Poems

May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

May you receive great encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

May you respond to the call of your gift and find the courage to follow its path.

May the flame of anger free you from falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame and may anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.

May you take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.

May you be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.

Always we hope someone else has the answer,

some other place will be better,

some other time it will all turn out.

This is it;

no one else has the answer,

no other place will be better,

and it has already turned out.

At the center of your being,

you have the answer;

you know who you are

and you know what you want.

There is no need to run outside for better seeing.

Nor to peer from a window.

Rather abide at the center of your being;

for the more you leave it, the less you learn.

Search your heart and see

the way to do

is to be.

CHAPTER ONE

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in. I am lost. I am helpless.

It isn't my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

CHAPTER TWO

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I still don't see it.

I fall in again. I can't believe I am in the same place.

It isn't my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

CHAPTER THREE

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it there, I still fall in. It's a habit.

It's my fault. I know where I am.

I get out immediately.

CHAPTER FOUR

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

CHAPTER FIVE

I walk down a different street.

​- Portia Nelson

She sat at the back

and they said she was shy,

She led from the front

and they hated her pride,

They asked her advice

and then questioned her guidance,

They branded her loud,

then were shocked by her silence,

When she shared no ambition

they said it was sad,

So she told them her dreams

and they said she was mad,

They told her they’d listen,

then covered their ears,

And gave her a hug

while they laughed at her fears,

And she listened to all of it

thinking she should,

Be the girl they told her to be

best as she could,

But one day she asked

what was best for herself,

Instead of trying to please

everyone else,

So she walked to the forest

and stood with the trees,

She heard the wind whisper

and dance with the leaves,

She spoke to the willow,

the elm and the pine,

And she told them what she’d been told

time after time,

She told them she felt

she was never enough,

She was either too little

or far far too much,

Too loud or too quiet,

too fierce or too weak,

Too wise or too foolish,

too bold or too meek,

Then she found a small clearing

surrounded by firs

And she stopped…

and she heard what the trees said to her,

And she sat there for hours

not wanting to leave,

For the forest said nothing,

it just let her breathe`.

~ Becky Hemsley ~

I’m lying down looking at the colour of sky falling through trees,

dreaming the real,

tasting what it feels like to love it.

Why did it take me so long to let go,

simply exhale,

so the day could breathe itself in

and open without me standing in the way?

How could I forget the grace of my own body

strong as this blue,

tender as the white of the wild blossom,

warm as midday light?

Let me practice a patience bold enough

to hold every weather,

trusting the elements,

the beauty of rain,

all its shades of grey.

I want whatever is real to be enough.

At least it’s a place to begin.

And to master the art of loving it;

feel it love me back under my skin

Linda France

Enough. These few words are enough.

If not these words, this breath.

If not this breath, this sitting here.

This opening to life

we have refused

again and again

until now.

Until now.

What if you knew you'd be the last to touch someone?

If you were taking tickets, for example, at the theatre,

tearing them, giving back the ragged stubs,

you might take care to touch that palm,

brush your fingertips

along the life line's crease.

When a man pulls his wheeled suitcase too slowly through the airport,

when the car in front of you doesn't signal,

when the clerk at the pharmacy won't say "Thank you".

I don't remember they are going to die.

A friend told me she'd been with her aunt.

They'd just had lunch and the waiter,

a young gay man with plum black eyes,

joked as he served the coffee, kissed her aunt's powdered cheek when they left.

Then they walked half a block and her aunt

dropped dead on the sidewalk.

How close does the dragon's spume have to come?

How wide does the crack in heaven have to split?

What would people look like

if we could see them as they are,

soaked in honey, stung and swollen,

reckless, pinned against time?

There are many things to be done today

and it's lovely day to do them in

Each thing a joy to do

and a joy to have done.

I can tell because of the calm I feel

when I think about doing them

I can almost hear them say to me

Thank you for doing us

And when evening comes

I'll remove my shoes and place them n the floor

And think how good they look

sitting?... standing?... there

Not doing anything

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,

let's not speak in any language;

let's stop for a second,

let's not move our arms so much.

It would be a fragrant moment,

without rush, without engines;

we would all be together

in an instant restlessness.

Fishermen in the cold sea

would not harm whales

and the salt worker

would look at his broken hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors,

would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers

in the shade, doing nothing.

Do not confuse what I want

with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about;

I don't want anything with death.

If we were not so unanimous

moving our lives so much,

and for once could do nothing,

perhaps a huge silence

could interrupt this sadness

of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with

death;

perhaps the earth can teach us,

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door,

in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life,

whom you ignored for another,

who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Have patience.

Slow down.

The gap between

'Where I am'

and

'Where I want to be'

is full of possibility.

So don't rush through it.

Take time.

Find the dignity in slowness.

Learn to love the gap.

Grace it with your presence.

It is bursting with life, and creativity,

and it holds unexpected treasures.

Have patience. Slow down.

Life is only Now.

In Presence, there are no gaps.

Find rest in every step.

- Jeff Foster

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

​A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

​Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honourably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

​- Rumi

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

We all have an autumn

A time to let go

Of things that are no longer

Helping us grow

A time to reveal

All the colours we cover

With sunshine and light

In the midst of our summer

A time when our souls

And our spirits prepare

To return to their roots

And to lay themselves bare

And as all our petals

And leaves begin falling,

Our breath becomes cooler,

Our nights start to draw in,

We realise our winter

Is heading this way

With cold that assumes control

Over our days

With dark that’s determined

To not let us win

To fight all the light

Hibernating within

And I know it’s tough,

It’s exhausting and hard

To rally your spirit

And soul from the dark

But there’ll come a day

When your petals return,

Your days become warmer,

The darkness adjourns

So right now it feels like

Your winter won’t leave

There’s ice getting caught in your throat

As you breathe

But when it seems so bleak

You want to give in

Hang in there, remember

We all have a spring.