Yellow like this coffee mug

Yellow like this rose

Yellow like this painted table

Yellow like this prose

Yellow

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, April 30, 2021

Everything has a beginning and an end.
Everything dies.
The seedling we planted in a styrofoam cup.
Grandparents.
Parents.
Children.
Loved ones
Pets.
Even us.
We will all end one day.
Not morbid.
Not depressing.
Transformative.

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, April 30, 2021

A virus called COVID-19
Can be sneaky, mysterious, mean,
But once immunized
I have been surprised
By days that are calm and serene
And limericks that are pleasant though clean.

Open to my own experience.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Feel whatever is there.
Explore it.
Stop struggling against it.
Liberation comes.
Become fully present in my life.
The real path to peace.
The real path to freedom.
Release the suffering to the Universe.
See what they will do with it.
And with me.

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, May 3, 2021

Silence my old friend 
I've come to sit with you again 
You whispered in my ears until 
My thoughts no longer could be still 
And the sounds I could not ignore 
Rose above me like a storm 
What else could I do 
I did not want to walk with you 
My weary body found no rest 
I felt you beating in my chest 
Then the silence I knew best 
Finally leaped from out my breast 
Then the world was still again 
Thank you Silence my old friend 

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, February 5, 2022

If you’re silent,
you can hear the forest breathe,
the holy hush of the tree’s limb.

“Silence,” said Thomas Merton, “is God’s first language”:
the way it soaks into your skin,
surrounds you,
blanketing you like the forest’s breath.

Silence:
The cadence of the land at rest,
the body asleep,
the heart awake.

Silence:
The deep rhythmic breathing of a mind slowed down,
an ocean still,
wet dew clinging to grass blade.

Silence:
The sacred song trapped in a bird’s breast before its first
            chirp,
the still of night across a desert landscape
wrapped in a bone-aching chill
before the sun rises to scorch its parched earth.

Silence:
The lusty gaze of onlookers staring at the negro on the
            lynching tree,
neck snapped,
life ended,
feet dangling,
back and forth,
back and forth.

Silenced:
Hands up, don’t shoot!
Body thrumming with a heady sense of power.
Hands in pocket,
resting pose, knees embedded into a man’s neck.

Silence, please.
I. Can’t. Breathe.

Silenced.

 
 “Silence,” “Trauma,” Oneing, vol. 9, no. 1 (CAC Publishing: 2021), 19–20

Suffering

So  much pain
So much suffering
We need the cosmic meaning
Or it makes no sense at all.
Help me in my suffering
That I will not cause
Others pain
Give it meaning
See the beauty
In the pain
Let me 
Live
Again.

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, May 7, 2021

Our Love

mystery
tenderness
singularity
specialness
ecstasy
nakedness
mystical
enrapture
intimacy
elation
changing the rules 
risk
endless
consuming
freeing
unity
individual
universal
incessant longing
necessary suffering
oneness
you
me
us

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, May 9, 2021

We Rest

Draw me close
Pull me in
Make your heart
Where I live
I hold you tight
Against my breast
Until I in you
You in me
We rest

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, May 11, 2021

The Invitation

You welcome me
Into open arms
Nothing I bring
No need for charms

Only love I see
Nothing else
Now in this me
I give myself

In a future
Yes we become one
The now of life
Has begun

Do not wait
Come to me now
Don't hesitate
Love bids Love

© Timothy E. Wahlstrom, May 11, 2021