poetry…
then I was awake…
and it was late afternoon…
and I felt heavy,
but so grateful,
to be able to finally get that rest,
to hear that sweet sound of rain,
to feel the soft of the squishy pillows,
to smell the fresh cut flowers by my bed,
to experience the healing power
of sleep.
to gain the clarity.
to allow the next question.
to prepare for the hard next steps.
to feel ready.
sleep is a magic source of strength.
a necessary part of living well.
But, really, I was just reading poems…
π΄π€π€
AL
Poetry is the art of the spoken word, a tapestry of emotion sparked by a single phrase, that impacts the deepest resonances of a heart….that holds it’s meaning through history.
Better to live your life open rather than exist on borrowed time, waiting for the great unmasking.
– Kate Jacobs
love is the flame
all people yearn for the flame
some people never discover there actually is a flame
some people ignore the flame
some people avoid the flame
some people examine the flame
some people research the flame
some people control the flame
some people fear the flame
some people are fooled by fake flame
some people admire the flame
some people use the flame
some people walk on the flame
some people dance with the flame
some people dance in the flame
some people become the flame
some people are consumed by the flame
your choice…
how will you burn?
π₯
AL
Those who are drawn to the root of love are mystics. Mystics are not satisfied with the surface patterns of love, with the emotional tangles and insecurities of human loving. They seek a purer wine, a more potent passion. They need the essence of love, its divine substance.
~ Irina Tweedie
On the day I died
water ran through pipes,
footsteps identified people in the house and
the dogs nails clicked quickly on the wood floors above my head,
insisting it was time to go out for relief.
I still needed coffee,
light with cream,
2 sugars.
The sun was bright
and I remember the sky was that deep blue,
romantically named, azurite.
There was cockscomb,
half alive in pots near the wooden footbridge I walked over.
I used to love them when I was alive.
I touched their red, velvety, blooms seeking to feel something.
I mistook fluttering angel wings for birds,
battles fought,
just beyond where I lay
on the words of Wendell Berry –
the only thread
keeping me tethered to this world.
I sat on benches beside ghosts
of those who had gone before me.
I could still only feel them beside me,
I was in the world between worlds.
There was darkness, a fire swamp, screaming, clashes of swords,
I could not save myself.
God was everywhere.
I found myself in a boat,
where I stayed for 2 years, until,
in recent weeks,
the call came to step out,
to start walking on water.
Late in the day,
I stood in the bathroom,
accepting the most insulting job offer I have ever received,
then sat on a stool,
trying to act as if I was alive,
pretending to look for puzzle pieces,
slightly aware of the colors and shapes,
singing echoes of songs I used to love,
with my beautiful Robin,
who seemed very much alive.
π₯
AL
In Memoriam of my death, consumed by the flame,
December 3, 2012 –
may I be remembered as
Daniel J O’Connell having the:
Spirit of a warrior
Soul of a poet
Irradiat your mind with the light from within, allow your existence to move along within the unbroken continuity of nature. The ideal of authenticity lies deep in the heart of one’s union to the world not the possession of it. The grandeur of unity holds a definitive place in the infinite. When you calibrate your spirit with that of the world you are left open to respond to your life harmoniously with the universe. Unmask your illusions from those artificial ideas you have build your lives upon with walls and boundaries solidifying your thoughts about a tragic disassociation to nature. It’s up to you to be open now or wait for the great unmasking…the choice is yours but unmasking now allows you to reconcile your existence while you still have the chance to live it.
– Lissette T. Hesmadt
We have known and have believed the love that God has for us. God is love, and those who remain in love remain in God and God remains in them. 1 John βͺ4:16β¬
No matter the results and outcomes,
the thousand possibilities,
you are here now.
Why even try to trace
what the beggar will do with your money?
Let your giving be the whole horizon.
Be lovingly present
and wars and stars and grief and cats alike
will be unable to trouble you.
At the center of the world and in each breath
this is the holy temple, the birthing moment:
giving and receiving love. That is all.
This is the sacred point,
the love in you
meeting the love in the world.
However broken or weary you are,
of a junked tire,
peaches fallen into putrefying splendor,
lightning of naked twigs on Autumn sky,
hieroglyphs that signify how jaggedness
resolves into awakened space.
This isn’t just pretend, it’s how
Christ beholds the lilies…
Let that eye of kindness lead you
back to the vulva where your clan emerged,
womb-amber chaos all our dreams
entangle in, the quintessential element
of seeing, where we suck
the nipple of original otherness.
After love making, some mother
must have swept our ashes up
in the wake of her heartbeat
where we could smell the mulch
of opposites, the musk of the dead
in a bundle of throw-out hyacinths.
We tasted rubies and moonlight,
the bitter yeast on golden grapes
un-gleaned at vineyards edge,
first fruits for homeless strangers,
those lovers of losing their way…
from the heat of the composted loss
the packed blackness of our sorrow
suddenly sprouts bejeweled graces.
I’m still stumbling home from that
first fragrance, friend.
You’re not as drunk as I am yet,
but you’ll get there, you’ll get there.
π·
Leaven by Alfred K. LaMotte
love warriors walk through this world
love dripping from open hands
falling onto shattered pieces of the broken
staining bits of the kaleidoscope of hurting hearts
stepping carefully
yet confidently
slowing down
pouring out what is so needed
brutally defending tenderness
as the ones who have forgotten to know
appear to do battle…
fearful, hardened, defense
not knowing what they have forgotten…
oh, dearest, please wake up,
please allow yourself to remember
we are all the light
we are each the beloved
please let me hold you
touch those wounded places
touch your face
breathe your soul into mine
until we are completely one
rub love on your sore spots
until you remember
what you already know
stay here with me
for a long long while
let’s walk together
talk about all this beauty
connecting
hands
hearts
love
ah yes
love
as we go forward
allowing this drip to become
a pour
a fountain
a river
an ocean
the very universe
let’s dream together
as we sail our sea green ship
into this mystic world beyond the stars
beyond the moon
and once again
find ourselves home in the sun
living this exquisite ecstasy
drunk on the love brew
only we
can create
together
πΎ
AL
The Love of the Soul wells up within my heart; and understanding, pity, love and self-forgetfulness arise. I carry love to all I meet. I meet men’s love with love and remember not myself.
——–
Discipleship in the New Age I
Alice A. Bailey
Page 176
The Tibetan D.K.
There is a community of the spirit.
Join it, and feel the delight
of walking in the noisy street
and being the noise.
Drink all your passion,
and be a disgrace.
Close both eyes
to see with the other eye.
Open your hands,
if you want to be held.
Sit down in this circle.
Quit acting like a wolf, and feel
the shepherd’s love filling you.
At night, your beloved wanders.
Don’t accept consolations.
Close your mouth against food.
Taste the lover’s mouth in yours.
You moan, “She left me.” “He left me.”
Twenty more will come.
Be empty of worrying.
Think of who created thought!
Why do you stay in prison
when the door is so wide open?
Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking.
Live in silence.
Flow down and down in always
widening rings of being.
π₯
A Community of the Spirit by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
LIFE – the temptation is always to reduce it to size. A bowl of cherries. A rat race. Amino acids. Even to call it a mystery smacks of reductionism. It is the mystery.
As far as anybody seems to know, the vast majority of things in the universe do not have whatever life is. Sticks, stones, stars, space – they simply are. A few things are and are somehow alive to it. They have broken through into Someone, or Something has broken through into them. Even a jellyfish, a butternut squash. They’re in it with us. We’re all in it together, or it in us. Life is it. Life is with.
After lecturing learnedly on miracles, a great theologian was asked to give a specific example of one. “There is only one miracle,” he answered. “It is life.”
Have you wept at anything during the past year?
Has your heart beat faster at the sight of young beauty?
Have you thought seriously about the fact that someday you are going to die?
More often than not, do you really listen when people are speaking to you instead of just waiting for your turn to speak?
Is there anybody you know in whose place, if one of you had to suffer great pain, you would volunteer yourself?
If your answer to all or most of these questions is no, the chances are that you’re dead.
ππ»
~ Frederick Buechner
originally published in Wishful Thinking and later in Beyond Words
maybe we should redefine the human body
this fleeting flash of existence
into something more manageable
possibly use an oracle from a lost tongue
or something children can grab
.
even the physical fact of your face
stubble of rough beard
its really an undiscovered haven of wilderness preserves
or some flashing blue temple of luminous fibers
.
you are a cloud capped tower
the souls fiery predilection
untamable fire
a great globe
a gorgeous palace
melting into thin air
.
this coat of you
garment of flesh and blood
a miracle of armor protecting us from dust and plague
a kaleidoscope moving at the speed of light
provoking an epiphany of star poems
.
law me down a border on the edge of this constellation
so I can escape an ejected primordial comet of revolutionary escapades
before too long let us each and all reclaim human regeneration
and so welcome the clean space to become perfected art
.
you –
this blinding flash of condensed atoms
breast arms and legs
turmoil totally unmanageable
welcome me into this new undefinable rouge ecstasy
I wonder if writing this poem
will spill you out of me
through my fingertips
will the ink become your blood
this paper your skin
for me to touch
again and again?
I wonder if stretching my hands to the sky,
while standing on my tiptoes
will release your wings
so you can fly free with me
into the starry sky
discovering all the worlds we have inside?
I wonder if I stand as tall, and as still, as a tree
you will come to me
climb up inside me
twist your arms and legs into my branches
hold me close and never let me go?
I wonder if I sing you a love song
if I will become a part your soul
and you part of mine
both of us sewn within these chords
of mine and yours
absorbing each other
into our very dna?
Will we become each other?
Forever becoming each other’s other?
mirrors of beauty
to dance inside the aleph
where heaven meets the earth?
Rest is the conversation between what we love to do and how we love to be. Rest is the essence of giving and receiving; an act of remembering, imaginatively and intellectually but also physiologically and physically. To rest is to give up on the already exhausted will as the prime motivator of endeavor, with its endless outward need to reward itself through established goals. To rest is to give up on worrying and fretting and the sense that there is something wrong with the world unless we are there to put it right; to rest is to fall back literally or figuratively from outer targets and shift the goal not to an inner static bullβs eye, an imagined state of perfect stillness, but to an inner state of natural exchange.
The template of natural exchange is the breath, the autonomic giving and receiving that forms the basis and the measure of life itself. We are rested when we are a living exchange between what lies inside and what lies outside, when we are an intriguing conversation between the potential that lies in our imagination and the possibilities for making that internal image real in the world; we are rested when we let things alone and let ourselves alone, to do what we do best, breathe as the body intended us to breathe, to walk as we were meant to walk, to live with the rhythm of a house and a home, giving and taking through cooking and cleaning.
When we give and take in an easy foundational way we are closest to the authentic self, and closest to that self when we are most rested. To rest is not self indulgent, to rest is to prepare to give the best of ourselves, and to perhaps, most importantly, arrive at a place where we are able to understand what we have already been given.
In the first state of rest is the sense of stopping, of giving up on what we have been doing or how we have been being. In the second, is the sense of slowly coming home, the physical journey into the bodyβs un-coerced and un-bullied self, as if trying to remember the way or even the destination itself. In the third state is a sense of healing and self-forgiveness and of arrival. In the fourth state, deep in the primal exchange of the breath, is the give and the take, the blessing and the being blessed and the ability to delight in both. The fifth stage is a sense of absolute readiness and presence, a delight in and an anticipation of the world and all its forms; a sense of being the meeting itself between inner and outer, and that receiving and responding occur in one spontaneous movement.
A deep experience of rest is the template of perfection in the human imagination, a perspective from which we are able to perceive the outer specific forms of our work and our relationships whilst being nourished by the shared foundational gift of the breath itself. From this perspective we can be rested while putting together an elaborate meal for an arriving crowd, whilst climbing the highest mountain or sitting at home surrounded by the chaos of a loving family.
Rested, we are ready for the world but not held hostage by it, rested we care again for the right things and the right people in the right way. In rest we reestablish the goals that make us more generous, more courageous, more of an invitation, someone we want to remember, and someone others would want to remember too.
…
REST By David Whyte
there are words strung together
in such beauty
lined up in perfect sequence
finally arranged in such a way
they touch secret places
of pain so hidden inside us
they have had no way of expression
they almost don’t exist
they are so deep
so shadowy scarred and twisted
so nameless I can’t acknowledge them
because they might possibly be a ghost
and why would I disturb alien creatures,
when there is quite enough pain
right here in plain sight
to try to heal and deal with?
until these thoughts appear,