hardly visits, but has that,

    “my chip’s right here. Where’s yours?”

    We once drew sabres but now poignards suffice

    Honed to lethal: set beyond Blood –

    I think that’s my liver hanging from hers.

    I don’t feel too good.

    Hey, listen, I’d a sworn it not to be me

    But all this Later, now I look away & wonder.

    It’s only that it’s never mattered;

    I was so obviously wrong about everything!

    First & foremost, about her.

    I chose to misinform myself first,

    I chose to trust the weight

    If I balanced. My sign, too,

    First nature to me, now.

    I only know the numbers

    Not the matters a-weigh

    But sudden-like it came off

    There stands little between the wound

    And continuing on.

    I’m seeing myself again, this unnatural self

    Who knows no meaning save the cerebral

    When she must ought be found waiting in

    The confessional of Spirit.

    For the first time in years, I’m genuinely frightened

    (she knows everything: she was there from the beginning)

    My heart tears its reins from the

    Tethering tree

    Stumbling off

    Carrying that unholy girl.

    Now what shall I do?

    Now where who do I call?

    Once everyone knows everything

    I’m kind of barnacle embarrassment

    Who, seeing this, even knows me?

    They would never know my face!

    Do I stop then? No, of course not.

    Beginnings are all ever given to me

    I know little of middles or endings

    Most certainly not this one.

    God help me.

    The child is on her own.

    SOME POEMS ARE GIVING BIRTH

    An idea gone material

    Reaches for a pen & white paper

    Closing not around the plastic

    But on the idea

    Clasping it in taut fingers

    Saying what to say

    Until it speaks on its own.

    Too soon for me,

    I like control…

    While Surrender is much more eloquent

    Her vocabulary faultless, flawless.

    I KNOW NO PERMANENCE

    At three years, I pack stuff up & go

    I hate the restraints I feel

    Like all this time I’ve picked up rocks

    Instead of poked at clouds or found feathers

    And time’s come to put all those big things down.

    Some flash jealous, some disregard, or vanity, or to mediocre flesh

    I took no time; but like I said,

    She knows everything –

    There from the start,

    She remembers being human, too

    I more remember what things were called.

    She’s the hum of the song I sing

    With a child’s grace to forgiveness

    Caught with you, I am move in the Presence,

    In the DNA I was cast,

    This you, this me, you wise, brown-eyed,

    Braided child

    With two sets of eyes since one never was enough.

    No wisdom for earthlings; she minded

    Herself like a science experiment, full of reactions

    Of bromides, quick trips to the interior

    When the exterior redlined.

    This, that we thought a landscape

    Instead a portrait

    Most likely, a mirror.

    We both don’t want to remember.

    We both can’t do much else.

    What happens when the

    Earth-senses fail?

    Like some , yeh, think about it,

    About stuff I never even

    Thought about; it was more omnipresent than that…

    This is harsh, tho. Two at once?

    Embellish it now: embroider it now

    A black jet-bead ribbon threading the frame

    The mourning of what I’ve left of my mortality.

    Two senses in the same day?

    Lost to some disease I never wanted to get involved in

    Especially my sense of smell”

    Which I mercilessly mocked my Mother over as she’d none.

    “Carol, what does this smell like?”

    A dread call from the opened refrigerator

    Mother waiting, eyes over her shoulder

    Would I come into the kitchen?

    Would I dare not?

    This is a truly Cosmic Upside!

    Knocked me silly: my teeth moved up in my jaws.

    My friend said there’s more flavors in New Mexico

    Than hot.

    Now I think he spoke too soon; seems where I’m goin’.

  • When Totems Collide

    When Totems Collide

    WHEN TOTEMS COLLIDE –  1/29/22

    Calendars are fetishes

    We wear them for the same reasons

    Totems are grounding

    Stabilizing

    Organizing

    Isn’t that the definition of calendars?

    Now you wear time on your wrist

    How could anything else work?

    We hid our power in the creases –

    Power now inked upon the skin

    “Wearing your heart on your sleeve”

    Was less obvious in my day.

    Secrecy as currency

    Dispensed for display.

    UNTITLED – 2/12/22

    She lived her life in minutes

    While hours thundered by

    Sometimes attentive, she slapped flanks to hurry their

    Return to pulsing seconds.

    We almost galloped ourselves

    Until age returned us close enough

    To beginnings

    To make a study of time worthwhile.

    HEART, CAN WE TALK?

    I don’t know if you’ll cause my death

    Or if I just will dismount one day,

    Handing the reins to some alter-self

    What I know is I’ve not been Here before.

    The world gone kaleidoscope, & calliope,

    Altogether widdershins.

    When that Spiral only goes two ways –

    SO, IF I’M NOT ROCKING SIN, I’M A SAINT?

    METRICS

    I understand why

    That card reader

    Said the word, “Posthumous”

    When I questioned Fame.

    My timing began to stagger the 2nd time I broke my right arm.

    Repetition never bores a universe.

    Destined to “repeat it?”

    Or did I just replay it

    To see if I’d missed much.

    CONDENSED

    As I was, I folded up even more

    Squeezing off fear of death,

    Entering that perpendicular

    Funicular

    Up

    It didn’t happen the next day, though

    Actually, a decade went by

    Before I unpacked it fully.

    Sitting as it was, on the suitcase stand in my room.

    ONCE UPON A TIME OF EVER-AFTER

    We were crowned with living butterflies

    Stars winked in eyebrows

    Powers transported us with leis

    Of lily & frangipani

    We rose into that eternal clarity

    In full power & reason,

    We sailed easily into that divine

    So promised.

    I’m headed back there now –

    Having seen enough here

    To know I need to maybe think it out again

    Playing “hide & seek in the desert”

    Never sequoia, only tumbleweed.

  • Sanctuary

    Sanctuary

    If churches had no doors

    would the gods come out among the people?

    curious to see how that other half lives

    having heard so many bizarre tales.

    Each of us would know them differently

    disbelief never stopped a god…

    would the people discover churches

    their lean acoustics

    the affinity for sound, the hard benches

    bouncing it into distortion.

    yet even so, the perfect place for anonymous speaking,

    for stealth-level sharing.

    some might become coffee houses…or libraries

    All the prayers, the dreams of hope & glory

    — everyday glory that is —

    rising up, scenting the fresh air of ideas.

    Would the gods visit other churches?

    Ringing a familiar steeple bell as calling card

    or wander pastures, playgrounds, parklands?

    Who among them would you recognize?

    Who among us would they know?

  • Poems In A Jar

    Poems In A Jar

    Dedicated to my sister, Teri, who died on her 80th birthday last January – R.I.P.

    THIS LITTLE BAG OF SINS

    Keeps me from heaven

    You see, it will not cross the sill

    My feet are sore from walking

    My fingers clenched with Will

    I’ve left it by the roadside

          Several times, many miles

    But it found its way through mirrors

          Devious with wiles

    This bag of small wrongdoings

          Heavier than lead

    Weary years of travel

          For what?!? These all are dead.

    I sat a while longer

          Just watching heaven’s lights

    A wretch in rags & sandals

          A refugee of night

    A passing angel called me

          I wakened with a start

    “I’ve something here to give you.”

          Then he handed me my heart

    That movement took a lifetime

          As he stood, he took my hand

    I turned to find Forgiveness

          In a pyramid of sand.

    ~~1/25/22   carol borsello

    DINOSAURS WERE A RUSSIAN PLOT

    Nah, they just jumped off an asteroid, see?

    Or maybe Nibiru

    Tough old hides rolling down valleys

    Clearing off nature

    After glaciers allowed eggs

    Bigger was better, they surmised

    That they ruled was no surprise

    The mystery of their demise

    A patchworked web of compromise

    Enough for me that they are gone!

    Where once they rolled, I make my home.

    POEMS ARE SO MUCH FUN!

    They climb out one by one

    Looking around before coming aboveground

    Their bodies well-rounded

    Identities impounded

    Compounded, surrounded

    They shake themselves off

    And put on their hats

    They walk through the Earth

    But yo, I never worry

    The kids are all fine

    It’s Mom who’s more usually out of her mind.

    EACH DAY DECANTED

    Of fine spirits

    Distilled by masters

    Trod upon by maidens with purpled feet

    A day rides the border of night

    To that same eastern horizon

    Then swarms uphill

    Touching everything

    With fingers trusting life

    TOO YOUNG

    For a gun

    He used his words instead

    We prayed

    He slayed

    His road still made of lead.

  • ALL NIGHT WAITING FOR FOOD

    ALL NIGHT WAITING FOR FOOD

    ALL NIGHT WAITING FOR FOOD

    What does she think?

    This bob-tail cat, acolyte of the supper dish

    Folded upon her paws

    Eyes slitted, hunched on frozen ground.

    Hunger has infinite patience.

  • Tabula Rasa to Rosetta Stone

    Tabula Rasa to Rosetta Stone

    TABULA RASA to ROSETTA STONE

    My heart is a water-walker

    Knowing fire comes before air or earth

    Without knowing how it knows.

    All runes writ on inner walls.

    I still believe clichés too well.

    Worn truths for campfire nights.

    So much disappears when ravens must be masked

    Rumor has no brakes, careening.

    We live history because we are that,

    We pass through time in slick shadows

    Claiming less & less responsibility.

    All those fingers pointing at me…

    No way to choose what was mine,

    Or clean it up.

    I hear they have snow on tap in Hell

    But you have to order regret on the side.

    We are all still dancing

    Long beyond the musicians fallen asleep.

    STATIC

    Scattered static, poor reception

    Stories of emotional electrical storms

    All natural & delivered fresh to your door.

    Sometimes I’m sitting in that

    1950’s Matrix kitchen,

    Linoleum & chrome, aprons on a hook

    A bowl of cookies on the counter.

    They should make churches of kitchens

    Each cabinet a chapel.

    ALWAYS EARLY

    I think I incarnated fifty years too early

    I may have rushed it a little

    But I know me – even on the Other Side

    I was twitching the curtains to see…

    I just kept showing up

    Till they let me in,

    A kind of standby thing.

    I didn’t get much advance notice

    Just the part I’d be a girl.

    I hopped on board,

    Folding a note to the wing-footed messenger

    “Tell them I’ve left, okay?”

    MERCY

    All of us breathless from the chase

    Set upon like lemmings rounded up & running

    For the cliff

    Laughing out loud

    At the rush of the madding crowd.

    NEW MEXICO

    My friend declares she’s done her “goathead yoga” for the day

    Bending from the hips since knees have to consult on standing.

    I found it a grand description!

    My flipflops are spiked like golf shoes

    Along with rattlers, the reason for all those Tony Lamas.

    FORWARD

    The kaleidoscopes have clicked, another paisley scene

    Passes for reality in one eye only

    SERIOUS CAMOFLAGE

    Central Control never got to center

    Tho I passed for rational at the time.

    Barriers retreat: Clarity flips on the spotlights

    Finding there’s no going back anymore

    And probably never was despite the muddy reviews.

    There was another opening line I had

    But by the time I found paper ‘twas

    Fled, like a deer to a bark

    While I turn in circles on silvered toes.

    TENTHS

    It’s the tenth of the month: time to

    Start its liquefaction.

    Months march in on single digits

    Upright & meaningful

    But this is where they pick up speed.

    Days can drizzle or pour, some

    Snapping shut to disappear entirely.

    I am busily escaping this meme of Time

    Wherein clock hands feel around for my fate

    I am busily unfolding DNA,

    Making room for the light coming in.

    HMM

    I can pinch that last nerve of yours

    Like a new mosquito bite announcing itch

    I’m hell-bent on being who I am

    Clear enough for transparent to lean in

    I grasp that slippery slab of dawn

    Two-handed, and a yank

    Brings it to my face

    Smelling morning up close

    Mine is the Last Word

    The very last.

    YESTERDAYS

    I walked the beach at this hour, turning up

    Shells & sandcrabs

    Hiding my shoes under the pier for later.

    The morning bypassed curtains altogether,

    Entering my room without knocking

    Breathless in its message: Get up! Get up!

    Into my suit & out the door I fled

    The two of us, giggling at daybreak

    Opening doors in the house of silence

    Out the door, down the steps

    Snagging a towel from the rail en route.

    Sweep the kickstand back, mount up

    Five blocks from the sea

    I hear the shush & boom

    Only a dune away.

    WHATEVER IT IS, IT’S INTENSE

    Dipped in morning

    Held by one heel from total immersion

    Nonetheless, redolent of early

    Standing in my tiny kingdom yard

    Playing peekaboo with the risen sun.

    IT’S USELESS!

    I cannot write everything!

    Not the curl of air along my cheek

    The ant I brush from my arm,

    The clouds fitted into the puzzle-blue sky

    How good it feels to breathe.

    The pacing of the cat by the door.

    Things before important

    No longer apply

    Lives of brown mountains &

    Fairy-tale seaspray

    An aloha of life.

    The fabulous bouquet of memory & mercies

    A seven-decade life to recall & restate

    Well-written refinements of

    Monasteries & memories.

    SANDALS & BALL GOWNS

    I’ve talked myself off cliffs

    Out of foolish love affairs

    My own counsel was wise

    If ignored.

    Saving change for the next time

    I pass a gumball machine

    Heading to where morning is enough

    To satisfy the day.

    SIMPLIFY

    Embarked upon the most complex of journeys

    Making my way through good & evil

    Trapped in conundrum, peeling away heartbreak

    For more speed

    Entranced & endlessly so.

    The invisible ongoing a most elusive route

    Let alone a destination to be had

    I would be a ridge runner

    If I could climb mountains.

    MORNING

    God’s second chance or ten millionth

    Embellished in daylight

    Fringed in shadows

    The soul skipping along,

    A basket over its arm to collect magic.

    AGAIN: THE WIZARD’S LIGHT

    I watch the plants

    Turning east to beginnings

    Coming into view

    Refining darkness

    Silhouettes becoming solid

    Profligate in green

    The trees assume definition.

    I have too much terminology

    Little enough experience

    A liquid comfort zone to float upon.

    Once a neighbor, walking our common yard

    Looked at me in the lawn chair, still-sitting.

    “Are  you watching the laundry dry?”

    He asked incredulously.

    I smile now as then,

    All these years later to think

    I may have glimpsed my Life’s Purpose in that minute.

  • Calendar Times

    Calendar Times

    My friend gave me Seven Calendars

    Added to the four from her last month,

    Gives me 12 years to live – a life a month

    Both a cram & a vivid adventure

    January sees me as The Beginner

    A six energy after the tests of the five,

    Building the stability of four

    February will see me shucking shackles

    Finding my Fearless Suit, amen.

    Taking it out to check it over.

    March will find me serving the wind

    Standing, as webs are wick’d away

    Arms up, as in a test pattern for flight.

    April puts me on the chocks

    Feet already poised to run downhill

    Arms braced to push forth into speed.

    May is Permission Month, I face the mirrors

    Checking each reflection for any flinch

    Seeing none, I shall start divesting.

    June sets the flight pattern

    Ablaze across a hemisphere

    My breath exhales to explore it.

    July sets a backpack of heat

    Across my cool plans, these meld

    Like good peppermint bark with red sprinkles.

    August shares me with the moon

    Introductions all around

    Handshakes, offers of maps.

    September sets an 11 upon me:

    I’ve lived thru the ten: rebirth permits

    Starting over in Spirit Time as a One.

    October farewells all that went before

    “Sayonara,” she calls

    Syllables on the wind.

    November flexes haunches to spring

    To leap the now-familiar moon

    To launch beyond it to the stars.

    December sips wassail in the sleigh

    Where overhead beams Heaven

    Our sole road Home.

    The Next World

    In the last 30 seconds of the bifurcated moment,

    the ones ticking down as I exhale

    I forget there may be meaning in this life

    I float to the rafters where ever-afters

    Have lodged themselves as breathed-out dreams.

    I realize the mine of my life is up to me:

    I built this pier I stand upon

    Plank by plank.

    I watch the night

    Where darkness never happens

    For starbursts pulsing over

    I sent my mind in questing

    But my heart leaped free instead.

  • We No Longer Live in Lack

    We No Longer Live in Lack

    WE NO LONGER LIVE IN LACK

    but in the fullness of love & a loving presence within ourselves & hovering just beyond. Our Higher Self is plugged in, checking the connection, watching the feed.

    Anything good coming up? Something I can toehold onto here, & lift us up more? Get a glimpse of what my Higher Self is up to?

    (I see her doing the same as me, yeh? Only on a classier level, like in white rooms. In fact, the Higher Selves? They’re hooked in together all the way to Source (think of all the plugs coming out of that Throne! 😊)

    They’re all listening in this open channel. It’s what’s shaking Over There right now, I hear.

    Who among you remembers a Party Line? I do.

    Joe Dispenza says a heart in coherence thinks in pictures. Have you read the last dozen blogs where I write of someone going through my memories? Of the vivid pictures appearing – these are almost 3D – just add the energy of attention: watch it expand to re-experience. Many other resolutions can present themselves for consideration, but you need to blow right by these & arrive at the conclusion which took place in the reality where you currently reside (body & soul) (Later, & if so inclined, you can peruse these in detail.)

    Let me borrow your mind a moment:

    We are walking through Mordor. Each of us carries & uses a Ring of Power.

    Where did your mind just go?

    Over what would I yield – or wield – power? Only over the realms I now ‘control.’ I’m careful about acquisitions right now.

    (Even after years, this thought sets off a tiny chime that rings the universe and sets my brain alert – ‘Let go.’  That old cosmic tug of war between yield & wield with its one letter switched & its “I” moved about.)

    Does this make me a dumbbell? I mean, just to stay in balance, something must give. What am I willing to give for balance? Isn’t homeostasis where it’s all happening anyway? It’s where I aim to get to & be.

    I know this is all [distastefully?] egoic. But please consider I only am focused on this avatar – oops – even as I type that, I know it not to be true. Perhaps 80/20? And even that shifts. For the purposes of this blog, it’s this me working it.

    For some (SoMe!?) the pen is a magical wand. Tho not found in a toolkit, how many minds has it charged, how many thrones overthrown? The power in the pen is in both its use & user because, like any good tool that morphs to the shape of the hand, the use of all muscles, so does this tiny WMD.

    I need to let go of the pen & see the people I am speaking to by faces, by gestures, by the energy exchange of universe giving in to giving us ourselves because we are finally allowing & acknowledging it.

    “Nothing but nothingness” a seer says.

    “Nothing unreal lasts” ACIM says

    “Maya” a cultural belief

    If you have an idea where this might go, please share it!

    Love,

    Carol