Take a walk with me…
“In the end, we’re all just walking each other home.” Ram Dass
The above quote says it all for me. I could so easily make it my entire bio…Except I suspect Quy Ma expects a bit more out of me than this. (Insert smile emoji.)
Whether emotional or physical, viruses suck
Covid second dose –
chills, headache, sore arm; queasy.
Plus, the power’s out.
Sore eyes closed see Dark’s hide tide,
shard shells of heart washed to sea.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
Yesterday was an absolute waste. First of all, the power was out — scheduled maintenance — until 6 p.m. Sure, I could have written with pen and paper or burned down the battery on my laptop but, the day before, I’d received my second vaccine…And let’s just say I was not one of those who sailed through. …
resurrection every mouthful
Toasted Armenian bread boxing
a gift of vegetables and feta
nestled within Easter basket grasses
of shredded iceberg lettuce —
bodily resurrection guaranteed
with every bite.
Spirit dipped
in new jelly bean hues,
breaking out of its shell
into Something sweeter, hunger
for joyous warmth assuaged,
gratitude digesting.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
It’s Lent, but obviously I must be looking forward to Easter.
When Rochelle Silva tagged me to write about my favorite sandwich, I knew instantly I’d write about this amazing vegetarian sandwich from a local Armenian deli here in LA.
Release your wild spirit
I got it all wrong when we met at Gleneagles — our encounter a lark to caw about on a postcard albeit even then your heft, majesty,
your feral spirit evoked reverence studded with weakened knees of gratitude to be there, in a cold field at dawn, donned in loaner Barbour coat and weathered, leather-plated gloves.
And you — a resplendent feathered bracelet, claws for clasps — sprung free from my wrist over the trees, over the yawning moon
then back in grand jeté. …
Baa humbug, insomnia
I’ve tried kicking them out
but they keep coming, leaping
over the bedpost — waterfalls
of coiled wool
strobe lit
white, black, gray, brown, red,
even spotted
bleating concerns and catastrophes
I keep under creatively corralled covers by day,
noses nuzzling bedclothes into knots
that rival those in my stomach,
grazing hope to scorched earth.
And the noise — my God, the noise.
It’s deafening.
I could use a good night’s sleep, you know
I say.
Politely because I’m outnumbered.
Who wants to be coated in cud
or play dodgeball with hooves?
Baa humbug, sucker, those sucky sheep reply. Unrepentant…
I yam what I yam — a twittle
Who says I can’t wear pajamas
weeding beds or watering sweet dreams?
Nightmare shed, my song self I don –
truth wakes wide-eyed.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
I’ve never attended Burning Man and have no desire to, but I love the festival’s concept of “radical self-expression.”
An example: often I garden in my pajamas.
Invariably, my neighbor Arlene will slap her knee in amusement if she catches me at this. Others overtly disapprove.
Which until very recently led me to think twice before heading outdoors, donned in flannels and a puffer vest.
on non-duality
luck looks like the dew on the lawn
every dawn — diademed green blades awaiting
unsheathing as the day unsheathes
our need for
defense, disarmament,
soles
for bare feet praising sacred ground
where each dewed pebble
is anointed with potential,
the seed of a Druid sarsen
impossibly ferried then reassembled
on the lush plain of our soul.
how lucky we are when
we see, in every damp footprint,
blades prostrate in obeisance,
a perfectly aligned solstice —
perhaps even both,
winter and summer,
at once.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
Trisha Traughber, I owe you an apology. I can’t hold dew…
no fairytale for the fainthearted
An angel, a demon, a fairy godmother, a witch, the stars, Mercury in retrograde — who knows who or what? Who cares? What matters is that the routine I rode — the pumpkin carriage ride I assumed would take me happily ever after from A to at least N if the Big Bad C didn’t sideswipe the passenger side –
has slammed down hard on the brakes and my golden goose-egged head aches from the impact because who needs seat belts between the pages of the Brothers Grimm?
Nor is it anywhere near midnight, except somewhere in the Universe beyond…
A small poem for all with poetic roots
“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.” Joyce Kilmer
We are sequoia forests of poems.
Feet rooted in creation.
Arms reaching for expression,
fingers French-manicured in stars
for italics and exclamation.
Song providing sap for our core.
©Jenine Bsharah Baines 2021
I’ve always loved trees, particularly after reading Hesse’s wonderful words on what trees can teach us. Yesterday, an angel card encouraged me to ground myself… and, within moments, I was outdoors hugging a lemon tree in the garden, envisioning roots growing from my feet into Mother Earth.
From there, I recalled a walk…
attempting to solve the not-elementary
“People don’t mind so much if their politician lies because they think it’s for the common good. And politicians liberate themselves from the shackles of morality by thinking: If I was elected, people would be better off.”
Dan Ariely (The Honest Truth About Dishonesty: How We Lie to Everyone — Especially Ourselves)
Were it not for rain,
I’d have missed every clue.
Insurrection’s seeds
poised to sprout, defile, maim, kill
each bud in my soul’s garden.
A case closed too soon.
Vile weeds lurk beneath my soil –
besmirched space for grace. …
Jenine Bsharah Baines
Cultivator of words and plants. Seeker of epiphanies. Grateful disciple of wise souls. Acolyte of Beauty. jeninebaines@gmail.com
