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Blessings for the Tomb, the Womb, the Cocoon
(the Liminal Spaces, all)
May you surrender to the sacred gravity of your grief and loss
May you give honor and homage to that which has fallen away
May you integrate the wisdoms of your passage
May you feel the tender burden of your own life in your arms
May you treat yourself with exquisite kindness and patience
May you find peace in your cocoon . . . acceptance and surrender
May you be transformed by your own darkness and rise renewed
- Kay Crista
Beautiful, Kay! Like a personal checklist!
Every line remains alive!
A real service to a reader!
:heart:
Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
How to Break a Curse
Lemon balm is for forgiveness.
Pull up from the root, steep
in boiling water. Add locusts’ wings,
salt, the dried bones of hummingbirds.
Drink when you feel ready.
Drink even if you do not.
Pepper seeds are for courage.
Sprinkle them on your tongue.
Sprinkle in the doorway and along
the windowsill. Mix pepper and water
to a thick paste. Spackle the cracks
in the concrete, anoint the part
in your hair. You need as much
courage as you can get.
Water is for healing.
Leave a jar open beneath the full moon.
Let it rest. Water your plants.
Wash your face. Drink.
The sharpened blade is for memory.
Metal lives long, never grows weary
of our comings and goings. Wrap this blade
in newspaper. Keep beneath your bed.
Be patient, daughter.
Be patient.
- Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné
What Flies
Time flies when we’re having fun
and when we’re not it crawls.
Flies – get stuck in the honey
and honey distracts
just about everyone
but my honey
distracts me the most
hm, hm, hmm, the delight
of that sweetness
and the explosion in my brain.
Later I’ll deal with the pain
but while time ticks
I get so involved in my addictions
there are no predictions
of when I’ll stop
or when I’ll succumb
to the realities that I
have broken the rules
and Now it’s time for the dues.
So I must pay while the days
tick away – and sunsets come
and moonlights smile
watching us revel in this life
we want to keep forever
but forever is always here
for there is no tomorrow
remember? All we have is Now.
Boy does Now fly – and how
when waves form
and cats meow
and lions roar
and the streams gurgle
and humans cry and pray
and laugh and wonder what’s next.
And the only thing that’s next
is Now – flying in our face.
- Jayro Dyer
One Child
Born lucky born lost
born touched born tossed
born brown born bite
- one child’s meek
another child’s might
Born wail born wall
born fly born fall
born fierce born fright
- one child’s strong
another child’s slight
Born loved born late
born howl born hate
born want born white
- one child’s privilege
another child’s plight
Born gone born gifted
born lack born lifted
born noose born night
-one child’s freedom
another child’s fight
Born calm born cage
born rigged born rage
born boy born blight
- one child’s wrong
another child’s right
Born girl born good
born shackle born should
born black born bright
- one child’s loss
another child’s light
Born fraught born freed
born glory born greed
born neglect born need
- One child’s plead
we better take heed
I say
One child’s plead
- everyone’s need
I say
One child’s plead
we better take heed.
- Kristy Hellum
American Tune
Many's the time I've been mistaken and many times
confused.
Yes, and often felt forsaken and certainly misused.
But I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm just weary to my
bones.
Still, you don’t expect to be bright and bon vivant so
far away from home, so far away from home.
And I don't know a soul who's not been battered I
don't have a friend who feels at ease.
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered or
driven to its knees.
But it's all right, it's all right, for we've lived so
well so long.
Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on, I
wonder what went wrong, I can't help but wonder what
went wrong.
And I dreamed I was dying.
I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly and looking
back down at me smiled reassuringly, and I dreamed I
was flying.
And high above my eyes could clearly see the Statue of
Liberty sailing away to sea, and I dreamed I was
flying.
And we come on the ship they call the Mayflower, we
come on the ship that sailed the moon.
We come in the age's most uncertain hour and sing an
American tune
oh, but it’s all right, it's all right, it's all
right, you can't be forever blessed.
Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day and
I'm trying to get some rest, that's all I'm trying is
to get some rest.
- Paul Simon
Twas the Night before Yuletide
Twas the night before Yuletide and all through the glen
Not a creature was stirring, not a fox, not a hen.
A mantle of snow shone brightly that night
As it lay on the ground, reflecting moonlight.
The faeries were nestled all snug in their trees,
Unmindful of flurries and a chilly north breeze.
The elves and the gnomes were down in their burrows,
Sleeping like babes in their soft earthen furrows.
When low! The earth moved with a thunderous quake,
Causing chairs to fall over and dishes to break.
The Little Folk scrambled to get on their feet
Then raced to the river where they usually meet.
“What happened?” they wondered, they questioned, they probed,
As they shivered in night clothes, some bare-armed, some robed.
“What caused the earth’s shudder? What caused her to shiver?”
They all spoke at once as they stood by the river.
Then what to their wondering eyes should appear
But a shining gold light in the shape of a sphere.
It blinked and it twinkled, it winked like an eye,
Then it flew straight up and was lost in the sky.
Before they could murmur, before they could bustle,
There emerged from the crowd, with a swish and a rustle,
A stately old crone with her hand on a cane,
Resplendent in green with a flowing white mane.
As she passed by them the old crone’s perfume,
Smelling of meadows and flowers abloom,
Made each of the fey folk think of the spring
When the earth wakes from slumber and the birds start to sing.
“My name is Gaia,” the old crone proclaimed
in a voice that at once was both wild and tamed,
“I’ve come to remind you, for you seem to forget,
that Yule is the time of re-birth, and yet…”
“I see no hearth fires, hear no music, no bells,
The air isn’t filled with rich fragrant smells
Of baking and roasting, and simmering stews,
Of cider that’s mulled or other hot brews.”
“There aren’t any children at play in the snow,
Or houses lit up by candles’ glow.
Have you forgotten, my children, the fun
Of celebrating the rebirth of the sun?”
She looked at the fey folk, her eyes going round,
As they shuffled their feet and stared at the ground.
Then she smiled the smile that brings light to the day,
“Come, my children,” she said, “Let’s play.”
They gathered the mistletoe, gathered the holly,
Threw off the drab and drew on the jolly.
They lit a big bonfire, and they danced and they sang.
They brought out the bells and clapped when they rang.
They strung lights on the trees, and bows, oh so merry,
In colors of cranberry, bayberry, cherry.
They built giant snowmen and adorned them with hats,
Then surrounded them with snow birds, and snow cats and bats.
Then just before dawn, at the end of their fest,
Before they went homeward to seek out their rest,
The fey folk they gathered ‘round their favorite oak tree
And welcomed the sun ‘neath the tree’s finery.
They were just reaching home when it suddenly came,
The gold light returned like an arrow-shot flame.
It lit on the tree top where they could see from afar
The golden-like sphere turned into a star.
The old crone just smiled at the beautiful sight,
“Happy Yuletide, my children,” she whispered. “Good night.”
- C.C Wiliford
Thanks again, Larry. It's definitely one of the greats.
Roland
Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by Larry Robinson:
Christmas in Tucson
The Exchange
Her long black and white
hair running down her
shoulders, like a creek
with all its mysteries.
Brown eyes, kind
like a bear waking
to a new morning.
She wore a crisp white
shirt with blue jeans
and pretty light tan
cowboy boots.
You could not miss
her silver and turquoise
belt buckle with an
engraved claw, which
was an invitation to see
the fine craftsmanship
of the Tohono O'odham
and Navajo Indians,
inside a small trading post
store called The Coyote
on a dusty desolate road
not far outside of town
in the month of December.
Behind a glass counter
displayed were red clay pots
on small colorful weavings
along with friendship
baskets and hand crafted
artifacts. I was surprised
to find sweetgrass in the
region and traded with the
elder woman green frog
skin for it. In exchange she
handed me the braid with
some coins. She noticed
my Ojibwa beaded earrings.
There was really nothing
more to say. She gave
me thoughts for a life time.
I lit the sweetgrass on
Christmas day.
- Ziibinkokwe, Turtle Clan (Patricia LeBon Herb)
A Christmas Carol
Away in a manger
or a crack house
or under a bridge
or in a bombed-out village
or a refugee camp
or in the mesquite shade close to the border wall
some Mary is giving birth.
Even as you read this
a child is being born.
What if one of these were the promised one,
the beacon of hope,
the seed of a new light
in a dark time?
What if they all were?
What gifts would you bring
if you were wise?
- Larry Robinson
Christmas Bells
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."
- Henry Wordsworth Longfellow
In a lighter vein:
Winter’s Cloak
This year I do not want
the dark to leave me.
I need its wrap
of silent stillness,
its cloak
of long lasting embrace.
Too much light
has pulled me away
from the chamber
of gestation.
Let the dawns
come late,
let the sunsets
arrive early,
let the evenings
extend themselves
while I lean into
the abyss of my being.
Let me lie in the cave
of my soul,
for too much light
blinds me,
steals the source
of revelation.
Let me seek solace
in the empty places
of winter’s passage,
those vast dark nights
that never fail to shelter me.
- Joyce Rupp and Macrina Wiederkehr
The Need That Can Only Be Met
You’ve probably heard, as have I,
That humans are essentially religious.
That deep in our souls, if not in our minds,
We find communion with things divine.
You’ve probably felt, as have I,
An essential longing, an open heart,
A want and need which, they say,
Can only be met by perfect divine love.
And you’ve probably been told, as have I,
This somehow proves that God exists.
That we are his or her created children.
And that the universe itself loves us.
I’ve no problem that our souls are religious,
Most especially when I play my guitar.
I am perfectly convinced this yearning exists,
And it needs, in fact, a perfect divine love.
But, my friends, this is the human condition.
Our predicament. We have this perfect need
That can only be met by such a love.
When, in fact, no such love exists at all.
And this is why, and I mean this,
There is no opting out. It comes down to us!
It’s up to us to live love and caring,
To refuse hate, to stand against cruelty.
It’s all human nature, after all.
The Holocaust was not an aberration.
But neither is love and beauty.
Where do you stand, my friend?
We must create the We.
We must stay open to our pain.
We must create our bold community.
Not perfect. Not divine. Together.
Because it’s true, so very much the case.
You can have faith in this.
It can and will only come from us.
We have a need that can only be met.
- Jon Jackson
The Pompoms of St. Moritz
One of our dogs ate the piles I swept,
another loved popcorn so much
I left the lid off so fluffy kernels
flew to her rummage on the floor.
I don’t ski.
My trick knee steers me off rocky slopes
to sprung floors, yoga mats and tatami.
I love sparkle and quiet,
qualities of snow,
the blurry edges of dream.
Today I hooked a rubber band to
a necklace so the chrysocolla beads,
colors of the river she swam daily,
hang over my heart and I feel my friend.
I’m a better woman with her close.
Penelope—her name means thread—and I
cross the snow glittering in the dark,
laughing so hard the pompoms on our hats
explode and the strands scatter to ice and stars.
I go a long way to feel the dead.
I do without, or see it fresh. Harder
alone. When someone tromps through the blizzard
with a stretcher, I stop begging childhood Jesus,
clasp my arms around their neck—her neck—
and pin my heart to theirs.
- Gwynn O'Gara
Yes. God is a 'we'...not a he, she, it, or what. And I have the proof. Look for me at the Farmers Mrkt on Sundays down by the gazebo. Writers on the Loose. I got it writ down.
Michael
[email protected]
i believe
in myself
light rain
sudden storms
the moon
polenta and sausage
good sex
red sunsets
a perfect martini
the stars
true love
Monet's garden
cracked crab
long baths
soft jazz
a walk on the beach
and root beer floats
i believe
in quiet mornings
the ocean
slow dancing
the back of a man's neck
Fred Astaire tapping across the screen
the magic of the Sacramento delta
stone angels in Italian cemeteries
growing your own tomatoes
Paul Newman's eyes
That writing poetry is telling the truth
doing crafts is in my blood
ironing is therapy
kissing is an art
and dusting is a waste of time
- Geri Digiorno
I LOVE the specificity of your poem! Yes! It's in the concrete things we love, that we are saved! :heart:
AND: I wrote a whole poem about Paul Newman's eyes (etc), after he died, and it was in the NY TIMES (ok, the Letters section, but it got a lot of notice there) and was one of Larry's poem-a-day picks! Ta-daaa! Here it is! :wink:
PAUL NEWMAN
If Paul Newman is dead,
then where now are the rest of us
whose mid-world lives were quickened by
that vital glance and pulse?
How can the sun
go on rising,
when every morning it came
out of those blue eyes?
Eternal youth has succumbed:
All men are mortal, after all,
and the streams that refresh the living realms
must now go searching for a new darling.
:waccosun:
Monet Refuses the Operation
Doctor, you say that there are no haloes
around the streetlights in Paris
and what I see is an aberration
caused by old age, an affliction.
I tell you it has taken me all my life
to arrive at the vision of gas lamps as angels,
to soften and blur and finally banish
the edges you regret I don't see,
to learn that the line I called the horizon
does not exist and sky and water,
so long apart, are the same state of being.
Fifty-four years before I could see
Rouen cathedral is built
of parallel shafts of sun,
and now you want to restore
my youthful errors: fixed
notions of top and bottom,
the illusion of three-dimensional space,
wisteria separate
from the bridge it covers.
What can I say to convince you
the Houses of Parliament dissolve
night after night to become
the fluid dream of the Thames?
I will not return to a universe
of objects that don't know each other,
as if islands were not the lost children
of one great continent. The world
is flux, and light becomes what it touches,
becomes water, lilies on water,
above and below water,
becomes lilac and mauve and yellow
and white and cerulean lamps,
small fists passing sunlight
so quickly to one another
that it would take long, streaming hair
inside my brush to catch it.
To paint the speed of light!
Our weighted shapes, these verticals,
burn to mix with air
and changes our bones, skin, clothes
to gases. Doctor,
if only you could see
how heaven pulls earth into its arms
and how infinitely the heart expands
to claim this world, blue vapor without end.
- Lisel Mueller
Beautifully expressed~ and a wonderful picture of him.
Quote:
Posted in reply to the post by REALnothings:
The Poets Are Dying
It seems impossible
they seemed immortal.
Where are they going
if not to their next poems?
Poems that, like lives, make do
and make that doing do more—
holding a jolt like a newborn,
a volta turning toward a god-load
of grief dumped from some heaven
where words rain down
and the poet is soaked. Cold
to the bone, we’ve become. Thick-
headed, death-bedded, heartsick.
Poets. Flowers picked, candles wicked,
forgiving everyone they tricked.
- Brenda Shaughnessy
Could this be the year?
Could this be the year the troops come home
from every battle every land everywhere -
home to love healing peace?
Could this be the year we build more homes than bombs
make more cookies than bullets
write more poems than balance sheets?
Could this be the year that no child goes hungry
no woman abused no man homeless
no body unloved?
Could this be the year that the salmon swim
the songbirds sing the coyotes dance
in greater numbers than we have ever known?
Could this be the year we stop serving the machine
the machine begins serving us
we begin serving life?
Could this be the year the ancient promise comes true
you know the one I mean of peace on earth
good will to all?
- Larry Robinson
The ABC of Security
Said Mr. A to Mr. B,
"I doubt the loyalty of C."
Said Mr. B to Mr. A,
"I'm shocked and stunned by what you say;
We'd better check on him today,
And since you've brought up Mr. C,
I feel that I must mention D.
I rather doubt his loyalty."
Said Mr. F to Mr. G,
"G, have you ever noticed B?
What do you make of his loyalty?"
Said Mr. G to Mr. F,
"Lower your voice - people aren't deaf!
I wouldn't want you quoting me,
But sure, I've always noticed B."
Said Mr. C to Mr. A,
"I saw a funny thing today;
At least, it seemed quite odd to me.
I saw F whispering with G
And I just caught the name of B."
"No, really?" answered A to C.
"Well, anyway - I don't know B.
I guess it's just as well for me."
And so the subtle poison spread
Until there rose a Mr. Zed.
The lightning played around his head.
"My fellow-countrymen," he said,
"The past, as you'll observe, is dead,
The alphabet's discredited;
You can't trust teachers now to teach,
You can't trust ministers to preach,
And it has been my special labor
To prove that none can trust his neighbor
In fact, it's amply clear to see
There's no one you can trust but me.
And by a happy turn of fate
I've come to purify the state.
My methods will be swift and strong
Against the crime of thinking wrong.
I know the cure for heresy
And you can leave it all to me.
Leave everything to me!" he said.
"Hurrah!" they cried. "Hurrah for Zed!”
E.B. White
(9 May, 1953)
Bless Their Hearts
At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add
“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it’s OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids’
toys—they’re only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter’s greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate’s heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.
- Richard Newman
Spider Parable
Suspended from my ceiling on a single thread,
the spider became aware I planned to capture her.
Not knowing I would carefully carry her
to the garden, she scurried up her strand of silk,
winding it into a ball as she retreated, like the
Kogi of Columbia who pull in their rope bridge
when they return from journeys in our world.
O yes, the Kogi know they must keep their world
apart, safe from all who plunder Being, who divide
the very heart of Life into shacks and the gilded
habitations of the unaware, where slaver whip
echoes are silenced, where the fearful rumble of
collapsed mines, the din of mills, the cries of
the sick, the hungry, the wounded cannot intrude.
But the voices of Being are rising. In the wind and
the rain they rise, from the young and the old, in
classrooms, mobbed streets and meeting halls, in
chapels where candles glow in a Mother icon’s eyes,
where stained-glass light is Sun’s blessing. O yes,
voices are rising around the world -- from walls to
bridges, the Song of the One and the All resounds,
the ancient thread for binding us into Life’s circle.
- Cynthia Poten
For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet
Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.
Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.
Open the door, then close it behind you.
Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.
Give it back with gratitude.
If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.
Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.
Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.
Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.
Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.
Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.
The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.
Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.
Do not hold regrets.
When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.
You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.
Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.
Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.
Ask for forgiveness.
Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.
Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.
You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.
Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.
Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.
Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.
Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.
Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark.
- Joy Harjo
i am running into a new year
i am running into a new year
and the old years blow back
like a wind
that i catch in my hair
like strong fingers like
all my old promises and
it will be hard to let go
of what i said to myself
about myself
when i was sixteen and
twenty-six and thirty-six
even thirty-six but
i am running into a new year
and i beg what i love and
i leave to forgive me
- Lucille Clifton
A Poem I Wrote In A High Fever
You who are lengthening your lives
with the best doctors and the best medicines
remember those who are shortening their lives
with the wars
that you in your long lives are not
preventing
You who are again screwing
the younger generations
and winking at each other
the winking of your eyelids
is like the chill of the swinging shutters
in an empty house.
-Yehuda Amichai
(Translated, from the Hebrew, by Leon Wieseltier)
Another Happy New Year
The party's done, the plastic cups used up -
the ones we never know whether to wash or throw away -
thus
ambivalence follows us
into the new year
starting with the cups.
The food
my mother's crab mousse
so fifties in flavor
even the punch
a throwback to simpler days
when three kinds of sweet liquids
mixed together
did not make us quake
with fear of the consequences.
big resolutions
mostly the same
again and again
yet each year
I grow calmer
finding a still point
amidst the tumult
holding on
to the quicksilver
river of my dreams.
.
There is that cleansed feeling -
the counters bare of the detritus of the year
extraneous magazines never read now ready
to be trash
which we euphemistically call
recycle - as if we weren’t wasting
so much paper.
As for resolutions - make ones that are doable.
The pen falls and the mind falters.
More than resolutions
how about reflecting –
have I become more me? that is all I ask.
And I respond to welcome the new year
with this poem.
- Basha/Barbara Hirschfeld
Anthropocene
Nesting, the turtle seems to be crying even though she is simply secreting
her salt. Her dozens bud limbs inside amniotic pillows
as she leaves every egg in a cup of sand the size of her body,
shaped like a tilting teardrop — and both cryings
are mentioned by scientists. My niece Eve is startle-eyed when you feed her
avocado and when you feed her sweet potato. She lives mouth first:
she would eat the sidewalk and piano, the symmetrical petals of the Bradford pear,
as if she could learn which parts of the world are made and how,
and yesterday she put her mouth on the image of her own face
in the mirror. Larkin says what will survive of us is love,
but the scientists say that the end of the decay-chain is lead and uranium and after that,
plastics. Just now the zooplankton are swallowing micro pearls of plastic
and the sea is aflame with waste caught in the moon’s light.
Here is the darkening hour and here, the shore, as she droplets her eggs,
bright as ping pong balls, into the sand. She can’t find the spot.
The beach is saltined with lights, neoned with spectacular
globes of light, a dozen moons instead of the one moon. Still, she lets them go
and one month later, tiny turtles hatch. They seem groggy,
carrying their houses of bone and cartilage to the ocean,
scrambling toward the horizon alongside the earth’s magnetic field.
Less than one percent of the hatchlings make it past
the seagulls and crabs, so Noah spent a summer dashing them to the water.
But my poem is not about the moment when a bird dove and bore
into the underflesh and into Noah’s memory.
My poem is about how we are gathered around Eve
in the kitchen as she eats a fruit she has never tried before
and each newness in the world
stops the world’s ending in its tracks.
- Nomi Stone