LADY COMPASSION WAITS
The day was rainy, sweeping
through streets of wood
like the Gods themselves
wanted to wash away
the signs and lines of life,
as we knew it-
And all I could do, was peer
through droplets lain flat then
dribble down windshield like
glazed over wishes,
tossed aside by fate-
It was almost eleven o'clock,
the streets were soaked with hope,
transforming time, to the beginning
of dawn where souls, were saturated
in overwhelming need and the faint
hush of hearts, fell across the land
as we gathered by the theater.
Mud pooled thick with sadness
pulling foot to pasture, passing
through the park.
I didn't want to soil my shoes so,
I stepped lightly among the masses
holding my struggles close as not
to scatter those seeds or lose them
wild to the wise and precocious wind-
One by one,
we skipped over pastel flowers
born from the floor and carried
into the halls those heavy transgressions
on humps, stationed on our backs-
It was the kind of journey, where relief
was only felt from the top, a panoramic
understanding, toward a gentle look back-
The truth is,
Everyone wants to be loved-
It's the emptiness;
that wants to be seen, to be heard,
to be gifted, with a glimmer of self
that hides in and behind the ribs.
The chamber,
keeping the heart hidden, compiled
and stowed inside the Emerald Temple
just waiting...
for the right moment to become-
You see, everyone wants the blessing
the shower that sheds the slate clean
We ALL want to start again-
So, we'll carry the load
across state lines, baring witness
to the potential of sages, we'll stand steadily
at the mouth of mother, waiting
to be swallowed whole, enveloped in new
but what will penetrate the newborn?
New eyes,
can only see from inside their great creation
they haven't looked out yet-
Perhaps... flocks of white
expectation could cleanse our minds?
or maybe, standing on ceremony with
praise and adoration could conjure the healer?
She's standing right outside the door, you know
In the rain...
Maybe, her own kind of cleansing
to make way, before the crowd-
So, we wait… because respect,
will open the door when it's ready-
We wait…
because her arrival is said to hold tight
the pain and take on the whole room softly...
One by one, we wait.
Then, suddenly the room shifts, vibrates
with the very things we carried in;
want to extricate, disentangle
and leave behind.
To keep the mud outside thick
and our souls light-
In time, she'll walk the pink path
to sit above the flowers,
to hover over heads of shame
and with just a touch, melt sorrow
into rain-
Lady Compassion, comes in from the storm
under yellow sparked umbrella
and dew aglow, in her cheeks of rose.
A luminous walk, across prayers
and praise meant to lift her feet,
a humble celebration of grace and stature,
she rises;
She'll feed the hungry and house the forgotten.
She'll bathe the sick and educate the children.
She'll sit above the flowers with hands
on troubled heads, circling warm tones
across temples, blessing one by one,
she waits-
One by one, as we pass over
the pastel flowers born from the floor.
One by one, as we kneel
at her foot and foundation, crying out
for peace within.
One by one... she waits...
She waits, for you
to recognize yourself in Her ways.
Lady Compassion waits...
because respect, will open the door
when it's ready-
- J. Circosta, Tiny Poet
Lady Compassion Waits, ©6.14.2017, Poems from Passion
The day was rainy, sweeping
through streets of wood
like the Gods themselves
wanted to wash away
the signs and lines of life,
as we knew it-
And all I could do, was peer
through droplets lain flat then
dribble down windshield like
glazed over wishes,
tossed aside by fate-
It was almost eleven o'clock,
the streets were soaked with hope,
transforming time, to the beginning
of dawn where souls, were saturated
in overwhelming need and the faint
hush of hearts, fell across the land
as we gathered by the theater.
Mud pooled thick with sadness
pulling foot to pasture, passing
through the park.
I didn't want to soil my shoes so,
I stepped lightly among the masses
holding my struggles close as not
to scatter those seeds or lose them
wild to the wise and precocious wind-
One by one,
we skipped over pastel flowers
born from the floor and carried
into the halls those heavy transgressions
on humps, stationed on our backs-
It was the kind of journey, where relief
was only felt from the top, a panoramic
understanding, toward a gentle look back-
The truth is,
Everyone wants to be loved-
It's the emptiness;
that wants to be seen, to be heard,
to be gifted, with a glimmer of self
that hides in and behind the ribs.
The chamber,
keeping the heart hidden, compiled
and stowed inside the Emerald Temple
just waiting...
for the right moment to become-
You see, everyone wants the blessing
the shower that sheds the slate clean
We ALL want to start again-
So, we'll carry the load
across state lines, baring witness
to the potential of sages, we'll stand steadily
at the mouth of mother, waiting
to be swallowed whole, enveloped in new
but what will penetrate the newborn?
New eyes,
can only see from inside their great creation
they haven't looked out yet-
Perhaps... flocks of white
expectation could cleanse our minds?
or maybe, standing on ceremony with
praise and adoration could conjure the healer?
She's standing right outside the door, you know
In the rain...
Maybe, her own kind of cleansing
to make way, before the crowd-
So, we wait… because respect,
will open the door when it's ready-
We wait…
because her arrival is said to hold tight
the pain and take on the whole room softly...
One by one, we wait.
Then, suddenly the room shifts, vibrates
with the very things we carried in;
want to extricate, disentangle
and leave behind.
To keep the mud outside thick
and our souls light-
In time, she'll walk the pink path
to sit above the flowers,
to hover over heads of shame
and with just a touch, melt sorrow
into rain-
Lady Compassion, comes in from the storm
under yellow sparked umbrella
and dew aglow, in her cheeks of rose.
A luminous walk, across prayers
and praise meant to lift her feet,
a humble celebration of grace and stature,
she rises;
She'll feed the hungry and house the forgotten.
She'll bathe the sick and educate the children.
She'll sit above the flowers with hands
on troubled heads, circling warm tones
across temples, blessing one by one,
she waits-
One by one, as we pass over
the pastel flowers born from the floor.
One by one, as we kneel
at her foot and foundation, crying out
for peace within.
One by one... she waits...
She waits, for you
to recognize yourself in Her ways.
Lady Compassion waits...
because respect, will open the door
when it's ready-
- J. Circosta, Tiny Poet
Lady Compassion Waits, ©6.14.2017, Poems from Passion