Poetry-1 – Page 10

Poems/Poetry, Spiritual Practice, Terri Stewart

Sacred Space in Mental Illness

Posted on August 3, 2014August 2, 2014 by Terri

A while ago, I was a Spiritual Director at a women’s prison. While I was there, one of my clients had a mental illness. Entering into Spiritual Direction was interesting because it challenged me to think about G*d in ways I had never thought of. Here, I had a client who was clearly seeking “something more” but was afraid of “voices” in her head. Huh. In traditional language about the divine, I often speak of a “call” or a “nudge” or “voice” that comes from elsewhere. Now that elsewhere can be internally or externally, but it is still quite separate from the logical thought processes of my mind. The question became, what do I do if I am afraid of trusting any voice other than the logical thought process? How do I imagine the divine?

The product of my imaginings were twofold. My imaginings produced a poem called “ghost town” that is an exploration of what it means to be a seeker with a mental illness. This led to the realization that the only trustworthy things were concrete, visible, and available. And this is okay. It too, is sacred space.

And so I offer to you, “ghost town.”

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.

Terri Stewart, Dec. 2010

General Interest, Nature, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

Summer Dreams

Posted on July 30, 2014July 30, 2014 by The Bardo Group Beguines

Seasons for all themselves don’t mean
What they once did. I’ve not grown
Out of them, rather more into and a part
Of them with a deepening I’ve not had.
Not to be dramatic, only matter of fact.
A time when each season meant differences
In things needing to be done is done for me.

Those needings now need to be hired out
To those whose labor is not tenuous
But filled with stamina and a resilience
More nimble than my unsteady willingness
To mount a ladder and repair a rotted soffit.
I am not enfeebled by a long way yet. It’s just
My work’s more now a tooled thought inside.

I. Autumn is my season of perfect cadences.
In it the heart and mind are at peace.
The slender line of equinox orchestrates
In harmony circumspect participation
Of the four elements that make us part of
An earth fully aware the year is growing late.
Each day a ballet full of import in the air.
Walking, my feet in step with my breathing.

The feel of the first chill-quicken’d bite
In my lungs, holds my concentration close
To what matters. – The wideness of the sky,
The attitudes of clouds, the ‘V’ of flocks flowing
Rather than just in flight, how trees enflamed
Allow a lone evergreen among them to be seen,
The moment, at sunset, when the countryside
Gives the day over to night in sighs
And all the secret names of things are revealed
Then quickly forgotten by the feel of a world
About to relax and make itself ready.

II. Winter has become a year all its own.
It tastes on my tongue of a cello
Playing cascades of suites by Bach,
Continuing one after another without stop,
Each deep lowing expresses the joy
Of a universe still expanding in awe.
Yet, still I’m rooted firm to earth’s orbit,
Knowing it would be simple to only let go
And suddenly traveling at light’s speed,
Leave all fears behind, bound by gravity.

I think it’s what it must have been like
To be Einstein embraced in his reveries,
Questioning the knowns and doubts,
Accepting the unknown and finally,
Having no doubt about coming back,
Slipped the thin atmosphere surrounding
The world delicately drifting in space.

III. Spring’s a flowery mutation all primed up;
A glandular mix of the sacred, the profane
And the pagan; Mardi gras madness—beads
Thrown out to bearing breasts with drunken ease;
Carnival gluttony stumbling into Lenten ash, and
Sacrifice. Ending lined up for the confessional
Ritual of Good Friday, still hungry yet, for more.

Yes, the rest’s more like a note left by winter,
The ground saturated with meltdown, into mud;
For me a season of cynics and sarcastic smiling.
When I was young in the sixties and it was all
For politics and sex, love bruising imaginations
Cut to the heart with the hot knife of living,
All caught up in the under currents of renewal
Expecting the world would change by our love.

Though, too, to be honest, my appreciation of
This season, is how it binds the rest with promise.
Always, some part of its fertile dance is woven
Into the cloth of days unfolding of what’s to be;
Always, with the thread of hopes to come.

IV. Summer’s world is seen from the pitcher’s mound
Long before the crowd arrives. Slightly raised,
Closer to Home than any base, surrounded
By the green grass and raked red clay of possibility.
It is warm roundness and all light rolled out
Into lengths of days. An awakening of all there is;
Opens with clear fields of vision, mowed wind gusts
And dark thunder. A dry in your throat that is not
Thirst, but unquenchable anticipation.

Summer is body time – inside, outside, under
The fingernails dirty. It is Walt Whitman singing
America, while imagining the sweating bodies
Of young men, watching them swim naked,
Diving off a Brooklyn pier. It is a season
Demanding no quarter and giving none back
Except the secrets of Pleasure’s alchemy
Turning spun gold into the smell of memories.

It is a world of short close nights tipping
On a horizon’s infinity, gentle and tender. Full
Of all one can take from this earth if one chose
To leave it– more than, much more than that.
It is the season we first learn how dreams
Become the things they are, books opening,
Revealing every page at once; all the things
We can do and cannot do and can do them anyway.
Above all other importants. Above all else,
Summer dreams it is summer; it dreams itself.
What it is about, with a great consciousness
—All of its sinews, bones, muscles and blood in focus,
To see the object of all its exertions at night’s end
And the next day’s beginning; deep breaths filling
The heart, mind and soul with a pure, deep sleep;
The un-desperate, quiet sleep of summer dreams.

– Mr. K.A. Brace
Excerpt from: To Travel Without a Map: Poems; Mr. K. A. Brace, 9781493643004: Amazon.com: Books

K.A. BRACE (The Mirror Obscura) ~ With this work we introduce a new guest poet. K.B. (as he is popularly know among bloggers) is 61, lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his three dogs and four cats. He is a graduate of The State University of New York at Buffalo where he received both a Bachelor and Masters of Arts degree in English. While at the University he worked with Mac Hammond and Irving Feldman and was winner of The Arthur Axlerod Award for Poetry. After graduating he entered the hospitality industry and did not write for the next 35 years during which time he never considered himself not a poet stating that “a poet is one who has written a poem and may never write another.” Coinciding with his turning 60 he suddenly began writing again and is in the midst of finishing his eighth collection of poetry. He works assiduously for at least 10-12 hours 7 days a week at his writing. To Travel Without a Map is his first publication of a book length collection. His style is eclectic and his interest in modern myths and the tiny filaments of our humanity that connects us to one another are the centerpieces of his work. His poems are always surprising both in their crafting and their messages. He considers himself a ‘readers’ poet.

To Travel Without a Map: Poems; Mr. K. A. Brace, 9781493643004: Amazon.com: Books

Charles W Martin, Peace & Justice, Photography/Photographer, Poems/Poetry, Poets Against War Week

your eye for an eye…

Posted on July 24, 2014July 23, 2014 by slpmartin

there are no brave souls
only those who seek vengeance
so death’s army grows

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.

Charlie’s long awaited Aunt Bea Collection is out. He says, “Bea In Your Bonnet: First Sting is a collection of germinal poems featuring Aunt Bea. Aunt Bea’s voice is one I’ve heard almost every day of my life. Family observations, lessons, and advice given to me and every other family member who had the good sense to listen. Her homespun philosophy most likely will not be found in any collegiate textbooks or for that matter in any local town crier newspaper catering to city dwellers. Indeed, she has a different way of viewing the world; a bit old fashion, sassy, and steely at times but a viewpoint which has engaged my imagination and heart. I sincerely hope you too will find some morsel of wisdom in her personal observations and interpretations of life’s events, but do watch out for her stingers.”

General Interest, Naomi Baltuck, Photo Essay, Photography/Photographer

Look On My Works, Ye Mighty

Posted on July 18, 2014July 18, 2014 by Naomi Baltuck

Teachers, parents, siblings, mentors of every kind leave their mark upon us. I was in the fifth grade at Isaac Newton Elementary school in Detroit when my teacher, Mrs. Chapman, had us memorize Ozymandias, a poem composed in 1818 by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Then we had to recite it to our classmates.

I walked to the front of the room and paused, a dramatic device storytellers employ to command the attention of their audience. Actually, I was just trying not to throw up: it was my first public solo performance. I was terrified, but it was also electrifying to be able to convey such a compelling story, such unforgettable imagery. Not only did I not throw up, but I got an A. And I never forgot that poem.

My mother used to recite poetry to us, like “Daffodils” by Wordsworth and “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes. Over the years I’ve shared Ozymandias and other gems (okay, sometimes I sing jingles from the TV commercials I watched as a kid), to a certain captive audience–my children. Occasionally I recognize my own words reflected back to me from the mouths of my babes. Sometimes to my chagrin, but most often to my surprise and delight.

My son Eli is home between teaching assignments…

…and tonight Bea returns from Stanford on spring break. It will be so good for us all to be back together again. My ritual, when the kids depart for school, is to tidy their rooms, change the sheets, and drop a tear or two as I make their rooms ready for them to come home to the next time…and they are always grateful.

The last time Eli left I was tempted to hire a bulldozer…

…but it’s like spending a little quiet time with that absent child.

Last night, in a burst of inspired procrastination (he was tired of reorganizing his own room), Eli decided to surprise Bea by cleaning her room, and not just the sort of tidying I do, but a thorough reorganization, including the mountain of books stacked haphazardly in the corner, that pile of her things parked just inside the door, not to mention the surprise found in a teacup discovered under a pile of stuff on her desk. It’s either a science experiment or a strange new life form. It took Eli over five hours. He found so many new ways and places to shelve books that they almost fit on her shelves now!

But nothing comes without a price tag. In fact, after Eli was finished, everything had a tag on it. Oh, yes. He had made his mark.

I love this one…

But my absolute favorite touch was the greeting on the door.

I howled with laughter. “Oh, good,” said Eli. “I didn’t know if you’d get the reference.” “Do I get the reference?” I asked, launching into a recitation of Ozymandias. “How did you think of it?” He said he remembered it from all the times I’d recited it. Of course I ran to find my book of Shelley…

When I opened it up in search of the poem, I saw that someone else had made her mark. Upon the book…

…and maybe even upon me.

The poetry and the stories we pass from generation to generation enrich and prepare us for the struggles we will face, within ourselves and in the outside world. I believe they will outlast the Mighty and their monuments to themselves, and, I hope, their wars.

Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Mrs. Chapman. Thank you, son. And welcome home, Bea!

All images and words (except for Mr. Shelley’s, of course) copyright 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

Click here for more interpretations of The Weekly Photo Challenge: Reflections.

Liliana Negoi, meditative, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

all aboard the jasmine train

Posted on July 17, 2014July 16, 2014 by Author

metallic trails carry along them
the afterlife scent
of knowledge and will

no need to pull the emergency brake –
we’re all just
a splendid soup of souls
from which sometimes drops
creep within the spoon of god
and he feeds the earth with us

sanctity overdue –
once in a while
(or more than once in a while)
expired souls
find their way by accident
on the shelves of reality,
and we blame god because
we forgot to read the labels
and we hurt…

but in the end
the thorns on which we prick our fingers
could be nothing else but
the pins and needles from god’s palm…

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. She is also the author of a novel, Solo-Chess, available for free reading HERE. Many of her creations, both poetry and prose, have been published in various literary magazines.

Nature, Poems/Poetry, Victoria C Slotto

The Seed–a Sestina

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

Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it bears much fruit.
John 12, 24

The Seed

Such joy we find, in spring, to plant a seed,

to tuck it deep within expectant earth
to wait, in hope, for summers verdant growth,
the offspring of apparent winter death,
a promise that we, too, shall know rebirth
when we, at last, have spent this fragile life.

You ask me why we long for lasting life?
Perhaps you’ve never sown a lowly seed
then seen that nature nurtures its rebirth
unnoticed, ‘neath the skin of Mother Earth.
So small this grain—defying endless death
while flaunting its capacity for growth.

Each seed, endowed with all required for growth
still needs attention to sustain its life,
thus lending meaning to apparent death.
They languish for both sun and rain, these seeds,
and nutrients—the gift of fertile earth,
then time is all that’s wanting for rebirth.

Does not your soul expect its own rebirth?
Does grace not foster spirit’s gentle growth?
And it is not our goal while here one earth
to search for meaning in these days of life?
Tend carefully the soil that bears the seed
and have no fear of your impending death.

The seed, itself, surrenders to its death
so that a flower or tree may know rebirth.
Such beauty shall be born of humble seed
embarking on a journey of new growth.
Thus is the cycle known to every life
that’s clothed in form while dwelling here on earth.

Too short the days we wander here on earth,
too soon we face inevitable death,
so each and every moment of this life
give cause to ponder our sublime rebirth,
to free ourselves for such abundant growth
that we fulfill the mission of the seed.

While here on earth prepare for this rebirth,
for it’s through death we shall achieve new growth.
In losing life you flourish, tiny seed.

The Sestina:

A sestina is, for me, a fun, but challenging form to play with. It is a double tritina, using six, rather than three line-ending words. The secret is to choose words along a thematic line, then see where they take you. Should you want to give the form a whirl, this is the pattern: ABCDEF; FAEBDC; CFDABE; ECBFAD; DEACFB; BDFECA. A tercet concludes the rhyme scheme: ECA for ends of lines, BDF in the middle—thus, BE, DC, FA. Just for fun, try writing it using a meter, such as iambic pentameter.

– Victoria C. Slotto

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. Victoria’s poetry collection is Jacaranda Rain, Collected Poems, 2012, Beautifully done.

Writers’ Fourth Wednesday prompt is hosted by Victoria from January through October. Victoria’s next Fourth Wednesday writers’ prompt will post at 12:01 a.m. PST on July 23. Please join us. Mister Linky will remain open for seventy-two hours so that you can link your response to this blog. If you find Mister Linky too cumbersome to use, please feel free to leave your link in the comments section on Wednesday. Victoria and Jamie will read and comment and we hope you will read each other’s work as well, comment and encourage.

General Interest, Jamie Dedes, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

swallowed whole

Posted on July 12, 2014September 24, 2019 by Jamie Dedes

“I suspect there will never be a requiem for a dream, simply because it will destroy us before we have the opportunity to mourn its passing.” Hubert Sibley, Jr., Requiem for a Dream

we of the blue work-a-day Mondays,
stale “Pastor says” Sundays
and Veterans’ Day at the mall
where manufactured dreams are sold
they’ve fitted us with iron lungs
the muscle we use is not our own
our scripts are poorly written
our poems stillborn, our music silenced
by Madison Avenue, by financiers
and politicians, some teachers,
some preachers too
and entertainment news …
like carnival barkers, they hawk their wares
material addictions, stoked jingoism …
……for this …
we barter our minds, betray our souls
……Chumped!
we are swallowed whole.

Beauty, Jamie Dedes, Nature, ocean bliss, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

caressed by a white-lighted wrinkle in time

Posted on July 10, 2014July 10, 2014 by Jamie Dedes

a bountiful dawn breaks along the beach,
the salty air rousing me out of bed to a
good morning dressed in silken pale, in soft
pastels, like violet and peach and the seduction
of a blue-green ocean that sighs with its ebb tides
and with its surge, it roars on slivered winds ~

between the whiles, how pleasant this tender verge,
*softly caressed by a white-lighted wrinkle in time**

.
* A nod to Madeleine L’Engle
© 2012, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; photo by Caliliver and generously released into the public domain.

JAMIE DEDES (The Poet by Day)~I am a medically retired (disabled) elder and the mother of married son who is very dear. I started blogging shortly after I retired as a way to maintain my sanity and to stay connected to the arts and the artful despite being mostly homebound. My Facebook pages are: Jamie Dedes (Arts and Humanities) and Simply Living, Living Simply.

With the help and support of talented bloggers and readers, I founded and host The Bardo Group because I feel that blogging offers a means to see one another in our simple humanity, as brothers and sisters and not as “other.”

“Good work, like good talk or any other form of worthwhile human relationship, depends upon being able to assume an extended shared world.” Stefan Collini (b. 1947), English Literary Critic and Professor of English Literature at Cambridge

Poems/Poetry, Victoria C. Slotto

Nurture

Posted on July 8, 2014July 8, 2014 by Victoria C. Slotto

The ants rush toward sweetness. I take away the melon, but first I spill a little melon juice on the counter.
Mary Oliver
Sand Dabs, Eight

Nurture

A drop of Buddhist grace seeps in my core.
I hesitate then spray to check those ants
but guilt ensues, weighs heavily in my soul,
Yet, should spider dare invade, I squash.

Last week I wept—a neighbor’s trees chopped down.
I wept for feathers scattered in our yard,
for eggs unhatched, abandoned in their nest,
for grazing cows and sheep, doomed to be slain.

And do we know for sure grain feels no pain?
That brainless lobsters know no suffering
when dropped in boiling pots for our delight?
Does life exist to feed on other lives?

But soon enough I, too, shall go away—
my life snuffed out much like a candle’s flame.
And so the cycle’s endless rhythm flows,
as well it must make room for seedling’s growth.

– Victoria C. Slotto

General Interest

All White Then Black

Posted on July 7, 2014June 3, 2014 by PoetJanstie

(for the fifty-two who lost their lives on 7th July 2005 and for many more than seven hundred, who live on with their physical and mental scars)

He took a seat and let the blond girl stand,
and thought about his selfishness, but then
he cast aside his worries for a while.
It seems these days that chivalry requires
that men do other things to prove there worth
sitting whilst she stood was no big deal

…until it went all black and white.

Arriving at the platform just in time
she blessed her luck as, late for work, she knew
this was an omen for the day and augured
well. In tune, her vigorous health enhanced
by brand new trainers bought the day before
and which were such good fit and comfortable

…until it went all black and white.

A City Engineer from Derbyshire
who’d built a walk that clung a cliff-side way
was visiting the city on that day;
a day that saw him on a crowded train,
when he would rather stand and walk about
than stare at someone else’s shirt hang out!

…until it went all black and white.

A software engineer, who had a squint,
would be the one without a single thought
against, or for the men who’d wrung the night
from day that left him still and motionless.
He was just numb, devoid of any feeling;
defied the normal human call to blame,

until it went all white, then black…

A blinding flash of incandescent light
so rapidly reduced the day to night
and left them all completely without sight
of anything but stench of soot and blood
no screams, just moaning and a plaintive cry
for help..

please help,

please help.

…

Trembling in the court, his stoney face
belied the trauma and the weight of guilt
that he’d survived and she had not. But then
her brother laid a hand upon his shoulder
“she was full of fun and wanted friends
like you, to carry all her joy through life.”

Vivaciously recounting her experience;
how she was looking up at her new trainer
on the ceiling… that it seemed quite strange
to her, who at the time was lain. Then she,
as they unwrapped her leg from round the handrail,
released a scream that drew her rescuer’s blood.

A fellow passenger closed the lids
of eyes that could no longer see the world,
of which he could not take a further part,
to dignify, in his truncated end.
Alone, that one gesture made a lifetime’s stress
seem like a moment’s insignificance.

The squint came from a shin-splint in his eye,
like shattered lives that shattered bones release
a hell, for which no-one can be prepared.
And where the bomber’s other parts did go,
only forensic analysis will know.
For those who live, the memory lives on.

The painful wait, amid an infinite darkness
Everything was black and white, only
the blood was vivid red. Random limbs
were strewn, and resting on projecting bone
he’d tried to comfort one who needed help.
The girl who sat behind the bomber survived…

…and who wonders with astonishment
at the human body’s resilience
under such extraordinary shock
that blasted minds beyond their comfort zone
and made so many individuals,
in one small shocking instant…

…become just one.

First published on 10th July 2012 in ‘My Poetry Library’ and in the anthology, “Petrichor Rising” in July 2013.

[ For those with a specific interest in poetry, once again, I was drawn to write this poem in Blank Verse, William Shakespeare’s favoured format for speeches. I think it is such a good way to tell a story and I especially dare think, perchance to dream, of any number of great Shakespearean actors reading it… I wish. You can also read the background to this poem at ‘Forty Two‘ ]

*****

JOHN ANSTIE (My Poetry Library and 42) ~ is a British writer and poet, a contributing editor here at Bardo, and multi-talented gentleman self-described as a “Family man, Grandfather, Occasional Musician, Singer, Amateur photographer and Film-maker, Apple-MAC user, Implementation Manager, and Engineer”. He has participated in d’Verse Poet’s Pub and is a player in New World Creative Union as well as a being a ‘spoken-voice’ participant in Roger Allen Baut’s excellent ‘Blue Sky Highway‘ radio broadcasts. He’s been blogging since the beginning of 2011. He is also a member of The Poetry Society (UK).

*****

John has also been involved in the recent publication of two anthologies that are the result of online collaborations among two international groups of amateur and professional poets. One of these is The Grass Roots Poetry Group, for which he produced and edited their anthology, “Petrichor* Rising“. The other group is d’Verse Poet Pub, in which John’s poetry also appears The d’Verse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry, produced and edited by Frank Watson.

* Petrichor – from the Greek pɛtrɨkər, the scent of rain on the dry earth.

Niamh Clune

Am I Fractured?

Posted on July 3, 2014July 8, 2014 by Dr Niamh

AM I Fractured? By Niamh Clune

Am I fractured, when in the wrath of sunlight streaming ‘cross this sky,
I cloak myself in darkness
cool and safe?

Am I fractured if Colour speaks of secrets more ancient than this sun –
of a time before beginning,
when all was yet unformed, inherent,
ready to burst upon this Blue?

Am I fractured when I feel into tacit –
To probe thoughts never heard,
dreams never shared,
tears never shed?

Am I fractured if I return to Creation’s womb
to the fiery, Colour salamanders
that spark and illuminate my inner Heavens.

Am I mad for seeing into that other realm?
Then, so be it.
Far more beautiful is that Sun.
Where I unchain my weary spirit from this violent dawning.

Copyright Niamh Clune 2013

/
DR. NIAMH CLUNE (Plum Tree Books Blog) ~ is the author of the Skyla McFee series: Orange Petals in a Storm, and Exaltation of a Rose. She is also the author of The Coming of the Feminine Christ: a ground-breaking spiritual psychology. Niamh received her Ph.D. from Surrey University on Acquiring Wisdom Through The Imagination and specialises in The Imaginal Mind and how the inborn, innate wisdom hidden in the soul informs our daily lives and stories. Niamh’s books are available in paperback (children’s books) and Kindle version (The Coming of the Feminine Christ). Dr. Clune is the CEO of Plum Tree Books and Art. Its online store is HERE. Niamh’s Amazon page is HERE.

Joseph Hesch, poem, poetry

Shadow of a Heartbeat

Posted on July 2, 2014July 1, 2014 by Joseph Hesch

You ask me where these come from,
and I can’t say with certainty,
because there is nothing certain
about our days. Sometimes
the shadow of a heartbeat,
the sound of a color,
the taste of the darkness,
the touch of solitude,
they come to you from
over your horizon.
And horizons know
no direction. There’s
no east or north in you,
no sud or oeste.
There’s only ever-moving circles
surrounding you,
encouraging you
to sense the inspirational It
between yourself and
the infinite, to tell its truth
as you will know it.
We’ve not stumbled upon
one another yet. This is
just another page
in the journal we’ll share
when we finally do.

– Joe Hesch
© 2014, All rights reserved

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.

Beauty, Buddhism, Corina L. Ravenscraft, General Interest, Nature, ocean bliss, Photo Essay, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

Tropical thoughts

Posted on July 1, 2014June 30, 2014 by dragonkatet

It’s summertime here in the South, and the weather puts one in mind of the tropics; the steamy humidity, warm summer sun combine to promise that you’ll need another shower as soon as you dare to step foot outside. Many years ago (2006), I was lucky enough to be able to visit the Big Island of Kona, Hawaii for a couple of weeks. You hear stories, of course, of the beauty, but nothing compares to the reality. It truly is a tropical paradise. The native people are very eco-conscious and generally helpful, friendly people. They have a deep respect for the Earth and their simple ways of life were incredibly appealing to me. It’s terribly expensive to live there, since the economy is tourist-driven, but if I ever had the money, this is where I would retire and happily spend the rest of my life.

I got to snorkel with Green Sea Turtles…

Swimming with sea turtles, Kona, HI, 2006

and see plenty of Yellow Tangs and Needle-nosed Knifefish (which floated right below the surface of the water in schools) — Both are types of reef fish.

Yellow Tangs and Butterfly Fish on the reef, Kona, HI, 2006

I also got to see some amazing waterfalls (although it was raining like a monsoon when I went to see them) This is Akaka Falls…

One of my favorite pictures from the trip is from Pololu Valley. You could see the mountains, the coast and the rainforest vegetation all in one shot…

There were some wonderful examples of island art, from hammered tin gates…

Fantastic Hammered Tin Gate on Ali'i Drive — Fantastic Hammered Tin Gate on Ali’i Drive

to the carved, wooden Ki’i statues in various places all over the island. These statues are usually meant as guardians to protect and watch over certain sites. This one is from “Place of Refuge”…

One of the Ki'i (Wooden guardians) At Place of Refuge — One of the Ki’i (Wooden guardians) At Place of Refuge

To my great delight, there were even dragons!

And Buddha was there, too!

It was such an inspiring trip, I couldn’t help but write a poem to help me remember the experience. If you ever have the chance, I hope you will go! It was an enriching journey for the artistic spirit and the soul of anyone who appreciates nature. 🙂

~ Kona ~

Muted moonbeams drift through vaporous clouds,

While gecko songs mesh with the soft click of palms.

Awash in the gentle susurration of waves’ persuasion,

The island breezes encourage me to let go…relax.

No pressure here, no hustle and hurry,

No scamper and scurry,

On “island time”.

Simply hang loose and flow.

The scent of exotic, tropical orchids,

Mixed with the lush green of giant, verdant ferns.

The bright flicker of numerous birds in the brush,

Calls from long-forgotten conchs and steady drums…

All convince me that I,

Have finally found my way home,

To Eden.

~ C.L.R. ~ © 2006

((Someday, I’ll get back there and once more find that kind of peace and serenity.))

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.

Bardo News, General Interest, Islam, Paula Kuitenbrouwer, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry, Poets/Writers, Spiritual Practice, Terri Stewart

BARDO NEWS: Blessings on Ramadan; “Begin Again” blog expands its writer base and gets funding; artfully eco-friendly . . ….

Posted on June 29, 2014 by The Bardo Group Beguines

Islamic Center of the U.S. in Washington by agnosicpreachers kid under CC BY-SA 3.o license

BEST WISHES to our Moslem contributors, readers and friends all over the globe on this: the first day of Ramadan. ~ During this month, 1.6 million Muslims – or 23% of the world population according to Pew Research Religion and Public Life Project – observe a strict fast if they are of an age and healthy enough to do so. The fast extends each day from sunrise to sunset. The month-long fasting ends with a feasting celebration, Eid al-Fitr (the breaking of the fast), which falls on 28 July this year.

Britain’s David Cameron has this to say:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WwiKLxPeti4

Kul ‘am wa enta bi-khair!

May everyday find you in good health!

Kazim Ali (b. 1971) American poet (c) Kazim Ali

CELEBRATING POET, NOVELIST, ESSAYIST and EDUCATOR, KAZIM ALI ~ who was born in the UK, is from an Indian Islamic household, and was educated at State University of New York (SUNY) and at New York University. Currently he lives in Oregon.

Of his most recent poetry collection, The Fortieth Day, the Library Journal review says that Ali …

“continues his task of creating a rejuvenated language that longs to be liberated from the weight of daily routine and the power of dogmatic usage . . . writing in the tradition of Wallace Stevens, Ali is clearly a poet of ideas and symbols, yet his words remain living entities within the texture of the poem.”

Of his essay collection, Fasting for Ramadan, Notes on Spiritual Practice, Tupelo Press states …

“Kazim Ali’s searching descriptions of the Ramadan sensibility and its arduous but liberating annual rite of communal fasting is sure to be a revelation to many readers — intellectually illuminating and aesthetically exhilarating.

“Fasting for Ramadan is structured as a chronicle of daily meditations, during two cycles of the 30-day rite of daytime abstinence required by Ramadan for purgation and prayer. Estranged in certain ways from his family’s cultural traditions when he was younger, Ali has in recent years re-embraced the Ramadan ritual, and brings to this rediscovery an extraordinary delicacy of reflection, a powerfully inquiring mind, and the linguistic precision and ardor of a superb poet.”

Ali’s poem Ramadan is from his collection, The Fortieth Day.

You wanted to be so hungry, you would break into branches,
and have to choose between the starving month’s

nineteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-third evenings.
The liturgy begins to echo itself and why does it matter?

If the ground-water is too scarce one can stretch nets
into the air and harvest the fog.

Hunger opens you to illiteracy,
thirst makes clear the starving pattern,

the thick night is so quiet, the spinning spider pauses,
the angel stops whispering for a moment—

The secret night could already be over,
you will have to listen very carefully—

You are never going to know which night’s mouth is sacredly reciting
and which night’s recitation is secretly mere wind—

“Poetry is the smallest way – it is a small, small way, but it is a way indeed – that the individual body can express its own personhood and value in the face of faceless systems.” Kazim Ali

TERRI STEWART REPORTS on the expansion of Begin Again, the blog she started and hosts ~ “First news, welcome Bruce Chittick to the team of writers! Woot!! He will bring an awesome perspective to Sundays and inspiration. I can’t wait to get to know his writing. I experience him to be a thoughtful, gracious, inclusive kind of guy. His first post went live on the 22nd!

“And, in other exciting news, we got some funding. The United Methodist Church, in an expansive move towards trying new things (although we aren’t exactly NEW) has decided to fund my position at BeguineAgain.com AND all the technology for the next year and a half. This gives me & us time to build a class & subscription base to move towards an independent funding mechanism. This is awesome on so many counts. They know what we have been publishing and are willing to sit in that tension. Amazeballs! And it also lets the pressure off of me regarding all the work I am doing to create alternate funding mechanisms for my own family’s subsistence. Whew. Chaplaincy pays like zero. It is being billed as an online spiritual community. Very vague.

” … I can’t wait to try some of the new technology that will be available now that I can upgrade us to WordPress pro!”

ARTFULLY ECO-FRIENDLY

Dutch Nature Artist, PAULA KUITENBROUWER (Mindful Drawing) ~ a long-standing member of The Bardo Group and a contributor to the blog has sent out a call to all of us – team members, bloggers and friends – to initiate discussions of how and why we are living and working in an eco-conscious ways and how we can use our art and our blogs to encourage environmentally sound practices. Paula shares on her Guilt-Free Art Page …

“My original drawings are drawn on acid free paper. In the process of making acid free paper fewer corrosive chemicals are used, which makes acid free paper significantly environmentally friendlier than normal paper.

“For packing my fine art cards and reproductions, I use biodegradable plastic. I like my art work to be as environmentally friendly as possible and I select my products carefully. My paint-brushes are synthetic without animal hair.”

Other eco-friendly living practices that might be shared would include the ways in which we order our lives to enable no-or-minimal use of cars, mindful shopping (buying only what we need and buying from bulk containers rather than packaged items, buying locally produced food and other products), using biodegradable cleaning products and reusable shopping bags. Yes! All this and how about telling us about your advocacy efforts?

We invite you share your thoughts on this in the comments section here, on your own blogs (then leave us a link under any current post so that we can publicize it in the next Bardo News) or as submissions to The Bardo Group blog this month. (If you are not a core-team member, please email us at bardogroup@gmail.com.)

Coming up:

Next Sunday Terri resumes her Sunday Sacred Space in the Body series.
Another fine piece from Imen Benyoub on Music, Language of the Soul, date TBA
Victoria’s Writers’ Fourth Wednesday, July 23
Celebrations for the 50th Anniversary U.S. Wilderness Act in September, hosted by Priscilla Galasso …
100,000 Poets (and writers, musicians, artists) for Change interview with the founder, TBA (yes! 😦 We are late delivering this. Apologies!)
100,000 Poets for Change event, September 27, hosted by Liz Rice-Sosne (Raven Spirit)

… and many more goodies from our Core Team, readers and guests. This month’s guests will include:

Poet K.A. Brace (The Mirror Obscura) and Jewelry-Maker, Writer, Photographer Isadora (Inside the Mind of Isadora)

bardogroup@gmail.com

The Bardo Group Facebook Page

In the spirit of peace, love and community,

THE BARDO GROUP

find yourself, General Interest, Liz Rice-Sosne, memoir, Mental Health, Writing

Personal Change

Posted on June 27, 2014June 26, 2014 by Liz RS

I once was the target of a nasty online attack. I dove right into the fight and fought the good fight, then extricated myself. This was long ago but it remains an unnerving and unpleasant memory. For the most part I believe that kindness is the way to go. I made a comment not too long ago in another place where I thought I had no contact with these individuals. The comment was inane really. OMG – the same attacker – same persons all over again in a new place. I respond to an attacks. I do not hold back. And I do not let people walk on me. This time however, I chose not to respond. I could have done so and I truly “felt” like responding. Cattiness, meanness, exclusivity don’t play into my vocabulary particularly well. Had I chosen to respond, those traits would have been encountered immediately. Instead I wrote a poem, diffusing my own anger. I stepped back and ignored the persons comments.

Like most, I have encountered provocation numerous times. Planned behavioral changes within have given me the tools to navigate life, to navigate provocation. The second time that I found myself in this situation (mentioned above) I knew to ignore the nastiness. I would have found myself in the midst of the same sort of fight. This situation makes me think about kids today who are bullied online. I cannot imagine the hell into which kids are placed. For that is exactly what I experienced, a barrage of attackers. I also know that at 8 or 14 years of age one does not possess the cognitive abilities to make the choice to ignore their bully. When one is being bullied one fears being seen as weak. These feelings may elicit a response from the bullied. Then the fight begins and the bully keeps pushing and bullying. Then there may be no clear way out. This second occasion of bullying made me think clearly about consequences (something a child cannot do). I knew that no response was the most powerful response. Instead of responding I chose to deal with my emotions by writing in a creative manner. Writing about what you are experiencing emotionally can release the negativity within. Now, the poem below is not meant to be a fine poem … just a release valve. And that valve indeed opened and let escape some of the steam and pressure of that second experience. The results were all positive. There was no negative fallout.

dear poet within
i am having
a hard time
finding you

you seem
to be lost
why have you been
drawn into

a swirl of negative
energy a small swirl
when there is so much
that is positive

try to find yourself
do not get lost
find the massive
positive that exists

extricate yourself
from this one small
negative spin
from one very

small negative person
it wasn’t worth
it then
it isn’t now

– Liz Rice-Sosne

.
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 many 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.”

General Interest, Jamie Dedes, memoir, Poems/Poetry, poetry

and then a new generation

Posted on June 26, 2014June 25, 2014 by Jamie Dedes

…and then a new generation …
a boy, an old soul
but a merry new story
fresh at bone and marrow
adhering to Conrad’s dictum
with little shocks and surprises
in every sentence of his book
his life, his metaphor . . .
wearing Truth as his dermis
seeking tears, not blood
and he, like all good art
changed me for the better

General Interest, John Anstie, poem, Poems/Poetry, poetry

Blind Alley

Posted on June 17, 2014June 19, 2014 by PoetJanstie

Its weight upon her back constrained her breath
and data from a million miles of type
had taken toll of her own inspiration,
drowned beneath the heft of corporate hype.

The pavement and its passengers, detached.
She felt like ailing bug on dying tree.
This morning, as she trudged this weary path,
those slabs were like lead shoes, deprived of glee.

The wall that once reflected all her joy
had cast, as tall as anyone could say,
its shadow, smothering independent thought.
A blinding light then blew it all away.

[This was another poem prompted by a photograph. Ekphrasis wins the day again! It was Marsha Berry, another member of the GRPG*, who posted this and it was followed by a variety of poetic responses. This was mine and it carries with it that common thread of philosophical thought, which occupies me often. This is that we must work hard to ensure we retain our insight, a closeness to our conscious and our convictions, lest we lose it all in favour of allowing others to implant another form of consciousness in our minds, by however insidious a process, that is either corporate (the companies for whom we work), commercial (the companies from whom we buy things to stock our material lives) or political (the PR that the political establishment puts out to woo us for our votes). This poem, I think, rather relates to the first of those three. Or, perish the thought, does that rucksack carry something more destructive? Whichever way this poem is interpreted, I hope it causes the reader to stop and think ]

* GRPG – The Grass Roots Poetry Group

JOHN ANSTIE (My Poetry Library and 42) ~ is a British writer and poet, a contributing editor here at Bardo, and multi-talented gentleman self-described as a “Family man, Grandfather, Occasional Musician, Singer, Amateur photographer and Film-maker, Apple-MAC user, Implementation Manager, and Engineer”. He has participated in d’Verse Poet’s Pub and is a player in New World Creative Union as well as a being a ‘spoken-voice’ participant in Roger Allen Baut’s excellent ‘Blue Sky Highway‘ radio broadcasts. John has been blogging since the beginning of 2011. He is also a member of The Poetry Society (UK).

*****

* Petrichor – from the Greek pɛtrɨkər, the scent of rain on the dry earth.

General Interest, Illness/life-threatening illness, Jamie Dedes, poem, Poems/Poetry, Poets Against War Week

Our Sighs Ride the Ebb-tides of Eternity …

Posted on June 13, 2014June 12, 2014 by Jamie Dedes

On May 28, our group for people with life-threatening illnesses celebrated the lives of those who have already passed on. I was unable to attend the memorial service due to bronchitis, but I celebrate them, two of my family, and this wonderful group here today.

Our group is composed of people from several different religious traditions and is hosted by our local Insight Meditation Center. The group was founded and is run by a Buddhist chaplain who has been very kind and is a stalwart friend to each of us.

I no longer attend meetings. By some surely unearned grace, I am now considered “chronic and stable” and I’ve grown to the point that the news of death no longer disturbs me. The major take-away for me from this experience is that the only difference between having a medically predicted expiration date and not knowing when our time will come is that with a diagnosis, we no longer fall into those moments of denial. That’s a huge gift. Huge! The result is that we become present in each moment.

Today, is my loving celebration of: Ann, Deborah, Dick, Ernie, Hilda, Mary, Parvathy, Robert, Mary Kate, Steve, Victor and to family lost in recent years: my former husband, Kirby (the most decent man I’ve ever known), and my cousin, Christopher, with whom I grew-up and who was like a brother …

Each moment and every person is precious and beautiful and the only thing that really matters is how much we have loved and been loved and that – as survivors – we continue to live in the service of our families and those in need. In the end it would seem that’s the best way to honor the family and friends whose memory we treasure .

Eternity flowed deftly through the last eight years
enfolding in her stream eleven with whom we
contemplated Knowledge and Mortality
Looking back, we ponder amazed at love among friends,
……….it blossoms fragrant, as gentle
……….as a dewy rose among thorns and thistles
We thrash and crawl and climb
……….puzzling
……….over the sea and fire that stalks us
Our hearts, cupped in one another’s hands
……….like castanets, beat in unison
Our measured moments grave lines in phantom fears,
……….they float like storm clouds above us
In words of jade, we speak elegies and encomiums
Our smiles mask our sorrows and yearning
Our laughter is love grown wild
We see each other in a thousand shapes and dreams
……….and in nameless names
Our sighs ride the ebb tides of Eternity
…..Another moment:
…..and even the sun will die
…..but our lotus song will echo on ….
……….We have lived! We have loved!

JAMIE DEDES (The Poet by Day)~I am a medically retired (disabled) elder and the mother of married son who is very dear. I started blogging shortly after I retired as a way to maintain my sanity, to stay connected to the arts and the artful despite being mostly homebound. My Facebook pages are: Jamie Dedes (Arts and Humanities) and Simply Living, Living Simply.

With the help and support of talented bloggers and readers, I founded and host The Bardo Group because I feel that blogging offers a means to see one another – no matter our tribe – in our simple humanity, as brothers and sisters and not as “other.”

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Seasons for all themselves don’t mean What they once did. I’ve not grown Out of them, rather more into and a part Of them with a deepening I’ve not had. Not to be dramatic, only matter of fact. A time when each season meant differences In things needing to be done is done for me.

Those needings now need to be hired out To those whose labor is not tenuous But filled with stamina and a resilience More nimble than my unsteady willingness To mount a ladder and repair a rotted soffit. I am not enfeebled by a long way yet. It’s just My work’s more now a tooled thought inside.

I.

II.

I think it’s what it must have been like To be Einstein embraced in his reveries, Questioning the knowns and doubts, Accepting the unknown and finally, Having no doubt about coming back, Slipped the thin atmosphere surrounding The world delicately drifting in space.

III.

Though, too, to be honest, my appreciation of This season, is how it binds the rest with promise. Always, some part of its fertile dance is woven Into the cloth of days unfolding of what’s to be; Always, with the thread of hopes to come.

IV.

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

there are no brave souls only those who seek vengeance so death’s army grows

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

metallic trails carry along them the afterlife scent of knowledge and will

no need to pull the emergency brake – we’re all just a splendid soup of souls from which sometimes drops creep within the spoon of god and he feeds the earth with us

sanctity overdue – once in a while (or more than once in a while) expired souls find their way by accident on the shelves of reality, and we blame god because we forgot to read the labels and we hurt…

but in the end the thorns on which we prick our fingers could be nothing else but the pins and needles from god’s palm…

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Such joy we find, in spring, to plant a seed,

to tuck it deep within expectant earth to wait, in hope, for summers verdant growth, the offspring of apparent winter death, a promise that we, too, shall know rebirth when we, at last, have spent this fragile life.

You ask me why we long for lasting life? Perhaps you’ve never sown a lowly seed then seen that nature nurtures its rebirth unnoticed, ‘neath the skin of Mother Earth. So small this grain—defying endless death while flaunting its capacity for growth.

Each seed, endowed with all required for growth still needs attention to sustain its life, thus lending meaning to apparent death. They languish for both sun and rain, these seeds, and nutrients—the gift of fertile earth, then time is all that’s wanting for rebirth.

Does not your soul expect its own rebirth? Does grace not foster spirit’s gentle growth? And it is not our goal while here one earth to search for meaning in these days of life? Tend carefully the soil that bears the seed and have no fear of your impending death.

The seed, itself, surrenders to its death so that a flower or tree may know rebirth. Such beauty shall be born of humble seed embarking on a journey of new growth. Thus is the cycle known to every life that’s clothed in form while dwelling here on earth.

Too short the days we wander here on earth, too soon we face inevitable death, so each and every moment of this life give cause to ponder our sublime rebirth, to free ourselves for such abundant growth that we fulfill the mission of the seed.

While here on earth prepare for this rebirth, for it’s through death we shall achieve new growth. In losing life you flourish, tiny seed.

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

a bountiful dawn breaks along the beach, the salty air rousing me out of bed to a good morning dressed in silken pale, in soft pastels, like violet and peach and the seduction of a blue-green ocean that sighs with its ebb tides and with its surge, it roars on slivered winds ~

between the whiles, how pleasant this tender verge, softly caressed by a white-lighted wrinkle in time*

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

The ants rush toward sweetness. I take away the melon, but first I spill a little melon juice on the counter. Mary Oliver Sand Dabs, Eight

Nurture

A drop of Buddhist grace seeps in my core. I hesitate then spray to check those ants but guilt ensues, weighs heavily in my soul, Yet, should spider dare invade, I squash.

Last week I wept—a neighbor’s trees chopped down. I wept for feathers scattered in our yard, for eggs unhatched, abandoned in their nest, for grazing cows and sheep, doomed to be slain.

And do we know for sure grain feels no pain? That brainless lobsters know no suffering when dropped in boiling pots for our delight? Does life exist to feed on other lives?

But soon enough I, too, shall go away— my life snuffed out much like a candle’s flame. And so the cycle’s endless rhythm flows, as well it must make room for seedling’s growth.

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

He took a seat and let the blond girl stand, and thought about his selfishness, but then he cast aside his worries for a while. It seems these days that chivalry requires that men do other things to prove there worth sitting whilst she stood was no big deal

…until it went all black and white.

Arriving at the platform just in time she blessed her luck as, late for work, she knew this was an omen for the day and augured well. In tune, her vigorous health enhanced by brand new trainers bought the day before and which were such good fit and comfortable

…until it went all black and white.

A City Engineer from Derbyshire who’d built a walk that clung a cliff-side way was visiting the city on that day; a day that saw him on a crowded train, when he would rather stand and walk about than stare at someone else’s shirt hang out!

…until it went all black and white.

A software engineer, who had a squint, would be the one without a single thought against, or for the men who’d wrung the night from day that left him still and motionless. He was just numb, devoid of any feeling; defied the normal human call to blame,

until it went all white, then black…

A blinding flash of incandescent light so rapidly reduced the day to night and left them all completely without sight of anything but stench of soot and blood no screams, just moaning and a plaintive cry for help..

please help,

please help,

please help,

please help.

…

Trembling in the court, his stoney face belied the trauma and the weight of guilt that he’d survived and she had not. But then her brother laid a hand upon his shoulder “she was full of fun and wanted friends like you, to carry all her joy through life.”

Vivaciously recounting her experience; how she was looking up at her new trainer on the ceiling… that it seemed quite strange to her, who at the time was lain. Then she, as they unwrapped her leg from round the handrail, released a scream that drew her rescuer’s blood.

A fellow passenger closed the lids of eyes that could no longer see the world, of which he could not take a further part, to dignify, in his truncated end. Alone, that one gesture made a lifetime’s stress seem like a moment’s insignificance.

The squint came from a shin-splint in his eye, like shattered lives that shattered bones release a hell, for which no-one can be prepared. And where the bomber’s other parts did go, only forensic analysis will know. For those who live, the memory lives on.

The painful wait, amid an infinite darkness Everything was black and white, only the blood was vivid red. Random limbs were strewn, and resting on projecting bone he’d tried to comfort one who needed help. The girl who sat behind the bomber survived…

…and who wonders with astonishment at the human body’s resilience under such extraordinary shock that blasted minds beyond their comfort zone and made so many individuals, in one small shocking instant…

…become just one.

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

Thank you for sharing the beauty and inspiration:

I got to snorkel with Green Sea Turtles…

and see plenty of Yellow Tangs and Needle-nosed Knifefish (which floated right below the surface of the water in schools) — Both are types of reef fish.

I also got to see some amazing waterfalls (although it was raining like a monsoon when I went to see them) This is Akaka Falls…

One of my favorite pictures from the trip is from Pololu Valley. You could see the mountains, the coast and the rainforest vegetation all in one shot…

There were some wonderful examples of island art, from hammered tin gates…

to the carved, wooden Ki’i statues in various places all over the island. These statues are usually meant as guardians to protect and watch over certain sites. This one is from “Place of Refuge”…

To my great delight, there were even dragons!

And Buddha was there, too!

It was such an inspiring trip, I couldn’t help but write a poem to help me remember the experience. If you ever have the chance, I hope you will go! It was an enriching journey for the artistic spirit and the soul of anyone who appreciates nature. 🙂

~ Kona ~

Muted moonbeams drift through vaporous clouds,

While gecko songs mesh with the soft click of palms.

Awash in the gentle susurration of waves’ persuasion,

The island breezes encourage me to let go…relax.

No pressure here, no hustle and hurry,

No scamper and scurry,

On “island time”.

Simply hang loose and flow.

Seasons for all themselves don’t mean
What they once did. I’ve not grown
Out of them, rather more into and a part
Of them with a deepening I’ve not had.
Not to be dramatic, only matter of fact.
A time when each season meant differences
In things needing to be done is done for me.

Those needings now need to be hired out
To those whose labor is not tenuous
But filled with stamina and a resilience
More nimble than my unsteady willingness
To mount a ladder and repair a rotted soffit.
I am not enfeebled by a long way yet. It’s just
My work’s more now a tooled thought inside.

I think it’s what it must have been like
To be Einstein embraced in his reveries,
Questioning the knowns and doubts,
Accepting the unknown and finally,
Having no doubt about coming back,
Slipped the thin atmosphere surrounding
The world delicately drifting in space.

Though, too, to be honest, my appreciation of
This season, is how it binds the rest with promise.
Always, some part of its fertile dance is woven
Into the cloth of days unfolding of what’s to be;
Always, with the thread of hopes to come.

there are no brave souls
only those who seek vengeance
so death’s army grows

metallic trails carry along them
the afterlife scent
of knowledge and will

no need to pull the emergency brake –
we’re all just
a splendid soup of souls
from which sometimes drops
creep within the spoon of god
and he feeds the earth with us

sanctity overdue –
once in a while
(or more than once in a while)
expired souls
find their way by accident
on the shelves of reality,
and we blame god because
we forgot to read the labels
and we hurt…

but in the end
the thorns on which we prick our fingers
could be nothing else but
the pins and needles from god’s palm…

to tuck it deep within expectant earth
to wait, in hope, for summers verdant growth,
the offspring of apparent winter death,
a promise that we, too, shall know rebirth
when we, at last, have spent this fragile life.

You ask me why we long for lasting life?
Perhaps you’ve never sown a lowly seed
then seen that nature nurtures its rebirth
unnoticed, ‘neath the skin of Mother Earth.
So small this grain—defying endless death
while flaunting its capacity for growth.

Each seed, endowed with all required for growth
still needs attention to sustain its life,
thus lending meaning to apparent death.
They languish for both sun and rain, these seeds,
and nutrients—the gift of fertile earth,
then time is all that’s wanting for rebirth.

Does not your soul expect its own rebirth?
Does grace not foster spirit’s gentle growth?
And it is not our goal while here one earth
to search for meaning in these days of life?
Tend carefully the soil that bears the seed
and have no fear of your impending death.

The seed, itself, surrenders to its death
so that a flower or tree may know rebirth.
Such beauty shall be born of humble seed
embarking on a journey of new growth.
Thus is the cycle known to every life
that’s clothed in form while dwelling here on earth.

Too short the days we wander here on earth,
too soon we face inevitable death,
so each and every moment of this life
give cause to ponder our sublime rebirth,
to free ourselves for such abundant growth
that we fulfill the mission of the seed.

While here on earth prepare for this rebirth,
for it’s through death we shall achieve new growth.
In losing life you flourish, tiny seed.

a bountiful dawn breaks along the beach,
the salty air rousing me out of bed to a
good morning dressed in silken pale, in soft
pastels, like violet and peach and the seduction
of a blue-green ocean that sighs with its ebb tides
and with its surge, it roars on slivered winds ~

between the whiles, how pleasant this tender verge,
*softly caressed by a white-lighted wrinkle in time**

The ants rush toward sweetness. I take away the melon, but first I spill a little melon juice on the counter.
Mary Oliver
Sand Dabs, Eight

A drop of Buddhist grace seeps in my core.
I hesitate then spray to check those ants
but guilt ensues, weighs heavily in my soul,
Yet, should spider dare invade, I squash.

Last week I wept—a neighbor’s trees chopped down.
I wept for feathers scattered in our yard,
for eggs unhatched, abandoned in their nest,
for grazing cows and sheep, doomed to be slain.

And do we know for sure grain feels no pain?
That brainless lobsters know no suffering
when dropped in boiling pots for our delight?
Does life exist to feed on other lives?

But soon enough I, too, shall go away—
my life snuffed out much like a candle’s flame.
And so the cycle’s endless rhythm flows,
as well it must make room for seedling’s growth.

He took a seat and let the blond girl stand,
and thought about his selfishness, but then
he cast aside his worries for a while.
It seems these days that chivalry requires
that men do other things to prove there worth
sitting whilst she stood was no big deal

Arriving at the platform just in time
she blessed her luck as, late for work, she knew
this was an omen for the day and augured
well. In tune, her vigorous health enhanced
by brand new trainers bought the day before
and which were such good fit and comfortable

A City Engineer from Derbyshire
who’d built a walk that clung a cliff-side way
was visiting the city on that day;
a day that saw him on a crowded train,
when he would rather stand and walk about
than stare at someone else’s shirt hang out!

A software engineer, who had a squint,
would be the one without a single thought
against, or for the men who’d wrung the night
from day that left him still and motionless.
He was just numb, devoid of any feeling;
defied the normal human call to blame,

A blinding flash of incandescent light
so rapidly reduced the day to night
and left them all completely without sight
of anything but stench of soot and blood
no screams, just moaning and a plaintive cry
for help..

Trembling in the court, his stoney face
belied the trauma and the weight of guilt
that he’d survived and she had not. But then
her brother laid a hand upon his shoulder
“she was full of fun and wanted friends
like you, to carry all her joy through life.”

Vivaciously recounting her experience;
how she was looking up at her new trainer
on the ceiling… that it seemed quite strange
to her, who at the time was lain. Then she,
as they unwrapped her leg from round the handrail,
released a scream that drew her rescuer’s blood.

A fellow passenger closed the lids
of eyes that could no longer see the world,
of which he could not take a further part,
to dignify, in his truncated end.
Alone, that one gesture made a lifetime’s stress
seem like a moment’s insignificance.

The squint came from a shin-splint in his eye,
like shattered lives that shattered bones release
a hell, for which no-one can be prepared.
And where the bomber’s other parts did go,
only forensic analysis will know.
For those who live, the memory lives on.

The painful wait, amid an infinite darkness
Everything was black and white, only
the blood was vivid red. Random limbs
were strewn, and resting on projecting bone
he’d tried to comfort one who needed help.
The girl who sat behind the bomber survived…

…and who wonders with astonishment
at the human body’s resilience
under such extraordinary shock
that blasted minds beyond their comfort zone
and made so many individuals,
in one small shocking instant…