It doesn’t matter that the water is stagnant
Years have told it to sit still and ponder.
Its way is to wade through fingers
lifting around the edges of mud.
There was a time when still meant dirty;
A time where dreams died in tiny stones.
Today the sun is beaming through
a looking glass of sectors.
Still spectators gather on the shore
doubting that you are real;
doubting that they aren’t like you.
Often this time of morning, I ask myself
what does it matter?
If I am the tiny stone, I will sit.
If I am the stagnant water,
the container for the stillness, I will wait.
If I am the sun beaming down,
I will know that arriving behind me
is an unseen line that informs the stillness.
Life doesn’t spin on a dime.
It costs less than that to know
that we are connected.
Even the spinning stops us from leaving
Together we inform the emptiness of
Nothing is fainter than the drops of time that pass
between a promise and the dream of one.
How lucky to find infinite sorrow and joy among the field
flowers that halt even the sun.
Love answers not only in the form of time,
it is the answer to its void.
Like tiny dots with nails and knuckle,
tightening against the frost.
Planting feet among the hills of powder,
the sun is in front, the cold left behind.
Ink drops of ice falling onto veins of white feather.
Beauty isn’t found in the time spent on earth.
It is recovered while waiting by the door to pass
from now into the next, never cold, never
so old as to forget to walk into the sun and thank it
for the shadows.
Recall a time when
darkness sat on elbows,
and thoughts illuminated the living light.
Gazing into the eyes of wonderment,
we see that there is no distance between us.
A comet offers a golden speckled rope
to connect our living ideas.
We glide and slip across the expanse of time.
No wiser for doing so, but infinitely kinder.
You the tail, me the head.
Lips and limbs give glory to our pain,
for wound is the mark and mask of human frailty,
illuminated by fractions of peace.
Hot Pan’s Truth
In every living creature,
In every living star
ozones of mercury are stripped at creation’s gate.
We don’t understand the beauty
that stops and starts in our loved one’s path.
We cannot comprehend that
seven lives times seventy wouldn’t equal
holding a paw to hand.
Nature is its own reward
and we are received by it.
Chambers of tiny, dusted light
settling on our pinpointed frames.
How tired our hands grow of painting
a soft glow around the mess we have made
But in the mire of mess, we find infinite purpose for intimacy.
The larger the landscape, the tighter the smiles and tears
of our faith in each other.
Traveling wisp-like on the backside of a tail, wagging at
peace, and reminding us that we are a flash in a pan
whose frame has been lost to heat.
Rise up steady
and look deep into the froth of nature.
Even in rabbitiness,
there is patience for the attack.
We, with all the wisdom of books that we chew and spice,
salt and swallow have nothing on the
silent sleep of lambs.
Whose wool we wrap to stifle the chill
of human rejection. Searing through our veins
carried by the weight of a sterile, sharp and cold drip.
An executioner with mercy, but with no speech for love.
Look into the size of a tug and roll, study the lines of a bark;
landing on tiny leaves, rattled by the motion of feet that hop.
Tangled and flat, they still outrun our two bulky planks
across a land we no longer possess, if ever.
My soul is not of this earth, but I am.
Bone, water, ash
mingling with the stars that come from ground.
Four and two legged creatures, beasts and miracles of microbes
whose tentacles reach beyond the stars of sky, gazing back at them,
reflecting not their light, but their magic;
and whispering hello, she is awake now, fierce but
not formed; clumsy with electric innocence.
Welcome her. Guide her. Love her, until she
sheds us from her frame and floats into the infinite unknown.
To the place where we dine on cold, glacier fluid and formica
burned and bent rock. Yet with such warmth that a mere wick to a candle is like
a match to a wild fire.
When she awakens and finds us gone,
tell her of our return.
What is nature but a chance to begin again with tying our shoes before we
stumble into the light, drunk from promise, and find us
weightless among the dirt, rock and debris, soothed and formed by
Tell her we will follow, after all have been, and been fed.
After all have been born and emptied.
Paint the tips of your lips with cherry tree blossoms,
and whisper yourself the creature (creation) you were meant to be.
Home to whose last breath is your own.
Kailyne is a media maker by trade, including director/writer of two award-winning short films. The first, an art-house love story that addresses childhood abuse and the impact on intimacy. The second, an animated tale of a shopping cart that goes rogue and sets out on an adventure to change his fate and ends up changing the world around him.
When she’s not working with a cool team to build films, she has spent time writing/creating with non-profit organizations, including a film-making contest for teens, a media literacy television and radio program for at-risk children, community-based leadership for film festivals, and grant-writing management for homeless advocacy and fair housing organizations. Kailyne’s passion for advocacy led to the creation of a non-profit arts organization for survivors of childhood abuse that focused on sharing in a safe environment. She has had the fortunate experience of writing, co-writing and presenting a variety of workshops at national survivor conferences, where she found good vibes from a rich source of advocates, doing fierce work.
She is currently adapting her latest short film into a children’s picture book, and while she believes in magic and miracles, she doesn’t think either happens when or how she wants them to. Kailyne believes that creation is the only original concept and everything else is a re-write. She hopes that her drafts make a difference.
To see the short film, The Go Cart: http://www.thegocartmovie.com/ On the home page, there is a button to “watch film”.