While babes slumber,
calm, unconscious,
dreamers manifest
Goddess power –
pray for their ill,
harness a creator
an ancient dwelling
(ignore the presence
of trios – ascension
a slow plod) – choose
to honour the arrival
of beauty’s essence
the light of healing,
creativity expressed,
illuminators, artists
Grace encompassing
compassion, nocturnal
inspiration honouring
the aged, the ailing,
all beloveds, respect
for this blessed life.
(Image: Pinterest)
Eager, I am, but limited,
somehow stuck in the past,
revisiting old disruptions –
as unmanageable as before –
Why do I seek validation there?
Vow to write a solution –
end up re-committing –
am I growing extra skin?
naiveté blocks me –
am fascinated with fame
Want to believe I am magical,
possess gifts that inspire, but
I am no more than a circus act,
possess the skills to mesmerize
only the young, uneducated
lack the resilience to adhere
to protocols, abide rules –
destined to repeat mistakes,
easily persuaded to take on
the guise of others – no matter
how poor the fit – will don
unsupported risks, expose
insecurities – for sufficient
flattery – have no boundaries
to counter this need to belong
I am principled, but socially
awkward, have prayed to
a higher power, proposed
promotion – need approval
to make this fractured life work.
(Image: bellapetite.com)
(Note: Messages from the dreamtime inspire much of my poetry, and as an experiment, I decided to revisit an old dream, from May 2013, and see what new insights it might deliver. The original posting, entitled “Whale Dreaming”, can be viewed here. )
Exposed we are, voyageurs,
crossing a great expanse –
one tiny vessel bearing
the weight of our lives,
two oars to navigate
Unknown depths below
and shadows, murky –
we push on. Row. Row.
sights set on new land
uncharted possibilities
a shape emerges –
great hulking mass
of being, parting waters
rising and transforming
a caricature of our fear
I am mesmerized, read
divinity’s presence, he
shrugs, pragmatically
notes the St. Lawrence
is home to such mammals
I dream of whales, crave
communion, project
mystical wisdom, equate
size with spirit, marvel
at potential connections
Just as I wait for a sign
from the departed, inviting
a simpler life, inspiring hope –
a shore life from which
I can observe the numinous.
Bring the children to the waters’ edge,
let spirits that dwell there enchant,
sun glistening on star-filled eyes…..
teach the essence of dolphin breathing,
the presence of manna, how to question
roots and behold miracles of fish that fly
and colours that shimmer below the surface,
and sons that walk on water – there are stories
to be told by tides, whose rhythmic waves
follow a primal chant; the ocean’s whispers
reminders that survival is a game for the living
and that in death all return to its vast depths.
(Image: www.shallowwaterexpeditions.com)
An earlier post that seemed to be fitting to post here, in the spirit of “Black Madonna”.
Like silk
whispering across my skin;
a gentle mist
kissing my soul;
kindness unburdening me;
warmth, and cinnamon spice;
She comes.
Of the Earth, is She
whose heart beats with mine
a rhythm of life
renewal
and deepest bliss
Her essence luminous and night
shimmering at the water’s edge
or pulsating at the core
of darkness
Alive. Very much alive.
No fanfare proceeds Her,
No choir of angels.
In stillness, know Her.
In openness, receive Her.
She is here.
She is here.
Remember that autumn
we drove up to Campbell River,
like teenagers skipping out of class –
a cackle of women, spirituality forming –
felt as if we had bided our time, willing
this union to occur – high on anticipation.
Giddy that our routine femininity had
been strewn across the barricades of
our socially careful existences – we were
like lesbian lovers unafraid to explore our
crevices, our souls hungering for release,
we were researchers, reinventing masks
adopted in formative years, stretching our
capacity to believe, awakened by the crones
among us, sisters united, standing in the
flood of our collective herstory, shedding
the padding of our religious upbringings,
teetering on the brink of a lost divinity –
weavers, once paralyzed by the guck of
patriarchal dictates, fear of ascension
retreating, we broke free, immersed in
Goddess splendour, felt the ecstasy of
true abandonment, were wild women
unrestrained, catalysts for change.
How is it that the passion faded so abruptly,
that motherhood and responsibility, and
the rigours of competing in daily life stripped
away the afterglow, smacked me back into
this rigid self-definition, prayerful, thankful,
yet lacking the empowerment of the island?
Have I stored her somewhere; is there even
a space within me capable of housing such
expansiveness, open to wading once again
in the waters of a lunar deity, willing to sacrifice
superficiality for the compassionate mystery
of the Black Madonna haunting my memory?
(Image:Â paradisefoundsantabarbara.com)
If transformation is my path,
then let me be in charge –
reverse this introspective
lull, cease this bystander’s
status, build new awareness,
embrace the fullness of spirit.
Give me legs that I may walk
amongst the gathering voices
brush shoulders with anti-hate
protestors, find my wings, wear
the cause to end racism, sexism,
fear as any spiritual crusader does.
There is need in the world –
extends beyond individual
agendas, compels us to play
a part, cut apathy in favour of
donning a coat of conviction,
deny ties of personal comfort
How can I help; drink from the
well of human connectedness
to quench this deep-seated
disparity; am confined to a
legacy of words, legs inert,
burdened with soul’s passion.
(Image:Â www.indianweekender.co.nz)
Eagle walks amongst us,
wings and chest puffed out
exhibiting wounded pride.
He is parched, dry-throated;
fear has clouded his vision,
grounded his glorious flight.
He shudders at indifference,
sidesteps throngs busily rapt
in personal agenda, forgetful.
Once regal, once revered, he
is reeling from the fall, seeks
a compassionate ear, finds me
in the Dreamtime, moulting
feathers clinging to ebony
legs; I try to brush him away
detach from his misery, but
cannot shake the power of
his symbolism, the promise
of his majesty; disconcerted,
through the veil of sleep, I
try to find reason, connect
push through the crowd of
disillusionment, and seek the
refreshment he craves, what
little I have to offer this
golden representative of
a nation momentarily lost.
My father’s kingdom his castle;
I inherited his strife, witnessed
years of control and submission
felt used, undervalued, robbed;
Was overinvolved responsibly,
misunderstood the nature of his
anguish, drew attention to myself
interpreting his pain as personal.
Our Father’s mansion (no place
for inanimate objects) nurtures
wisdom, recalls neglect, reflects
on life choices, lack of wholeness.
I am called Home, lifted from
introspection regurgitating
old stories, see the youthful
exaggeration, adult immaturity
have a lot to learn – like a child
throwing a tantrum – emotional,
disappointed, destructive – hurt,
lacking constructive perspective;
need to dwell in a house without
walls, free from guilt of neglected
obligations, wounding relieved
by the light of a greater purpose.
(Image:Â www.themainewire.com)
I’m a freshwater gal,
prefer murky, stagnant
pools to the onrush
of rapids, currents
annoy me, challenge
my delicate body,
content to feed off
lanky foliage, swim
in dim-lit passages;
fear it was the flash
of gold, or glimpse
of a mermaid tail
that first attracted
man, compelled him
to trap then breed me
artificially – in glass
houses, distorted
worlds colliding with
my sensitivity, absent
safe havens for retreat.
Worldly now, tossed
into constructs called
ponds – added rocks,
footbridges or lily pads
do not deceive me –
cellular memory is
not to be quieted, I
dream of night skies,
and morning dew, and
sun baking the water’s
surface, of diversity,
schools and families
cannot tolerate this
one-flush destiny,
need space to be –
not an illusion of
recognize my captivity
for what it is – concrete
walls cannot define me;
the wild, the free burns
deep – thousand years
of containment has not
defiled my DNA, and I
will remember long after
that final plunge, in
reincarnation may not
be so forgiving – no
longer a timid fish.
(image:Â http://animals.mom.me/goldfish-live-4748.html)
One Woman's Quest 