Psychism

The dream eye, unfocused, turns to the light
of day where the sun shines sharp, blindingly;
images tumble relentlessly through
the mind, jumbled together as if in
a stew or casserole, rich broth steaming,
streaming hotly as the light spills cutting
through thoughts and memories, unexpected.
This is not how it should be happening:
there should be slight but obvious changes
in the positions and players today;
I remember it quite differently,
I remember it exactly the same.

You may seek to perform any act of
divination with no especial gift,
but psychic talent is like balance or
rhythm or perfect pitch in that you are
born with talent but can choose to learn skill;
as such, psychism is like any in-born
native ability - we all sing and dance
but some are gifted where others are not.
However, some neglect their own talents,
and thus never achieve the great heights that
their devoted, persistent peers may climb,
perhaps because privilege expects no work.

In meditation, you clear the mind but
in trance you open it wide to the wind,
letting fly in what may, sifting, seeking,
panning for gold in a cold mountain stream.
The rocks are slick, it is easy to fall
and then you become one with rushing wind,
you are the river, flying down the side
of the face of the planet until (if
you are very lucky) you find your way
back down to yourself, your own mind again -
you climb back to shore, swim to the mossy
banks, and kiss the earth, thankful and breathing.