Cristina M. R. Norcross | Selected poems

Future Breathing

Once upon a time,

we thought our bodies

had outlines.

We thought that one heart

was distinct from the next.

We thought that touch was

the only connection.

 

There is nothing between us now.

The distant past of disconnection

no longer contains the human spirit.

Thoughts,

words,

actions –

float just above the earth walkers.

Now we are truly one.

 

Blue-white chords –

strands that link generations –

there is an echo of shared consciousness

in every wave hello

and every kiss goodbye.

 

The cardinal knows your song.

The turtle feels your soul’s vibration

with his slow, steady feet.

The hawk knows you are

becoming more

each

day.

 

One step bleeds into

a string of days.

One year passes the baton

to many future years.

 

It is all happening right now.

Heaven is all around us

where we stand –

where we breathe.

To Be the White Orchid

Your newly polished self –

it shines in light

and in dark.

It rises above.

Your newly polished self

knows no boundaries,

because you have come

full circle

to the lightness of Being

that is you.

 

You surge

like the streamlined, silver power lines

of the city –

all jet stream

and mercury.

 

You wander into the self

with eyes wide to truth –

knowing that

this sometimes isn’t pretty –

this sometimes tastes stale.

 

Your newly polished self

wants to tango –

wants to leave town –

wants to be the white orchid –

exquisite

and

rare.

 

You are true blue –

newly polished.

If I Were That Blade of Grass

Honey touched dew would

glide down my shoulder,

quenching the season’s

dry, parched earth.

 

If I were that blade of grass,

young squirrels would

launch themselves onto branches,

using my strong, frond-like length

as a trampoline.

 

If I were that blade of grass,

I would be in danger of suffering nibbles

from deer and small rabbits,

but I would let them.

My capacity for growth

is endless.

 

If I were that blade of grass,

I would sing in the wind,

like the sound a wine glass makes

when touched on the rim –

liquid circles of high notes

and low tones.

 

If I were that blade of grass,

I would welcome both the new green

and the fading brown –

accept my shortcomings

and keep growing.

Echoes of You

The very beginning of you

is the furtive sun

not yet knowing how to hold your hand.

It is the stretching of muscles

when your tender feet meet the floor.

 

The very beginning of you

is storm cloud

and Big Bang.

It is the dancing dust whirl –

a tornado of life and light.

 

There is no end of you.

Your walk carries on –

your voice echoes

in the throat of a son

or granddaughter –

your cocoa butter skin,

the rich timbre of your voice,

the delicate way your fingers

embrace a pen.

 

Each new step

and each end of the road

leads to more of you –

the captured flutterings

of forget-me-not

and –

I am still here.

 

Rydal Cave by Norcross

 

 

 

 

 

 

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