Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Listening Breath Of Delphi

-Opening-
Riven, Rent, Rupture
Crack, Cleft, Crevice,
Subterranean,
Subcutaneous Chasm.
Cavern of the Breath,
Breath of The Ancients
Breath of The Earth
Breath of The Mother

In drawn
In drawing in
Come into Communion and
-Listen-
As the child dreaming under the ribcage,
Belly deep.
As the listening yet unborn,
Hears whisperings,
Of all the hidden secrets of the heart.
-Listen-
As this seed distils
Settling onto soil
-Listen-
As this small perfect Universe of potentialities
Nestles into darkness.
-Listen –
Moist red warmth,
Smelling welcome
-Listen-
As soil and stone listen
To the stirrings,
All the possibilities that lie wakeful
-Waiting-
Imbibe this new soul’s essence
As the breath flows in
-Breath-
Open my heart!
This soul to hear
Thy Will
Your command To Be!

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The Voice by Sandra Lee Stillwell

In a dream
I walked amongst the ancestors,
They tended their fires,
played flutes and drums.
and danced as only the elders could.

I watched as an old woman
took ashes from the fire
and spit on them.
Then rolling them
into a ball,
which she tossed
again and again into the air.
With each toss,
the ball changed,
until it was a tiny replica
of our own Earth.
With tears in her eyes,
she handed it to me.

I held it up against the sky,
and was amazed to feel it vibrate.
It was alive!
There were tiny birds in the skies,
the blue rivers and the seas
churned with fish and water creatures,

The land itself was alive
with animals, insects and reptiles,
many of whom have been extinct
for longer that I have lived.
This tiny blue and green Earth was perfect,
unblemished, it was as it had been
when the people themselves
were brand new.

I looked into the old woman’s face
and heard her say.
“Go back now,
be the voice for those
who cannot speak for themselves,
and for the Earth, our Mother.
Hurry child, time passes quickly.”

When I awoke,
I held in my hand a ball,
colored blue and green.
I held that tiny ball
up against the big sky,
and whispered,
“Yes grandmother.
Yes.”

In A Dress Made Of Butterflies   by Sandra Lee Stillwell

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John O Donohue: Anam Cara – Soul Friend & Imagination As The Path Of The Spirit

These two talks are very inspiring and give such a profound sense of our sacred connection to life, and just how short a space of time it is that we are here on Earth.
These talks also draw on the wisdom of the medieval Mystic Meister Eckhart and are all the more poignant as John died only months later, aged 52.

Nativity
by John O’Donohue, from Conamara Blues

No man reaches where the moon touches a woman.
Even the moon leaves her when she opens
Deeper into the ripple in her womb
That encircles dark, to become flesh and bone.

Someone is coming ashore inside her,
A face deciphers itself from water,
And she curves around the gathering wave,
Opening to offer the life it craves.

In a corner stall of pilgrim strangers,
She falls and heaves, holding a tide of tears.
A red wire of pain feeds through every vein,
Until night unweaves and the child reaches dawn.

Outside each other now, she sees him first,
Flesh of her flesh, her dreamt son safe on earth.

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Descent

 Descent

 Take your bird, take it where no bird flies,
walk the passage down,the long mile,
open each pair of towering metal gates,
pass through and let your feet trust the path that keeps dropping, make the descent.
Soothe the bird, a sparrow once lively on your shoulder and chirruping, as it falls silent,
and then at the next gate stops fluttering from hand to hair to arm but settles
and clings to the cloth of your shirt.
Go down.
Let the bird creep inside your breast to nest in your heart
as the silence deepens and expands at the Earth’s core,
the waiting room where nothing is ordained and anyone may appear or slip away.
Here you no longer feel the bird in your breast or the outline of your body –
this is the great well, black and still, not with death but with the magnificent incertitude,
the slate wiped clean of past and future.
Bow your head, bow the body, bow the heart, the mind,
the soul as the dark space wipes its charcoal cloth over and over until in places the darkness
gathering grains of immortality for its next flourish,
the things we never dreamed of taking shape.
What has not failed? Your eyesight gone, your organs hard or in decay
but still you make your journey here to the centre of the earth
where wings flicker in and out of the darkness,
tempted between that and the scintillating joy and weight of becoming more.

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The Wild Mind Of The World

The wild mind of the world blows through each and everyone

The wild oceans of the world flows through our blood

calling

The wild fires of the world sear through our grief

crying

The wild speach of the world flows into our heart/mind

emploring

The wild heart of the world beats the rythmn within our souls

sighing

dying

The wild mountains of the world stand tall

demanding a response.

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What Is Held Too Long Beyond Its Proper Season?

“Where are the songs the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them. Thou hast thy music too…”
Autumn is a time of fruiting – of apples at the door waiting to be made into apple jelly.
Of leaves strewn across roads in beautiful shades of orange green brown yellow.
A time of clearing – of packing things into boxes,
of sorting out what is no longer needed from the excesses of summer.
what has reached its sell by date?
A time of remembering – and feeling the losses and feeling the connections
with people from the past who are no longer there.
And of people who are leaving and people who don’t want to go.
A time of quiet moments in the last rays of summer sun that has forgotten
that the birds have been flying south.
ah yes – a time of loss but nature requires a death before a rebirth.
A time of waiting and of not knowing..of uncertainty.
And yet some kind of trust and acceptance that nature is a friend.
That all will be well. No need to push or plan.
A time for seeing the past in a new light as part of the unfolding tapestry
that is our whole life.
And all that I say and do to form a connection to another is a thread that
weaves through the tapestry and the thread is made of gold.
I cannot see and perhaps I don’t need to see what pattern is forming.
This will emerge as time allows.Time will show what time conceals.
Soon – is that ok?
so a shedding of skin like the snake who has no fear to move ahead.
The tortoise can retreat within its shell in the dark space at the bottom of the garden.
There will be a time to look out again.
There is a quiet voice whispering in the dark.
It needs these forms of life and these renewals.
It needs to become, to become, to become, turning, ever turning, renewing, flowing through us.

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From A Wounded Heart

From a wounded heart we walked.
From a wound we saw and sought.
On a wounded planet we gathered.
Gathered as the winds swirled.
Twirled, wove us together.
Into the weave floated a feather.
Sang us lightness, lifted, flew us
the wounded depths we knew together as one.
As one song of an aged old melody fermented.
Fermenting the next verse
Thread  threaded together forever and forever.
Voice of a strawberry redded drum.
Sweet juice of summer.
Sunshine days of forever.
Smell of sweet delicious fruits.
What can we say of all this? nothing really.
For words have no meaning here
or there on this circle of always becoming.
Becoming.
And the hearts heart sweet pain.
And the teardrop of gratitude of
a wounded heart not being
what it thought it was.
There are no words here.
No song even.
No moment to define.
And here we are gathered gathered and gathered.
Ripening ears of barley.
Strings on an angles harp.

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Responding To Her Cry

She is there in the darkest place.
Where you can only go alone.

Venture if you dare;
The cleft,
The rift,
The rupture,
The rent in the very fabric of creation
That tears aside everything
That you have fabricated:
Illusion,
Dellusion,
Collusion.

Dearest Beloved Dark One
Dark your nature
Dark your essense
Dark your pain and
Dark your dispair.

Your wrenching cry reaches fingers into all those undefended, open- sore- raw places
As the old veils of every cover-up excuse thin and fall.

Wisest, Deepest One, Rise up!
Awake!
Turn your full face and glory to the sun
As we hide ours shame faced in the dust of all our own un-doing.

Singing in your service the Angel of the World longs to embrace you
To clothe you in her cloth of sky and darkest dazzel of the  Cosmos.

Dearest child of the Universe
Rise Up!
Awake!
Distil your own soul’s joy and laughter,
Let it flow as  breath over the face of the waters
To grace and bless  each and every passing day.

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The Heart Of The World Is Calling

I was thinking of the tsunami that happened in India.
When children were taken to disappear into
Some kind of darkness.
I saw a woman held, arms to her back
By a man, she broke away.
Went into a no where space and disappeared.
Where to I do not know.

I still feel the deep deep longing of yesterday
And the day before, which held me to the spot
Of where my body was. So deep it was.
Felt like mother earth, felt like her state.
And she gives so much. Everything we have.
A picture beyond my perception of what that really is.
She gives us everything.
And look what we did.

Too big a picture to paint on a canvas, tell in a tale of words.
See with the naked eye, imagination.
So big, the weight can not be measured or drawn.
O the centuries of plunder and brawling.
The heart of the world is calling.

Still she sings lullabies to us with the freshness
Of spring blossom, honey bee, new leaf.
Greens to feast upon till the drinking of it fills the body.
Holds the soul in delight.
She told me we come here to love her.
To care for her.
Not much to ask for.
Is it?

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Duality

Duality.
And the walking away.
Duality – two hats.
This.
That.
Stepping aside from the duality spot.
Walking into a new way, day.
Away and out.
And walking through oneness, the door.
She being herself is here with us like mist.
Permeating, moving air breath like.
Within, through us, not fragments.
Not dual.
Not this or that.
All together.
Leaves on the great tree.
Waves moving with the great ocean.
Being with the deep depths of her stillness.
Her definitions.
All together.
Oneness.
Maturity dancing.

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