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Our Mother
Our Mother
Our Mother
You are throughout the Universe
strewn in between the galaxies
and infinite solar systems.
You are in every star beaming within
the Milky Way.
Holy Woman is your name.
Your Creation is NOW
and shall be for as long
as you desire.
There is no separation from the
Cosmic Wonders you ordained.
Each day you gift to us…
You, Holy Mother, nurture us with
sustenance from your breasts—
spill milk of a lasting kind
until we are no longer babes.
Feed us with the riches of
spiritual maturity
so that when we fly from your
womb that has carried us,
your love holds us if our wings
should tire
and we fall to the ground.
Lift us again and again
so that the resurrection of
our spirits
sets ablaze our hearts
burning with love’s desire
for you and you alone.
For in you Holy Mother
transformation dwells
awakening our minds
set free from illusions.
Forever and ever
may you birth into life
goodness and kindness
mercy and steadfastness.
May love be the endless
fruit filling us
forever and ever.
Awomen
Yellow Flowers
Yellow Flowers
When I was but a child,
I wore a shirt of yellow flowers—
it was so beautiful.
I held it in my hands for a long time
before draping each of my arms
through its sleeves~~~slender shoots.
I buttoned each circular sphere
imaging myself
that very flower blossoming open
with so much wonder…
I could not wait to get to school
so as to ‘show~off’ this
dazzling cloth which my tiny tent
of a being adorned.
When I arrived at school
I was alive, unfolding…
the yellow flowers seemed to shine
from inside my heart.
I rushed to share this bouquet with
my friends, but as I approached—
yes, from a distance
they began to laugh.
I could not imagine what they were
chuckling at~~~it couldn’t be me—
could it?
As I entered the circle,
my joy suddenly shattered—
My friends began to mock, make fun of
my beautiful yellow flowered shirt.
I allowed them to pluck away
the gift of every petal…
the tiny thorns in the stems, not even
visible, pierced my fragile heart.
No one saw the tears that
blanketed my pillow that night as
I clutched the shirt in my arms.
So long I tried to pretend I did not
see the beauty of the yellow flowers…
I tried to ‘fit’ in. I tried being
someone I was not…it felt like prison.
Then one day, walking alone,
the tears from so long ago slipped
beyond my cheeks and fell to the
ground. I looked ‘down’ and realized
just how alone I was NOT~~~
Bursting from the earth,
tiny yellow flowers~~~
covered the damp ground
and began to reflect their beauty
upon my soul.
Lovely, these yellow flowers,
gifts given from the Source
of all things created…
and yes, even I am one~~~
budding amidst the yellow flowers.
What Gift do you Bring?
What Gift do you Bring?
A piece of Paper—
empty, life-less…
without color.
A box of Pencils—
endless colors…
sitting, as if in waiting.
For so long their ‘points’
longed for union~~~connection.
A Story—
in a mind
always creating…
still~~~holding back
WONDERING, PONDERING, HESITATING.
What gift can I bring?
Then ‘She’ knelt upon
the frozen earth
under the silent moon
lighting the empty paper.
She picked up the colored pencils
or maybe they picked her?
None the less,
She ‘mused’ them ‘into’ the
naked page…
Splashing with delight
She discovered ‘her-story.’
It was her gift to bring
and NOW how could she
not share it with the world?
A Love Story
filled with the tapestry of colors
and the page, or pages of paper
are anything but empty.
The Empty Pitcher
The Empty Pitcher
Pour out the contents—
every last ounce of ‘whatever’
remains; let it spill out
and dissolve so that it might
not be found ever again.
Hollow, the Pitcher
at last…
This is how it first arrived
in the world after being
held, kneaded and placed
in a fire—
it came out of the kiln
absolute perfection.
Somehow—
so many of ‘our’ pitchers—
yours, mine…a collective ‘ours’
have been filled, tarnished,
scraped, cracked from the
inside…and for too long
what we’ve come to believe in
are the falsities of who we actually
are. It is this we are not—
this is not what defines us
and yet, it has.
Wounds inflicted—
‘we’ have allowed to fill us.
Some we actually believe true.
Imagine NOT believing in your own perfection.
WAIT—imagine
BELIEVING in your
perfection.
Empty your pitcher.
‘Look’ inside…
maybe its shine is a bit lackluster after
so many years—
perhaps a mar has
formed and
your pitcher broken
in places.
Can you finally ‘see’ you
in this emptiness?
Behold the splendid
Pitcher you are and
always have been.
It is in this very
emptying you are
finally FULL.
Now—splash yourself
everywhere that will
receive the love that
is YOU.
The Trees Are Crying
The Trees Are Crying
They know what is coming.
A storm is approaching—
They, yes, each tree
big & small, tall & short, barren & filled
with autumn’s last leaves~~~
Each begins to sway.
The wind holds nothing back…
branches click and clack
and then a ‘break’
and then a silent rumble
as the tree crashes to earth’s floor…
If you listen—
really listen—
you’ll hear the trees cry.
They creek aloud understanding
a Fall.
Anything BUT a fall from Grace…
rather a fall into GRACE.
It is a time to weep…what was is passing.
What is to come remains unseen
and for this moment~~~it hardly matters.
NOW the trees cry.
Bend with them and listen—
it just might break you enough
to realize they, yes the trees,
embrace the mystery more than You or I.
Ghost Wagon
Ghost Wagon
You ‘see’ it don’t you?
I mean really ‘see’
it is anything but ‘hollow.’
At night—it is then you can
see it and them—
Yes them…
When the stars light the sky,
the canopy covers the wagon.
A team of galloping stallions
begins shuffling its hooves.
Inside…there they are
artists in their own right
poets at play, and a choir
of heavenly hosts.
Paints of endless colors begin to blend—
words flow from a pencil’s lead
and the singing is soft almost silent
as ghosts go traveling to ‘bedrooms’
where dreamers sleep unknown.
The haunting—
sweet mystery
send messages to the slumberer’s
night…
visions, illuminations, transfigured
awaiting a sign.
Yet, no sign need come
nor message be
had.
BUT—if one
discovered…
a treasure at last.
So…
sleep peacefully
tonight and, if you
hear the sound of
hoof beats, close your
eyes…quickly~~~FAST.
The ghosts in the
wagon are
coming at last.
Little One
Little One
What did you find?
Oh, yes…it is a treasure…
It is such an amazing ‘gift’
that you could never put it in
a box with a pretty ribbon
for it cannot be contained.
My only wish…
no one take away what
you’ve discovered…
I pray you are not told
‘ARISE’…look how dirty your knees are
‘look’ how wet your new pants are.
Now, hurry…get up—
I pray no one says, come now
we must be going…better things to do
with our time than simply gaze into water
and skip stones on her crest…
Oh, don’t ever let go of this treasure.
I pray the silence here fills you again
and again—so you’ll never tire of coming back.
The noises you’ll hear in your ‘space,’ what
others will call home…never accept them as the norm.
Run back to the treasure you first discovered, Little One…
Pufffffff…
Pufffffff…
How could I pick it?
How could I not
and yes, so I did…
I took a deep ‘breath’
and blew ‘the seeds‘
not 10
not 20
not 30
so many more.
‘They’…each tiny seed
caught in the wind’s~~~
whisper and spread
to places of newness
to lands, waiting for that
one seed to find its way
to ‘change’ the face of
the landscape…
So…
God says~~~
how could I pick ‘you’ from my garden?
How can I not says God
and so God did…
God breathed~~~ God’s very breath
and blew
not 10
not 20
not 30
but so many ‘beautiful’
images of God’s self
out of the womb of Eden
and into a world~~~
the landscape of creation.
Each of us~~~God breathed
into life.
We have ‘seeds‘
within us…unique
gifts only we can
birth…
Trust the Spirit in ‘YOU’
and may the wind
carry you to what you
still cannot imagine.
Incarnation
Incarnation…
Began with the birthing of
dawn
out of the brilliance of darkness.
Stardust drizzled from a bursting star
gifting the landscape.
A single breath
through a nostril of Divine
Wonder brought into life’s
Cosmic Mystery
Humankind…
‘we’ were added to the dance—
to the ebb & flow—
to relational
love-making of Holy Awe.
ALIVE~~~
this was
the message
spoken.
Fulfillment was
offered…
it is in our
Hands.
Get On
Get On
Quick, quick
come quickly now.
Yes…it’s time.
You know…
You see…
Come…get on—
that’s it.
Now…
all together.
Listen…
can you hear it?
It is silence~~~
Quiet now…
Empty all thought…
isn’t it beautiful?
Still, still, still
The echoes of silence.
Get on, get on
before you ‘rush’ to get off.
Keep balanced—
we are in this together.
There is no telling where the silence
will lead…really it does not matter.
And …perhaps it does~~~
If we simply silence ourselves
maybe we will come to know one another
without ALWAYS speaking.
Perhaps we will ‘see’
how similar we
are and balance on
this cosmic globe.
Silence…can you
‘hear’ the world
spinning…
You have it…
Get on~~~
the dance has
begun.
Where Will Our Children Play
Where Will Our Children Play
We wake
and both choose our favorite blend.
Aroma rising…
‘we’ fill our cups to the brim.
You pick up the paper—
I put down the noise.
You read the headlines—
I gaze at the stars.
In between sentences you hear about the violence
and wars
while I’m perched hearing the
songs of the waking birds.
You shudder, aghast…health care
reform, deficits, tax increases,
millions of dollars to pilot air force one.
I sit beside the trees bending
to greet the sun.
A breeze runs through my hair
while a chipmunk scurries
through the blanketed grass. A
dragonfly lands resting itself upon
my knee…
You are not wrong…
I am not right.
‘We’ both ‘see’ yet, through
different lenses.
‘We’ both ask,
‘Where, where will our children
play???’
If ‘we’ don’t listen NOW and
rise for them…what will any
of this mean?
Can we ‘stop’ the division
and seek a way—
without answers, yet a common
goal of justice for all?
What really is equality?
Stop hiding in the shadows
negating what is ‘real.’
You see, you see…
get off the pulpit—
try ‘seeing’ from the pew.
Where, where will our children
play?
Are we able to get them off i pads—
so they can hear…stories,
told orally, from of old?
Are we able to avoid fast foods in
a rush to get to the next
event…
and share with them
the sacred art of
spitting watermelon seeds
(are you laughing…
remembering)?
Are we able to push them away
from the T.V. and let
them run through the
sprinkler?
Are we able to let them
fully clothed get wet?
You and I may ‘see’
differently,
but I know
We both want our
children to PLAY—
Down the Block
Down the Block
Down the block…
the past unseen
and it was brimming with life.
No one ‘saw’ the first ‘Son’ rise
or beheld all the shooting stars.
No one witnessed the first flower—
unfolding petals created landscapes of carpeted cushioned beds
and yet ‘she’ stood
apart, separate from any rib.
She already was
because she came from down the block.
Her voice burst, like a BANG, and opened the cosmic storm.
Yes…Sophia~~~Wisdom shook the splendor
and wonder-lust of nothingness
splashing light
radiating darkness.
It was not from her rib that ‘He’ came into
being, but He from her heart
down the block.
She needed no introduction or Heavenly Queen-ship.
Her being was love personified
and her tears
fill the pools, the oceans and rivers
who still know it was ‘she’ who
brought all things to be.
Silently she speaks as
her daughters
find their voices
down the blocks of ages past.
