The BeZine

Essay, Poems/Poetry, Spiritual Practice, Terri Stewart

Sacred Space Wherever You Can Name It

Posted on March 30, 2014March 29, 2014 by Terri

A while ago, I was volunteering as a Spiritual Director with incarcerated women. As it so happens, working with the incarcerated us not always straight forward. Some of the things that impact the incarcerated are less education, unstable family systems, increased drug & alcohol use, and untreated mental illness.

One woman I worked with came to me for Spiritual Direction, but she was schizophrenic. The things we worked at were finding a concrete symbol of something that she could name as Love but that did not have her “hearing voices” or “listening for divine within” or anything at all like that! After all, coming from a time in life when she actively did hear voices, that was not something she trusted!

We hit upon the image of her teddy bear. That teddy bear encapsulated pure love for her. It was concrete and it helped her feel loved. That symbolized the spot where she could find sacred space.

What about you? Is there something ordinary that represents sacred space? A teddy bear? Book? Chair? What provides sacred, healing space that nobody else would suspect?

For me, that sacred space is often represented in words. Maybe my computer holds the sacred space. It is a window to a world of great wisdom and the receiver of my angst and wonderings as I process feelings through writing. Hmmm.

for an incarcerated mentally ill client

ghost town

small, still voice of wind,
tossing my tumbleweed-thoughts
that roll through a ghost town.

here, my safety has been
abandoned to the rats and mice
that hide from revelation,
distrusting that light
so much that they will not stay
and visit. the locks and guns
have been jammed by mud-caked
memories of injustice,
in the sheriff’s office.

the hollow-hallow notes of the
player-piano silent
except for the collapsing
frame that drops pieces of itself
crashing onto the discordant keys,
creating a nightmare sound of
happiness twisted into grief,
twisted into a mockery of joy,
in the saloon.

the telegraph does not speak
into the future, the wires
have frayed and disconnected
from the source of consolation,
reality has dissolved letters of love
or news of the war and the
beloved sears & roebuck catalog,
in the post-office.

the ghost town disgusts me.
especially when the wind is
blowing and changing all that
i know into something unknown
ripping the roof apart and causing
the cacophony of noises to come
in from all directions telling
me, what? untrustworthy voice!

so small and still or
so big and booming

telling me to tear the walls apart
bare-handed until my fingers
become bloody stubs and
yet you insist that i see you,
listen to you, the wind destroying
the small community of barn owls
and bats that i have built in my
ghost town. i do not want to hear
you. the owls and bats are my
saving grace.

by "miracle design" at flickr.com CC (BY-ND) — by “miracle design”
at flickr.com
CC (BY-ND)

Terri Stewart ~ a member of our Core Team, comes from an eclectic background and considers herself to be grounded in contemplation and justice. She is the Director and Founder of the Youth Chaplaincy Coalition that serves youth affected by the justice system. As a graduate of Seattle University’s School of Theology and Ministry, she earned her Master’s of Divinity and a Post-Master’s Certificate in Spiritual Direction with honors and is a rare United Methodist student in the Jesuit Honor Society, Alpha Sigma Nu. She is a contributing author to the Abingdon Worship Annual.

Her online presence is “CloakedMonk.” This speaks to her grounding in contemplative arts (photography, mandala, poetry) and the need to live it out in the world. The cloak is the disguise of normalcy as she advocates for justice and peace. You can find her at www.cloakedmonk.com,www.twitter.com/cloakedmonk, and www.facebook.com/cloakedmonk. To reach her for conversation, send a note to cloakedmonk@outlook.com.

General Interest, Nature, Poems/Poetry, Victoria C Slotto

Drizzle

Posted on March 29, 2014March 5, 2014 by Victoria C. Slotto

As the day evolves
from overcast
to sun to rain again,

the Artisan steps in
and brushes clouds
across blue skies—

wet-on-wet—
then takes a rag
and smears,

sprinkling sadness
into an otherwise
perfect moment.

We are anticipating some rain this weekend in the drought-stricken California desert, so actually it’s a reason for celebration if it makes it over the mountains.

Editorial note: Congratulations, Victoria, on that the long awaited publication of print copies of Jacaranda Rain, Collected Poems, 2012, Beautifully done.

Writers’ Fourth Wednesday is hosted by Victoria from January through October and posts at 12:01 a.m. PST. The next Writers’ Fourth Wednesday is scheduled for April 26.

Liliana Negoi, Meditation, meditative, Mortality, mystic, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

prologue to nothing

Posted on March 28, 2014March 9, 2014 by Author

“Have you ever known a place where God would feel at home?”

Umberto Eco, The Name Of The Rose

there was dirt under his nails –
those uncared-for nails,
bitten and with stains of blood,
having known the nervousness of his teeth –
and his eyes were cloudy,
sad
and gray,
perfect reflection
of the undecided sky above.
the bones of god’s word
would have fit perfectly in his palm,
if ever his palm had been free
of the memory of one house
on a nameless street
flooded with sunlight one summer morning.

white…
everything was outrageously white,
as if somehow heaven had spilled
its entire bright purity
over those limed walls…
the only things preventing an explosion of light
were some cracked wooden panes,
striving to carefully protect
the inside from the outside…

only the ghosts of those sunbeams
were able to make the clouds in his gaze
move aside,
and in those rare cases
one could see a pair of
incredibly sapphirine irises,
harboring like a living vault
the secrets of mankind glazed with sorrow…

some said
that was the hideout of Samael,
after trading his wings
for Lilith’s resurrection.
others said
it was the place where souls
were waiting to ascend after meeting Azrael.
but nobody knew for sure
what purpose did that place serve,
and to whom it actually belonged.

nobody, except for him…
somehow he remembered
nothing prior to opening his eyes
upon that door.
he was standing in front of it,
feeling under his soles
the sun-heated cubic stones paving that street.
for him,
that was the second his life had begun,
and also the second when it had ended…
he had no idea
how much time he had spent inside that house,
wandering from one room to another,
marveling at the way
everything seemed to be perfect…
in the blink of an eye,
he just knew what it meant,
although he had no idea
how he knew that …

guided by the typical fear,
mothers forbid their offspring to talk to him
when he had emerged from that house.
people kept whispering at corners
that his shoulder blades bore
the marks of the fallen,
yet nobody wanted to listen to him
when explaining why each small crack had its reasons
and why his voice had become a prism,
translating for them
the rainbow hidden within the white…

after a while
he stopped talking.
he sat, silent, in the corner of some stairs,
in the middle of an ignorant world,
aware that people didn’t care
for the reason why he just wouldn’t
go back inside that perfect white house
and be happily forgotten…
because he just loved too much
the rainbow of their souls …

“Prologue to nothing” is the closing poem of Liliana’s volume “The hidden well”. For the audio version feel free to click below:

LILIANA NEGOI (Endless Journey and in Romanian curcubee în alb şi negru) ~ is a member of our core team on Into the Bardo. She is the author of three published volumes of poetry in English, which is not her mother tongue but one that she came to love especially because of writing: Sands and Shadows , Footsteps on the San – tanka collection and The Hidden Well. The last one can also be heard in audio version, read by the author herself on her SoundCloud site HERE. Many of her creations, both poetry and prose, have been published in various literary magazines.

poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry, Video

The Red Dress

Posted on March 27, 2014March 27, 2014 by The Bardo Group Beguines

English poet, Myra Schneider, is a friend of The Bardo Group. Her website is HERE.

Victoria C. Slotto, Writers' Fourth Wednesday, Writing

WRITERS’ FOURTH WEDNESDAY: Give Me a Second (Person), if You Please

Posted on March 26, 2014March 25, 2014 by Victoria C. Slotto

Those of us who write fiction or poetry often struggle in choosing the most appropriate person for our narrator. I chose the first person when I began the initial draft of my first novel. A few years later, when the first draft was all but completed, an agent at a writer’s conference told me that agents and publishers no longer wanted first person, that I would get nowhere with it. Being a naive newbie, I spent a year or more changing it to third person, and then began the arduous task of submission. The feedback I got with my many rejection slips was that the protagonist lacked feeling, was not sympathetic. One morning I woke up with the keen realization that I needed to change it back to first person in order to allow the reader a more intimate and emotional connection with my protagonist. So, one again, I revised. These shifts of person probably cost me three years…perhaps more, because in the meantime I put it aside and wrote another novel in first draft.

My story is to remind us all of the importance of making a careful choice when it comes to first, second or third person. As you know, second person point of view uses the pronoun “you” and its variants to address the protagonist, the reader or a specific person or object. First person point of view allows intimate insight into the mind and emotion of the protagonist but limits the same for secondary and minor characters. It also confines the writer to a specific time and place. Third person, on the other hand, presents the story from the writer’s point of view, allowing her or him to comment on the story and giving omniscience into all the players. A downside is that it restrains the reader from a deeper emotional connection with the protagonist whose reactions always seem just a bit beyond our reach

As for second person point of view in fiction, there are authors such as William Faulkner who may include short sections or chapters in the second person, but I can’t remember reading an entire novel in this voice, although I suspect it has been done. A few years back, an MFA student in my writing critique group wrote quite effective short stories in the second person. Her stories gave me the impression, as expected, that she was speaking directly to me and, at times, instructing me.

It is less rare to encounter poetry in the second person. As poets, we love to address our “audience,” celebrity figures, other poets or teachers who have an influence on us, people we love (or hate), God, mythological figures, people from our past. Consider this poem by the well-known 17th Century poet, Robert Herrick.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
You may for ever tarry.

– Robert Herrick

The poem is written in the imperative form, instructive to the reader or listener. I read it recently under the title “To Young Virgins,” which gives a sense of his intended audience, though his underlying message applies to everyone, reminding us that time passes quickly. Another example, this one by Walt Whitman, addresses a city.

CITY OF ORGIES

CITY of my walks and joys!
City whom that I have lived and sung there will one day make you illustrious,
Not the pageants of you–not your shifting tableaux, your spectacles, repay me,
Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at the wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows with goods in them,
Nor to converse with learn’d persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast;
Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me love,
Offering response to my own–these repay me,
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

– Walt Whitman (from the 1860 edition of Leaves of Grass, it became City of Orgies in the 1867 edition)

And so, for March’s prompt, I invite you to write a poem, flash fiction or even a paragraph in the second person. Many of you do this routinely, so I challenge (not confine) you to a more specific prompt. Consider addressing: • Your favorite poet, one who has influenced your own writing; • A celebrity you would invite to dinner if you had a choice; • An inanimate object; • An entity such as time, a holiday, an event from history; • Rewriting one of your own poems from 1st or 3rd person into second. If you would like to participate in the community opportunity: • Write your poem or prose and post it on your blog or website; • Access Mr. Linky at the bottom of this post and add your name and the direct URL to your submission; • Enjoy your time writing and reading poetry. I will look forward to reading those who drop by. And if you would rather not be a part of the public forum, I hope you’ll try anyway. This is not a contest; it’s only to tickle your muse!

Please share YOUR work in response to the prompt by clicking on the Mister Linky sign (below in green) and then enter your name and paste in the URL to your post. Victoria will visit and comment and so will Jamie Dedes. We hope you’ll also visit one another to read, comment and encourage. Thank you!

VICTORIA C. SLOTTO (Victoria C. Slotto, Author: Fiction, Poetry and Writing Prompts) ~ is an accomplished writer and poet. Winter is Past, published by Lucky Bat Books in 2012, is Victoria’s first novel. A second novel is in process. On Amazon and hot-off-the-press nonfiction is Beating the Odds: Support for Persons with Early Stage Dementia. Victoria’s ebooks (poetry and nonfiction) are free to Amazon Prime Members. Link HERE for Victoria’s Amazon page. Editorial note: Congratulations, Victoria, on that the long awaited publication of print copies of Jacaranda Rain, Collected Poems, 2012, Beautifully done. Writers’ Fourth Wednesday is hosted by Victoria from January through October.

Beauty, Corina L. Ravenscraft, Nature, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

~ Purple Crocus ~

Posted on March 25, 2014March 25, 2014 by dragonkatet

(( I think we’re all more than ready for Spring, with the Polar Vortex and the frozen hell that has swept across so much of the country this winter. One of the first signs of Spring for me, that I look forward to every year, are the Crocuses. Side note: wonder why the plural of Crocus isn’t Crocusi? 😉 In any case, this is a poem I wrote many years ago upon seeing the first Crocus of the season. I really needed to see something wonderful that particular day, and Mother Nature didn’t disappoint.))

Image borrowed from nature wallpapers dot org — Image borrowed from naturewallpapers.org

A little, purple crocus,
Was the first sign of Spring, for me.
It poked its head up through the ground
And waited for me to see.
It knew purple was my favorite color,
And just wanted me to know,
It was sweet, like me,
And gave me a smile
When I was feeling low.
Bright orange, fuzzy stamens
Cupped inside the velvet flower,
Whispered that all was not lost,
That I was alive another hour
So I’d better make the most of it
Before the sun had flown.
To think a little, purple flower,
Could remind me

Of this simple truth,
I’ve known.
~ C.L.R. ~ ©

About dragonkatet Regarding the blog name, Dragon’s Dreams ~ The name comes from my love-affairs with both Dragons and Dreams (capital Ds). It’s another extension of who I am, a facet for expression; a place and way to reach other like-minded, creative individuals. I post a lot of poetry and images that fascinate or move me, because that’s my favorite way to view the world. I post about things important to me and the world in which we live, try to champion extra important political, societal and environmental issues, etc. Sometimes I wax philosophical, because it’s also a place where I always seem to learn about myself, too, by interacting with some of the brightest minds, souls and hearts out there. It’s all about ‘connection(s)’ and I don’t mean “net-working” with people for personal gain, but rather, the expansion of the 4 L’s: Light, Love, Laughter, Learning.

First Peoples, Joseph Hesch, poem, poetry, trees

Beyond the Pines

Posted on March 24, 2014March 9, 2014 by Joseph Hesch

Once, a squirrel could travel from here
to the place the Kanienkehaka called
Beyond the Pines and never
touch the ground, not leave a track
for the People of the Flint to follow
like they stalked the white-tail deer.
From the River Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk
to Schau-naugh-ta-da the trace ran,
where I follow these tracks each day.

I see where the geese have penned
their cuneiform tales in the pond-side mud,
edited by the turtles’ tail-writ script.
I read the tracks of the students
on the running trail–the one
that runs for a time toward
that western place–like I’m one
with my Mohawk brothers,
trailing Englishmen from the Hudson’s shore
to where they’ll hew more and more pines
and tear down more of this
Haudenosaunee world.

Do their heels weigh heavier
in the dirt than their toes? Walking.
How deep? Carrying books.
Are their toes dug in, tossing behind
a spray of the history of their passing? Running.
Narrow feet? Girl. A pair side by side?
Someone stood to watch soccer practice.
Four feet, two narrow, two wide?
Perhaps a longer story than this moment.

Two squirrels cross my trail,
skittering across the ground
into their place there
behind that one lonely pine. I stopped
to parse their tiny prints, and
wonder about who will pause one day
to ponder all this jumble of tracks
I leave.

– Joseph Hesch

JOSEPH HESCH (A Thing for Words) is a writer and poet from Albany, New York , an old friend of Bardo and a new core team member. Joe’s work is published in journals and anthologies coast-to-coast and worldwide. He posts poems and stories-in-progress on his blog, A Thing for Words. An original staff member at dVerse Poets Pub website, Joe was named one of Writers Digest Editor Robert Lee Brewer’s “2011 Best Tweeps for Writers to Follow.” He is also a member of the Grass Roots Poetry Group and featured in their 2013 poetry anthology Petrichor Rising.

Essay, General Interest

Sacred Space in Peacemaking

Posted on March 22, 2014March 23, 2014 by Terri

I am currently at Ecumenical Advocacy Days in Washington DC. The focus is on radical peace making. I am reminded of the extreme risk that comes to people making radically peaceful stands.

Fr. John Dear suggested the following process to arrive at a nonviolent life:

– Nonviolent interior life … Leads to …

– Nonviolent interpersonal life … Leads to …

– Nonviolent world.

It reminds me of “love your neighbor as yourself!” That requires self love first. Interior nonviolence leads to a cosmos full of nonviolence!

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. articulated six principles of nonviolence:

1. nonviolent resistance is not a method for cowards

2. nonviolence does not seek to defeat or humiliate the opponent, but to win his friendship and understanding

3. the attack is directed against forces of evil rather than against persons who happen to be doing the evil

4. nonviolent resistance is a willingness to accept suffering without retaliation, to accept blows from the opponent without striking back

5.it avoids not only external physical violence but also internal violence of spiri

6. it is based on the conviction that the universe is on the side of justice

Some of these are hard principles. But all the people I have heard of that do nonviolence have incredible wells of interior spaciousness. The ultimate source of nonviolence.

I hope you find something to prompt a thought that leads towards greater peace!

Shalom,

Terri Stewart

Source: http://www.wildmind.org/blogs/on-practice/the-path-of-nonviolence-six-principles-of-dr-martin-luther-king-jr

Terri Stewart ~ a member of our Core Team, comes from an eclectic background and considers herself to be grounded in contemplation and justice. She is the Director and Founder of the Youth Chaplaincy Coalition that serves youth affected by the justice system. As a recent graduate of Seattle University’s School of Theology and Ministry, she earned her Master’s of Divinity and a Post-Master’s Certificate in Spiritual Direction with honors and is a rare United Methodist student in the Jesuit Honor Society, Alpha Sigma Nu. She is a contributing author to the Abingdon Worship Annual.

General Interest, Naomi Baltuck, Photo Essay, Photography/Photographer, story, Story Telling, Photo Story

Staph Infection

Posted on March 22, 2014March 9, 2014 by Naomi Baltuck

As a newly graduated English Majorette, I headed Out West to seek my fortune, and arrived in Seattle just before the holiday season.

While I decided what to do with the rest of my life, I landed a temp job selling shoes at the downtown Frederick and Nelson’s to pay the rent.

The shoe did not fit. Most of the saleswomen spent their paychecks on new clothes, using the employee discount, of course. I had two and a half presentable outfits, and rotated. I didn’t wear make-up or high heels, but I did have a decent pair of leather boots that went with everything. I was competent and polite, except to the imperious bitches who mistook the fitting chair for a throne and were used to being waited on hand and foot. They were the ones who came in five minutes before closing, ordered me to fetch four different pairs of shoes in three sizes, then stuck out their feet for me to remove their own shoes for them.

That six week position seemed an eternity, but I had a secret superpower to get through it. Long before the invention of Photoshop, I had mastered my own techniques for photo doctoring.

It was crude, but effective. And my family was very forgiving.

All it took was a pin to scratch away here and a red marker to color in there, and voila! I turned my Frederick and Nelson’s staff pin into a Frederick and Nelson’s staph pin. No one even noticed, but somehow it was a sign, and it made all the difference to me.

Then one cold December day my boss called me into the back room. I was sure she was going to fire me for badge tampering. But she said, “I want you to work here on a permanent basis beginning in January.”

Before I could tell her, “Thank you, but I want to check out job opportunities in Hell first,” she leaned forward to stare at my bosom. Or at the badge on my bosom, to be more precise. “I think there’s a typo on your badge.”

“So it would seem,” I replied.

“That’s never happened before. Go get a new one, and then let me know as soon as possible about the job.”

I never did trade in my Little Red Badge of Courage for a new one. As for the job selling shoes… those boots were made for walking, and that’s just what they did. They walked on down to Grand Teton National Park, where I waited tables, and to King’s Canyon National Park, where I taught canoe.

And they brought me back to the home of my heart…

…where I became a professional storyteller…

…and author.

Along the journey, I have learned to pay attention to my instincts, and to read the writing on the wall.

But I still keep the badge as a reminder that sometimes one must relish the tiny victories along the way.

c2013 all words and photographs, Naomi Baltuck

NAOMI BALTUCK ~ is a Contributing Editor and Resident Storyteller here at Bardo. She is a world-traveler and an award-winning writer, photographer, and story-teller whose works of fiction and nonfiction are available through Amazon HERE. Naomi presents her wonderful photo-stories – always interesting and rich with meaning and humor – at Writing Between the Lines, Life from the Writer’s POV. She also conducts workshops such as Peace Porridge (multicultural stories to promote cooperation, goodwill, and peaceful coexistence), Whispers in the Graveyard (a spellbinding array of haunting and mysterious stories), Tandem Tales, Traveling Light Around the World, and others. For more on her programs visit Naomi Baltuck.com

Essay, Liz Rice-Sosne, Spiritual Practice

A Second Spiritual Experience – Part Two

Posted on March 21, 2014March 17, 2014 by Liz RS

During this time in November of 2005 I communed with a Great Horned Owl and a Red-Tailed Hawk each who each resides in Forest Park. One evening I was meant to take to the hawk, as an act of thanks, a chicken wing and place it upon a particular iron waist-high pole on the edge of the ball fields. It was Friday night. My husband kindly came with me to Straub’s the family grocery where I shop. He hung back a bit somewhat embarrassed. On Friday night the place is mobbed. So, I got in line at the butcher’s counter and waited until my turn. There was a long wait. When it was finally my turn I ordered one chicken wing. Everyone else in line hearing my request went nuts: “one chicken wing!” Well no, actually, “just a half of a wing I did not want the drummie.” People were looking at me in utter disbelief, as though I had wasted their collective time with purpose. Once I had the wing I left for the park. The problem there was that there were police everywhere. It looked as though I was putting some garbage on a post. But, I fulfilled the task and had no encounters with local law enforcement. Aside from my request to God, the other thing that initiated my experience was my long conversation with a Vietnam Veteran.

What this experience in its entirety did for me; was to give to me the actual feelings that many war veterans experience during their times in war. You might wonder: “how could that possibly be?” I suspect that I was meant to feel what many soldiers felt during war, because I would later work with them at the VA. For all of my life, veterans were persons to be thought of on Memorial Day and on Veteran’s day, period. I was conceived immediately after WWII. So, my relation to veterans was not unusual. After my experience in which I sensed the emotional torment of those who have seen battle I was radically changed. I studied war. I volunteered at the VA for several years and I gained a healthy respect and love for our country’s veterans. I might add I truly gained a deep respect and love for Vietnam Vets as they are of my generation. I also acquired abhorrence for war. I truly came to understand “love the warrior, hate the war.” Most cannot enter into that cliché and act upon it. It is very tricky and very difficult for it is so political. But my experience lacked all political thought or sense.

The other thing that I did was write about 20 poems about war, veterans, acts of war … really anything that came out of my experience that year. My first poem titled: “A Certain Madness.” It came about during one particular writing class that I taught at the VA. The poem follows.

A Certain Madness 

Each one came, soldier, marine, airman, frog, walking quietly as if wrapped within the cocoon of his own world.

War’s sad energy like a gray, heavy mist lay upon the shoulders of each, reality spiking their dull black piercing shadows.

Each man sat at the table abandoned.   “Just a word? Coffee please. May we write yet?”

And then he stood.  A large and heavy presence, poorly balanced.

He shouted: “Don’t you see them?  There, in the corners … there is one in each corner.”

“How dare they come here?  I ought-a know.  I was with the CIA.”

Then he sat down defeated, again.   He seemed to relax until another stream of madness crept out of his throat.

“I will NOT be giving you a sample today!   There will be no writing samples.   THEY … are here for that reason you know, to collect them.”

And I thought to myself:  “Does the madness hide the pain? Or perhaps this pain drives one mad.”

LIZ RICE-SOSNE a.k.a. Raven Spirit (noh where), perhaps the oldest friend to Bardo, is the newest member of The Bardo Group Core Team. She is also our new Voices for Peace project outreach coordinator and our go-to person for all things related to haiku. She says she “writes for no reason at all. It is simply a pleasure.” Blogging, mostly poetry, has produced numerous friends for whom she has a great appreciation. Liz is an experienced blogger, photographer and a trained shaman. We think her middle name should be “adventure.”

Essay, Shamanism, Spiritual Practice

A Second Spiritual Experience – Part One

Posted on March 20, 2014March 17, 2014 by Liz RS

I feel privileged to be in the company of those who write here upon The Bardo. It is an honor. Though untrue, I often feel as though we write together. That is comforting to me.

Spiritual experiences are by their very nature exceptionally private. They can be difficult to speak of due to that private nature and due to the lack of an adequate lexicon. I am not terribly private. So, I would like to share one of my own experiences with you, as it radically changed my life. It was 2005 and I had been retired for two years. I served on several boards as a volunteer but otherwise I was bored. So I will say to you before you read further – do not be offended by anything that I say. This is a personal experience. I am not proselytizing nor would I ever. I am merely sharing.

I have never served in the military and I have never been to war. The closest I came was in 1967-8 when formerly married and living on Okinawa, close to the war in Vietnam. But that experience bears no relation to this experience. This experience of which I speak was the second life changing spiritual experience that I have had within my lifetime. The first was Christian in nature in 1973.

This life-changing experience came to me via my plea one day to God: “What do you want me to do? What should I do now?” At about the same time I began an ongoing conversation with a Vietnam Veteran, a former B-52 Bomber Pilot. The experiences that followed were all a part the answer to my question. This experience was shamanic in nature. Shamanism is something that I studied in the 80s and 90s. This experience lasted about 6 weeks, it appeared to many that I might be having a “nervous breakdown.” My friends were worried. My husband trusted me but worried nonetheless. The experience was very dramatic, very painful and most ecstatic. I knew that I was doing exactly what I was meant to do. None-the-less, I hung on for dear life. It was extremely hard to remain grounded. To do so I engaged the services of three different people, a body-worker, an exercise therapist and a counselor. I remember and will recount one particularly humorous thing that happened. Tomorrow.

Charles W Martin, Photography/Photographer, poem, Poems/Poetry

living faith…

Posted on March 19, 2014March 9, 2014 by slpmartin

when belief
becomes tangible
blood flows
through veins
in the same way
but
an invisible element
now pulses
with each heartbeat
not
measurable by
any
scientific means
but
all the same
real
there is
a calmness
and
peaceful demeanor
ever-present
that sense
that
someone
is holding
you close
each hour
of the day

– Charles W. Martin

678ad505453d5a3ff2fcb744f13dedc7-1 CHARLES W. MARTIN (Reading Between the Minds) — earned his Ph.D. in Speech and Language Pathology with an emphasis in statistics. Throughout Charlie’s career, he maintained a devotion to the arts (literature/poetry, the theater, music and photography). Since his retirement in 2010, he has turned his full attention to poetry and photography. He publishes a poem and a photographic art piece each day at Read Between the Minds, Poetry, Photograph and Random Thoughts of Life. He is noted as a poet of social conscience. Charlie has been blogging since January 31, 2010. He has self-published a book of poetry entitled The Hawk Chronicles and will soon publish another book called A Bea in Your Bonnet: First Sting, featuring the renown Aunt Bea. In The Hawk Chronicles, Charlie provides a personification of his resident hawk with poems and photos taken over a two-year period. Charlie’s lastest book, When Spirits Touch, Dual Poetry, a collaboration with River Urke, is available through Amazon now.

Jamie Dedes

A Hunger for Bone

Posted on March 18, 2014March 17, 2014 by Jamie Dedes

…….For Ann who died a year ago of a rare cancer of the bone

we scattered your relics, charred bone
blithe spirit, to be rocked by waves,
to be rocked into yourself, the rhythm
enchanting you with sapphire spume,
sighs merging your poetry with the ether,
rending our hearts of their shivered memories,
shattering the ocean floor with your dreams
lost in lapping lazuli tides, dependable ~
relief perhaps after pain-swollen years of
suckle on the shards of a capricious grace

those last weeks …
your restless sleeps disrupted by
medical monitors, their metallic pings
not unlike meditation bells calling to you,
bringing you to presence and contemplation,
while bags hung as prayer-flags on a zephyr,
fusing blood, salt, water
into collapsing veins, bleeding-out
under skin, yellowing and puce-stained,
fetid air filled, we came not with chant,
but the breath of love, we tumbled in
one-by-one to stand by you

to stand by you
when death arrived
and it arrived in sound, not in stealth,
broadcasting its jaundiced entrance
i am here, death bellowed on morphine
in slow drip, i am here death shouted,
offering tape to secure tubing, handing
you a standard-issue gown, oversized –
in washed-out blue, for your last journey
under the cold pale of fluorescent light

far from the evergreen life of your redwood forest,
eager and greedy, death snatched
your jazzy PJs, your bling and pedicures,
your journals and pens, your computer and
cat, death tried your dignity and identity
not quickly, no … in a tedious hospital bed,
extending torment, its rough tongue salting
your wounds, death’s hungering, a hunger
for bones, your frail white bones –
but you in your last exercise of will, thwarted death,
bequeathing your bones to the living sea

– Jamie Dedes

JAMIE DEDES (The Poet by Day)~ I am a mother and a medically retired (disabled) elder. The graces of poetry, art, music, writing and reading continue to evolve as a sources of wonder and solace, as a creative outlet, and as a part of my spiritual practice.

Corina L. Ravenscraft, Culture/History, General Interest, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

~ Seek Out the Four Leaf Clovers ~

Posted on March 17, 2014March 9, 2014 by dragonkatet

(( March comes along and we’re usually reminded of St. Patrick’s Day and all things Irish. In keeping with that theme, here’s a poem that might make you think of four-leafed clovers a little differently the next time you see one. 😉 ))

I looked for luck today,
thinking I could use some.
My eyes, scanning, seeking,
green leaves of three.
Whole patches of clover,
beneath my soft shadow.
The masses huddled together,
covering, sheltering one another,
in a close-knit bunch.
Always only three leaves;
thousands of trinities, triads and trios.

Then I thought about you,
and there it was!
Magically appearing, as if summoned
by the image in my mind;
the perfect four-leaf clover!
It wasn’t obvious, like I expected.
Four, round, papery-thin leaves,
a dark Spring Green.
With creamy triangles
touching at the center.
All balanced on a slender, delicate stem.
Hidden in the midst of the ordinary.

And it reminded me of people:
Most are of the three-leaf variety,
but some,
some special ones,
grow differently,
with four leaves.
And sometimes, you have to search really hard to find them,
among the clusters of the mundane.

Like the symbols I compare them to,
they may bring you luck.
If you find them, cherish them;
press them in your memory book,
return to them when you need their magic.
Because sometimes, we all need a little luck.
~ © C.L.R. ~

About dragonkatet Regarding the blog name, Dragon’s Dreams ~ The name comes from my love-affairs with both Dragons and Dreams (capital Ds). It’s another extension of who I am, a facet for expression; a place and way to reach other like-minded, creative individuals. I post a lot of poetry and images that fascinate or move me, because that’s my favorite way to view the world. I post about things important to me and the world in which we live, try to champion extra important political, societal and environmental issues, etc. Sometimes I wax philosophical, because it’s also a place where I always seem to learn about myself, too, by interacting with some of the brightest minds, souls and hearts out there. It’s all about ‘connection(s)’ and I don’t mean “net-working” with people for personal gain, but rather, the expansion of the 4 L’s: Light, Love, Laughter, Learning.

General Interest

Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore By Niamh Clune

Posted on March 17, 2014March 3, 2014 by Dr Niamh

I grew up in London Irish pubs where music was inwoven into the fabric of daily life. One of my father’s few redeeming features was that he was a good musician, some would say fabulous, even. He played big band swing and bebop on sax and clarinet. When he wanted to torture my mother, he played Irish jigs on the silver flute (should always be played on the simple wooden flute) without feeling or nótaí ghrásta(grace notes). Basically, according to my mother, a bepob player should leave the traditional alone.

Musicians such as The Dubliners stayed with us in the pub we ran in Finsbury Park, The Sir George Robey, then known as The Clarence, and now derelict, and drank us out of house and home. Many exiled and lonely young men full of music, poetry, politics and idealistic intellect passed through our ever-open doors ~ bees to honey, the honey being my mother’s sparkling blue eyes, astonishing charm, and generous supply of home-cooking. They came also because the craic was great. Music pumped out of the bar every night, from Jazz and Bebop, to Blues, Country and Traditional Irish.

At a young age, my father hauled me up onto that stage to “sing us a song” to make the auld fellas cry and drown shamrock memories in copious amounts of the ‘black stuff.’ Children and mammies were remembered. Many had been abandoned for years and left to fend for themselves back in the auld country where there was little hope of employment. Paddy was forced to seek work in foreign, English climes. The lure of digging London’s Victoria underground tunnel superseded all other needs. Earn the Queen’s shilling and put a crust of bread on now distant tables, was the prayer of the day. Home parlours were replaced by my mother’s public bar, where navvy’s found refuge through smiling, non-judgmental, Irish eyes that lit cold souls and warmed exiled hearts.

As was the way with most Irish families, if you could sing, then sing. It was expected. If you could recite a poem, then recite. If you could make a speech and blind all with the power of your oratory then “Fair play to ye!” Just make sure it was passionate, rousing, fired with history and enough whiskey to whet a verbose whistle and incite the nationalist soul.

Because today is St. Patrick’s Day, I will sing you a song I recorded a while back. It’s on my CD Touching Angels…https://soundcloud.com/niamh-clune/red-on-white May the Uilleann Pipes fire your blood and make you get up and dance!

Essay, Poems/Poetry, Terri Stewart

Sacred Space in Music and the Next Generation (Cue Star Trek Theme Song)

Posted on March 16, 2014March 15, 2014 by Terri

I am bringing a piece that I wrote some time ago about music and children and words. It relates to the post from last week inspired by Dr. Cornell West and Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel. That focused on the pietic, the poetic, and the prophetic. This, inspired by my children, ties the three together for me.

I can almost hear everyone asking, “What do you mean?” Well, let me tell you! The pietic are those personal practices that bring greater spiritual freedom and spaciousness – music, prayer, walking – whatever floats your boat! Poetic is the words and the music that describe that inner spaciousness (quite literally what is below). And last, the prophetic, an outward movement of the inner spaciousness to bring greater freedom to the world. Here, quite literally, it is in my children as they are moving outward now bringing an inner spaciousness outward. This is what we do here.

In addition to the poem below, inspired by listening to my children get musical, I’ve linked in a Youtube recording from my son today. He was in the National Academy of Teachers of Singing (NATS) competition in Seattle today and placed second. He inspires me and in him and his friends, I see a generation coming of young people that continue to strive to bring an expansiveness to the cosmos that we have not felt or seen yet.

OK…the video is not necessary, but being the proud mama of this chick I have inflicted out into the world, I wanted to share! Thanks for your indulgence!

Love

by Terri Stewart, April 19, 2011

there is something

about that note
and the melody that
languidly curls in the air
a feathered piece of straw
catching your ear held
by the hands of mozart
and elvis and even
p.d.q. teasing
driftly softly down
blown by the soft
breeze of progeny
cascading joy rising up
like incense
holding the gift of
past, present, and future
the slightest brush of an
angel’s wing carrying
the melody onward

Terri Stewart ~ a member of our Core Team, comes from an eclectic background and considers herself to be grounded in contemplation and justice. She is the Director and Founder of the Youth Chaplaincy Coalition that serves youth affected by the justice system. As a recent graduate of Seattle University’s School of Theology and Ministry, she earned her Master’s of Divinity and a Post-Master’s Certificate in Spiritual Direction with honors and is a rare United Methodist student in the Jesuit Honor Society, Alpha Sigma Nu. She is a contributing author to the Abingdon Worship Annual.

Corina L. Ravenscraft, General Interest, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

~ Soothsayer, You ~

Posted on March 15, 2014March 5, 2014 by dragonkatet

((Shakespeare has had quite an influence on my life, from his poetry to his plays, to the point that not a March can come without me thinking of Caesar and the dreaded “Ides of March”. This came to me the other day as I was thinking about those Ides…I think all Muses must somehow be drawn to thoughts of The Bard…hahaha. Good, bad, I leave it up to the reader to decide. But the sentiment behind it is one I believe in 100%. Enjoy. 🙂 ))

Image borrowed from http://pkphotoshop.blogspot.com

Beware the Ides, and bitter tides of Life
That can catch you, drifting, unaware.
Beware whispered doubts and inner asides
That can make you feel
A restless need to compare.

“Energy flows where attention goes.”
I’ve heard it said, and choose to believe it.
You’re the only one who truly knows
What you want from life.
So go, my friend. Be bold, retrieve it.

Cast aside the toxic multitudes,
Stay clear of those who drag you down.
Beware of those with swiftly-shifting moods,
Like a riptide or current,
You can fall in, and drown.

Leave the negative Nellies to their nots.
Choose your path with purpose,
Sans rose-colored glasses.
Temper reality with positive thoughts;
Rise above the plastic, saccharine masses.

Know your strengths, believe in who you are.
Test limits, and accept that sometimes,
You’ll fail.
Self-confidence makes the journey less far,
Be your own soothsayer —
That’s how you’ll prevail.

About dragonkatet Regarding the blog name, Dragon’s Dreams ~ The name comes from my love-affairs with both Dragons and Dreams (capital Ds). It’s another extension of who I am, a facet for expression; a place and way to reach other like-minded, creative individuals. I post a lot of poetry and images that fascinate or move me, because that’s my favorite way to view the world. I post about things important to me and the world in which we live, try to champion extra important political, societal and environmental issues, etc. Sometimes I wax philosophical, because it’s also a place where I always seem to learn about myself, too, by interacting with some of the brightest minds, souls and hearts out there. It’s all about ‘connection(s)’ and I don’t mean “net-working” with people for personal gain, but rather, the expansion of the 4 L’s: Light, Love, Laughter, Learning.

Fiction, Illness/life-threatening illness, Victoria C. Slotto, Writing

Needed

Posted on March 14, 2014March 13, 2014 by Victoria C. Slotto

The same question that had hounded her for years continued to pummel Irene: At the end of my life, what will I have to show for it?

The answer, she decided, wasn’t in this place—a box-like room full of white sheets, a white blanket, a white commode and the sickly smell of urine, feces and vomit.

She dragged her legs to the edge of the bed, grabbed the rubber handles of her walker encrusted with the grime of three weeks in the nursing home, and made her way to the apple red crash cart parked down the hall where she copped a vial of potassium chloride, a 22 gauge needle, a syringe and tourniquet from the drawer that should have been locked.

After signing herself out against medical advice, she took a taxi home—her happy yellow home with the flower boxes on the window sill that had just come into bloom—the place where she had chosen to die.

Purty, her calico cat greeted her at the door, purring and winding herself about the ankles of the old lady who suddenly realized that the medicine stashed inside her purse wasn’t what she really wanted, not when she had something that needed her..

In my nursing experience, people need someone or something to get better for–or at least the process of rehabilitation goes much better when there is a loved one waiting at home. Even, perhaps especially, if that “someone” depends upon them.

Editorial note: Congratulations, Victoria, on that the long awaited publication of print copies of Jacaranda Rain, Collected Poems, 2012, Beautifully done.

Writers’ Fourth Wednesday is hosted by Victoria from January through October and will post from now on at 12:01 a.m. P.S.T., not at 7 p.m. P.S.T.

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TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

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