Waking Up To Consciousness

Published in Rebelle Society

 © Susan Marie 

You know those moments when you thought, “Wow, I almost died!”

Right now, I can feel a scar on the side of my neck left by an innocent bee that stung me in September, and once again, I almost died.

Yet, I am alive.

I look at such times as windows. Portholes in life where one small instance, a millisecond, saved our lives.

Each instance causes me to question my path, purpose, every fiber of my being and those connected to me and this immense human family I belong to — all of us swirling around in a globe, wondering why we are here.

There are times that you simply must capture, just for a moment. The start of each day before it begins, when birds trill selflessly against a beyond cerulean sky.

Listen, do you hear that?  
Shh. Go ahead, open the window, walk outside. 
Take a look around you and do not forget to look UP. 

Harness that every day, right now, bring that into yourself, the woods and forests, the turns and paths, the leaves and trees and Earth. Take a walk, work in your garden, play with your children, create art, write, sing, dance, whatever it is that you do that brings you to life — that feeling — harness that.

Catch first morning rays breaking through limbs when the dew kisses the leaves, ever so loving.

Stand with your back against the spine of Mother Nature, tilt your head upwards, maniacal, and be happy planted pure, in her face, the dirt, her blood, the bones, her roots, your feet, and feel complete because my dear soul, you are home.

Walking out of nature, energy shoots right out of my back between my shoulder blades. A celestial shotgun to the sternum — shazam!

The entire front of me guarded, preparing me for stepping back into society. In those moments, I am weightless and able to fly, and I spread my wings — glorious and majestic — and thank Dear Earth for unblocking what keeps me chained to myself. I realize then the extent of the power of consciousness.

It is a blessing to walk into this. Everybody is in a rush, caught up in whatever. 

I am mesmerized by the sun, the way she dances and dapples, illuminating leaves with paprika and turmeric. The veil is with me always, where I am able to move my hand, lucid and glass-like, lifting silken skirts of varied states of existence.

I blankly stare at people walking and kids riding bikes, and somehow, I don’t belong; somehow, I’m somewhere else; somehow, my spirit is screaming to be let free; somehow, I’m here, yet somehow no one notices me.

Two worlds within one: illusion, reality.

Traffic traffic, traffic… there’s got to be more to life than waiting. How do we live like this? Look at this! Look at us all, turning and waiting and going, and everybody is suddenly addicted to being busy. What are you busy with?

What is your purpose?

Why are you here?

Where did you come from?”

I am a bastard child of the new world.

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The lone late rose

Published on Mogul

The lone late rose cut -
from thorns and bramble,
uprooted from limbs as legs,
and burnt sienna skied roots.

The lone late rose,
a most holy November
one of Indian summers,
of love lost,
re-birthed
and blessed.

The lone late rose
upon Italian marble,
stoic and bold,
beauteous and courageous,
sits. 

The lone late rose cut
as cheeks blushed,
as sweet cherry bitters,
slender and heavenly,
like Madonna and child,
like daVinci sketching
a divine revelation
on canvas.

The lone late rose was cut,
and the wind howled,
and the heavens cried,
and the lone late rose
not once complained,
yet wept, in silence.


The lone late rose
sent supplications
to the dirt and silt,
eve after eve,
grateful to be alive,
yet oh, ever so lonely.

And the lone late rose woke
to a most Vesuviant dawn,
one of mythology and magic,
one of precious hands
as angels wings,
embracing her existence,
pure.

And the late rose
was no longer lone,
and blooming beside her
was another lone late rose. 


And together
they adorn one another,
on Italian marble,
with cheeks blushed,
as sweet cherry bitters,
slender and elegant,
like Madonna and child,
like daVinci sketching,
a divine revelation. 

Phrase "The lone late rose cut" and photo © Edmund Cardoni
*This poem was inspired by photos posted by Mr. Cardoni when a single rose was cut in November during winter and after it was brought into the house, a pure white rose bloomed beside it.

someday

Published on Mogul

someday,
i want to hold your hand
introduce you
to the sunrise
as we watch
the Earth awaken
for us both,
the hues of heaven
a palette,
an artist’s canvas,
like birth.

someday,
i want to see your face light up
discovering wonder
on trails and peaks,
on craggy hills, in forests
in the majestic bark
of an old oak tree,
wavering in the breeze
the leaves rustling,
like music,
peace.

someday,
i want to tell you
to stand beneath a waterfall,
and witness your rebirth
by Mother Nature herself.

someday,
i want to drive with you
on seaways and trails,
and find meadows
untouched by the hand of man,
and lay down deep
in leaves of grass
both of us
together,
saying nothing at all,
silence.

one day,
we will experience
one another,
in all our majestic glories
side by side.

one day,
i simply wish
to see your smile,
the corners of your mouth rise,
as your eyes
show spirit
to me.

one day,
i will hear you bellow with laughter,
deep from your abdomen
at the silliest things,
as we are drenched in rainfall.
running for cover
from this mad, mad world,
beneath starshine
and constellations,
the entire universe
lit up,
for us,
only.

one day,
we will awaken
to the hues of heaven,
a palette,
an artist’s canvas,
and this most holy Earth
shall kiss us,
divine,
one day.