THE ROSES OF SHARON
She moves them
one by one
from one vase to another
as if each
were a goddess
rising out of the water.
She says, “you cut
the stems
diagonally
while they are still
under water,
then take off
all the lower leaves.
Next put them
in enough water
to cover
most of the stems.
This is how I help them
live a long time.”
And just when
later life sets in,
and the red petals
show a slight wrinkling,
she prolongs
their capacity
to uplift and bless.
She pulls the petals
into the womb of her hand
and thinks of places
where she will
unleash them in love
onto the the path
of a bride and groom,
petals soaking the head
of an elder turned 80,
or onto the remains
in the grave
of a beloved departed cat.
Sacred blossoms,
blessings without end,
Sharon’s roses live long.
Long live the roses of Sharon.
Randall Mullins
February 2019
FAITH
What is it?
Where is she?
Have I abused thee?
What’s wrong with me?
Why can’t I see you,
Feel you, have you all the time?
I want you in my life
As a constant
and not an emergency measure.
Not as something measured out,
but a source of strength throughout
my life from here on and on and beyond.
-Timmer
LONG JOURNEY INTO FREEDOM Randall Mullins
I made that two-hour trip
with a friend
two times each month
for five years.
We drove from the city
through the suburbs
and onto a two-lane highway
over rivers,
lined with trees.
The seasons passed us by
the green of Spring and Summer,
the colors of Fall,
and the barren limbs of Winter.
We went to prison.
I did my time as a volunteer
not knowing
I was looking for my own freedom.
I sat in communion with the Lifers.
Prison would be home
for all of life left to them.
They would not see rivers again
nor highways lined with trees.
One had a family he loved
and an addiction he could not manage.
A Three Strikes Law sent him
from illness into punishment,
haunting the rest of us
with our lack of compassion
and common sense.
Another was there after
a distinguished military career.
He had stabbed his wife’s lover
nineteen times,
but he moved among us
with grace, kindness, intelligence.
I got word that he died there
A few months ago.
Another was a gifted poet.
He was in for rape,
and endured the stigma
in prison culture
of rapists being
the lowest of the low.
Another one told me
that when he came,
he and God made a deal,
that since he was going
to spend the rest of his life here,
he wanted God
to help him make the best of it.
You could see it in every move he made.
I arrived there worn down
by shame and failure
after blowing up in anger
during a church meeting
and and leaving a marriage
after sixteen years.
I was lost but tried to look found.
I hid behind the illusion
that I was there
to help the prisoners.
Years later
new peace and compassion
for myself began to take form in me.
After much guilt and self-loathing,
I was given the grace
to write a few letters,
say I’m sorry,
try to make amends.
Forgiveness came back
swift and strong in letters
and from within me.
I grew some new vessel within
to hold with compassion
all that had brought me torment.
Great burdens became Light.
I remembered the Lifers,
having to spend their lives
bound by steel, concrete,
reminders of the worst mistakes of their lives.
I marvel now
at their endurance and dignity,
their capacity to complete their lives
with such little human touch and tenderness.
Now I see how they became
spiritual guides for me,
sacred reminders that we are never
the worst of who we have been,
that we are all
beloved at the core
and sacred carriers of hope.
Dear brothers bound by concrete walls,
I send you my gratitude,
now worn truer and deeper by the years.
And I see us all moving together now
at home on a boat called Love,
on a river of perennial forgiveness.
Randall Mullins
August 2022
The Columbia
Just wind, just wind.
translucent stratus-spotted sky
reflected in the wrong way white caps
of the mighty Columbia.
—
Just wind, just wind,
clean scentless rushing in
through the pores, flushing out
the debris of fires, Covid and elections.
—
Just wind, mighty tropical storm force wind
with no rain, no blowing dirt, just sky
blowing through the indian paintbrush
who dance like octopus arms in play.
—
Just wind, powerful unthreatening wind
knocking me to the ground
tumbling over me like boulders landsliding
breaking the bones of habituated thoughts.
—
Just wind, relentless wind
beach grass laughing in terror
like children on a rollercoaster
“Again, again again!”
—
Just wind, my wind, I want to own it
to name it for me, to be it;
unaided, unabetted, unapologetic
known, remembered, and forgotten in the same instant.
—
Just wind, sky chariot carrying me
Lifting me out of absorbed selfness
shattering shackles of the three times
unforming, unregressing, uncreating, unending.
_________________________________________________
The Tieton
Sometimes the River surprises
In the middle of the spike of a summer day
That is baking the emergent flat boulders
When it sends a soft, mossy breath of cool affection.
—
Sometimes it rattles the visual perception
Out of its habitual normalcy
Shaking loose blind focus
Opening an expansive circumspherical view.
—
Sometimes it dulls its persistent, insistent growl
Fighting with itself to reach the sea
Crafting its personality in the remnants of mountains
Leaving space for something old that is new now.
—
Sometimes the lasering sun reflections that burn the retinas
And leave permanent and shadow impressions;
That obscure simple seeing with winceful pain,
Offer an easeful invitation to penetrate assumptions about the nature.
—
Sometimes in the quietest of the middle evening pitch,
Where the rapid roar becomes a drone
And the accompanists of all beings rest,
It trembles the bones through the tympanic bank and shore leaving me undone.
—
Sometimes the River
Surprises
Rattles
Dulls,
Burns
Trembles
me
toward freedom.