Awakening: Quail in a Pine Tree
What is Not
Lost in yesterday's years
the mind's eye expands into the present
brings life to what might have been
and definition to what is not.
the soul's heart reaches into the mind's eye
brings grace to what might have been
and being to what is not.
Deep in the now
the heart's body becomes the grace of being
flows through yesterday's years
into the mind's eye.
Deep in the now
what is not
becomes what is.
Too much reaching out pulls too much in
the senses and disturbing
"If you cannot see
You are looking too hard."
Rest carefully with what you have gathered.
Gather no more until
your gatherings have been woven
into the essence of being
until past, present, future
Truth is what we make of it:
a stirring wind beneath the wings of time
released from fear and shadowed into wakefulness
In single breath are life and death combined.
Essence of Being
A potato is a humorous thing
filled with beans
Add sauce and cheese, and it becomes ironic:
in our creating
we lose the essence
of what really
and I yearn to follow
certain I could fly if only I could remember how
and I duck my head in shame
knowing my own limits
Way of the Labyrinth
Enter the labyrinth, walk it slowly
sacred stillness caresses ruffled fears.
Walk the way, come to center
spirit source and well of unshed tears.
Walk the way, moving gently
tracing backwards through a gift of leaves,
Return to self, come to wholeness
bring the world the truth the labyrinth sees.
There is so much truth.
I am no alchemist,
distilling truth down to a single drop.
That's your job.
You cannot ask me to do it.
Not that you will - you neither ask nor command
but it comes out just the same.
In any case, it is too hard
this distillation of truth
and undistilled, truth is too strong a drink for most.
Besides, what would you do with it?
A single drop to heal a broken world?
Quail in a Pine Tree
... and just when I thought there could not possibly be another, there was.
And so it continued until the pine tree was empty
a tree is never really empty
just full of something we haven't seen yet
These are not tears I write.
These poems do not tear and break me
as I birth them
These are surface poems.
ripples on a lake
a fluttering of leaves
Not here the undertow, the mountain of rock
Not here the crushing distortion between what is
and what isn't
This is only the forging of a key,
not the writing of the willow and its owl's wisdom.
It will require more than a spirit midwife
to birth that truth
Though the willow begs to differ
I moved, and the poem disappeared
This, then, is not the place to write it
so I must either return from whence I came
or wait here for another to take its place
Emptied of the spirit I lay down
in warming sun on willow's hallowed ground
the spirit shone and warmed me through and through
and left me with another poem or two
I drowsed in silence deep beneath the tree
while sparrows chirped to keep me company
and I wondered, as I listened to their joys
how chirping could be stillness and not noise
Till the willow roused herself enough to shake
a leaf free for my spirit's sake
and laid it gently, nestled on my heart
a poem half-born, a shining yellow start
Sometimes a thirst for knowledge
blinds us to what we already know
And blind, we cannot see through the earth
to where tangled roots
weave the great trees together
Lose touch with Love
- that beauty that moves through all things,
and you become small:
small of mind
small of heart
so very important to yourself.
Time and time again
you return to the Way
it runs so strong
draws you back to try
Knowing the Divine is not the struggle
even not understanding
and are embraced by Love.
I cannot begin to fathom your grief
We each walk our own journeys
in our own ways
I can be neither signpost, nor guide
that you will walk this path
in the way that is right
that you will know
what to do
what to hold close
to set free
I cannot heal you
but I can give you the gift of time.
they know the way through the darkness
Let them be your guides
And return to me
In the healing garden you can walk
Until you come back upon yourself and
realize that you have been walking in a straight line
On a leaf
drops of water
sparkled drab brown
and my mind caught fire
Writing poetry isn't being silent
Poetry is loud, obnoxious
Until you fall in the quite stillness of it
into the space between the words.
Even without the poplar's warning
I can feel the rain coming
The heavy cleansingness of it
Pouring down out of the hills
Cooling the scent of the air
Walk a mile in another's shoes
before you pass judgement
Take off your shoes
and walk barefoot
on hallowed ground
And the need for judgement disappears
Many of these words were born or conceived on silent retreat at a place called Naramata Centre. If any of this has touched you or called you to a sacred moment, please consider giving a small gift so that Naramata Centre can maintain this ancient sacred space, and the programs offered there.
copyright 2012 ailsa flynne