Tag Archives: poetry

Meditation on My Desk

Angie's Desk 2I have finally gotten my poetry mind cranked up again. It has been asleep for a few months. Here is my first attempt of the new year. Blessings!

MEDITATION ON MY DESK

Water bottle, half full,
sitting warm for a week,
water for profit in industrial plastic.

There’s a micro-angst-gnat in this one impression,
chomping down on my brain,
one of thousands in the dark.

Reading glasses splayed,
bent, scratched, and chewed.
Need new ones, stronger ones, alas. Alas.

My cell phone, all smudged,
its black face beckoning,
“Wake me up, wake me up! Run away, run away!”

Stacks of mail, pulsing tedium,
these time-suckers, tree-robbers,
solicitors, thieves!

Dust on the keyboard, dust on the monitor,
another gnat-chastisement. Wow.
I can nosedive dark!

What a huge lesson, in this simple observing!
I will stop right now.
I’ll aright this ship.

Laura’s peace candle, alight and full of her,
touching my mind with her beautiful face.
Oh, Laura, thank you, for injecting the love!

A gift, a book, this one from Jamie,
another sweet sister
walking me home.

I am so lucky. So very lucky!
Let that be front burner!
Let that eat the gnats!

I smile and bow, a micro-healing,
and the phone lights up,
and off I go.

© Copyright Angela Hite, 2016

That Kiss

Moonlight through windowI go through these phases from time to time, where I feel as though something is pulling at my consciousness, whispering, “The veils are dropping, my dear. Just around this next bend; you are almost there.” Do you? Maybe its just me, but I think not. It’s just hard to put language to, that’s all. And its vulnerable.  And we have a love/hate relationship with vulnerability, even though we are collectively learning to lean in to it more and more…the stirring of the Divine Feminine. Rumi knew this place well. He expressed it so beautifully:

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives,
the touch of Spirit on the body.

Seawater begs the pearl
to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately
it needs some wild Darling!

At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face into mine.
Breathe into me.

Close the language-door,
and open the love-window.

The moon won’t use the door,
only the window.

-Rumi

Father’s Day Poem

Daddys HandsMy father died when I was in my 20’s and he in his early 50’s. Way too young! So I have lived without him for a very long time.  He comes to me occasionally in dreams, though, and I am always amazed how full of life he remains there on that alternate plane. Here is a poem I wrote a few years back about a dream encounter that woke me in the middle of the night and made me weep with longing.

Happy Father’s Day to all Dads everywhere.  You are loved.

DADDY’S HANDS

Shooting stars in the night, Daddy’s hands
burst through my dreams,
waking me up, igniting my girlhood.
I can smell his skin, though fresh from the netherworld,
still flesh and full of memory: Pall Malls, perspiration,
Old Spice.
I can conjure his grin and that froggy voice calling me,
“Angeler.”

We used to meet more often. It’s been awhile.
As a rule there’s detachment in his face;
I’ll dream him at the mall, for instance,
in a brand new suit, in a brand new crowd,
everyone shiny, and he’ll pass by without seeing me.
I don’t take it personally. These are the veils,
I guess.
He can cross over;
he just can’t quite reach me.

Tonight, though, his hands make it through,
freckled and rough and smelling like the man I knew.
The nails are buffed (he always tried so hard),
but there’s no mistaking their earthly stuff,
the masculine brand of my own,
piercing the veils, tapping me awake, then
dissolving into stardust.
I sniff my own palms for connection,
place them on my face,

and a canopy of mourning flutters down and around.
Suspended in time,
I float in a gossamer bubble of goodbye,
having outlived him by years now,
forever his little girl.

©2008 Angela Hite. All Rights Reserved.