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Warriors of light are not perfect.

I do not read a lot of fiction, but Paulo Coehlo is one author I do read. He has a way with words that is poetic, even in prose. This quote reminded me of Elisabeth’s poem Imperfection where I find perfection in my imperfection.

Purplerays

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“Warriors of light are not perfect.
Their beauty lies in accepting this fact
and still desiring to grow and to learn.”

~ Paulo Coelho

Text & image source: Earthschool Harmony https://web.facebook.com/SpiritualQuotesandSoulfood/

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Dance me to the end of love

This is my favourite Leonard Cohen song. I was not aware of the story behind it and the Auschwitz orchestra. That speaks to a deep sadness and a celebration of living while we can. It reminds me of Viktor Frankl’s work about the meaning of life.

How my heart speaks

Leonard Cohen said he was moved to write this when he learned of the orchestra in Auschwitz.

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Darling

I was not going to post today, but I came across this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye and it resonated with me. She wrote about language’s paradoxical power and fragility. Even though we may use the same words, they each mean something different to each of us based on our culture, history, and personal experiences. We have to be mindful and attentive to our use of language. It speaks to our character in the story we narrate through the words we choose and share with others.

Language possesses the power to bridge differences. The fragility lies in the idea that we can only hope language bridges differences.

The opening lines remind me of the  etymological roots of companion, meaning to break bread with others on a journey, but, in this instance, it is a fragile journey. The food and tea do not taste quite right under the circumstances.

The last stanza speaks about holding words delicately and pressing our lips on each syllable as we are kissing them, hence the title of the poem.

I break this toast for the ghost of bread in Lebanon.
The split stone, the toppled doorway.

Someone’s kettle has been crushed.
Someone’s sister has a gash above her right eye.

And now our tea has trouble being sweet.
A strawberry softens, turns musty,

overnight each apple grows a bruise.
I tie both shoes on Lebanon’s feet.

All day the sky in Texas which has seen no rain since June
is raining Lebanese mountains, Lebanese trees.

What if the air grew damp with the names of mothers,
the clear belled voices of first-graders

pinned to the map of Lebanon like a shield?
When I visited the camp of the opposition

near the lonely Golan, looking northward toward
Syria and Lebanon, a vine was springing pinkly from a tin can

and a woman with generous hips like my mother’s
said Follow me.

2

Someone was there.
Someone not there now was standing.
Someone in the wrong place
with a small moon-shaped scar on his left cheek
and a boy by the hand.

Who had just drunk water, sharing the glass.
Who had not thought about it deeply
though they might have, had they known.
Someone grown and someone not-grown.
Who thought they had different amounts of time left.
This guessing game ends with our hands in the air,
becoming air.
One who was there is not there, for no reason.
Two who were there.

It was almost too big to see.

3

Our friend from Turkey says language is so delicate
he likens it to a darling.

We will take this word in our arms.
It will be small and breathing.
We will not wish to scare it.
Pressing lips to the edge of each syllable.
Nothing else will save us now.
The word “together” wants to live in every house.

To Read a Poem…To Write a Poem

This poem rattled around in my mind and body for the last few days. I did not write it out in rough form, so this is it.

To read a poem;

That is to breath in the world,

Meditating on that world

(Re)membering a fleeting moment–

A moment my whole body experienced;

The smell of pine forest

The distant white-topped mountain

Rocks disturbing a river’s flows

The touch of a gentle breeze,

Cooling a sun-burnt face.

To write a poem;

Breathing out,

A lived-experience,

Giving words to a fleeting moment–

Flowers gesturing towards mountains,

Trees caressed by mountain wind,

Nature’s fragrances arise from the valley

A silence encroaching upon my mediation.

 

Make Music with Your Life

I am writing again, so I am blogging less. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but I am writing an article.

Bob O’Mealley’s poem speaks to me in several ways, despite how short it is. How we live is precious. It is musical and offers us jewels to wear.

For me, a second message is the blues. I love the blues and listen to them. I don’t sing well, but, when there is a blues song on that I know, I howl like a guitar player and cut every deep day madness into jewels.

I used to play music many mornings as the students came into the classroom. Music is a universal language and reaches across generations, cultures, ethnicities, etc.

Make music with your life
a
jagged
silver tune
cuts every deepday madness
into jewels that you wear

Carry 16 bars of old blues
with you
everywhere you go
walk thru azure sadness
howlin
Like a guitar player

Saint Francis and the Sow

This poem by Galway Kinnel reminds me everyone is blooming. There is something hidden inside of us we cannot fully know and understand. It is the inner voice that calls us to what we are fully human to do.

It is essential to be mindful and attentive to that voice and find moments of silence. Unlike the sow, humans are able to pause and reflect, pray and listen to the response. Having said this, it is not something that is intuitive and instinctual. It is something we have to remind our self of from time to time.

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow

began remembering all down her thick length,

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine

down through the great broken heart

to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

 

Searching For Home

Today, is a cold and miserable day. It actually began yesterday, which is ironic. It was the first day after summer solstice. Summer does not feel like it is here. It has been a bumpy spring with warm and cooler days mixed together.

It has been a few days since I wrote a poem, so I wrote based on today’s non-seasonal weather. It is like the weather is looking for a home and cannot figure out where it is.

Summer fights to arrive,

A day after the solstice,

Winds feel glacial,

Marching coldly down upon us.

The wind wails her sad song,

A lost banshee,

Keening as she searches,

Not feeling at home in early summer.

Although this picture is a few weeks old, the day it was taken it was cold, windy, and rainy. It feels much like that again. The steel-grey skies in the background are like what we have today.

 

 

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