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Poems, Thoughts, and Other Words


[Be...]

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http://i66.tinypic.com/107o1tf.jpg

 

You bow to the earth

Lower limbs beneath us

So that we may climb

Along other boughs

Spread wide into Sun

Fine green hair of dreams

Anchored to sturdy wood

Leaves of loving words

Falling gently upon us

Budding again in light

Captured wide in your soul

And fed by the thick sap

Of sweet tempered blood

From the deep heartwood

Within countless rings

Of seasons of giving

 

Thank you

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I can think of no more important quality to humanity than the gift of compassion. We have all suffered through this poison. We have lost chances to make memories for ourselves and others. It seems almost criminal that such a small thing has taken so much and yet I, for one, when I go deep enough into observation, when I see myself from a distance and not so close that I feel myself to be that bluebonnet growing through a crack in concrete, I can view something very different.

 

Once my compassion was like that of a meteor shower. I would witness some precipitating event and my compassion would flash into being and my soul would be traversed from one side to the other. And this is how compassion’s fire would blaze in me, in discrete moments, responding to someone or something. But now I see that my long suffering has transformed me into something much more grand in the way of compassion. It is ever alight in me, it does not burn away, it is not in response but emerging constantly from the core of my being. Now compassion has become a comet, large and sustained it moves across my soul and life, and a trail is left in the hearts of whom I touch.

 

Out of suffering has come this and I have no doubt that I have gained from and given more to the sacred fire of God’s love because of it. And when I get the missing pieces of my life back, no clouds will obscure me and I will be as beautiful and bright as ever a light has moved across darkness.

Modify message

 

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For Freeme:

 

A vein of iron is torn from the warmth of the earth

Placed in fire and furnace and burned to red blood

Poured molten into confinement to cool the boil

Beatened and hammered into flattened rigidity

Plunged into the tempering nerve numbing snow

Edges sharpened by the sparks of grinding stone

Leather bound and stretched tight upon the neck

And skin removed and etched to the sharp chisel

 

Yet out of this torture is shaped the strong blade

Shining steel beauty to carry and cleave conflict

 

http://i68.tinypic.com/rm7hx0.jpg

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For Freeme:

 

A vein of iron is torn from the warmth of the earth

Placed in fire and furnace and burned to red blood

Poured molten into confinement to cool the boil

Beatened and hammered into flattened rigidity

Plunged into the tempering nerve numbing snow

Edges sharpened by the sparks of grinding stone

Leather bound and stretched tight upon the neck

And skin removed and etched to the sharp chisel

 

Yet out of this torture is shaped the strong blade

Shining steel beauty to carry and cleave conflict

 

http://i68.tinypic.com/rm7hx0.jpg

:smitten::thumbsup:  :smitten:
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  • 2 weeks later...

I won’t be going to school tomorrow

My favorite white dress stained so red

And all these holes torn in the fabric ...

 

I won’t be going to school tomorrow

Sarah, that boy with the long eye lashes

Curtains around sunshine. I like him ...

 

I won’t be going to school tomorrow

Julia, save me a seat on the patio

I want to hear again what you just said ...

 

I won’t be going to school tomorrow

Mr. Adder, I know I have homework due

Can it wait until Monday? I can’t think ...

 

I won’t be going to school tomorrow

Mom, Dad, don’t be angry with me

I don’t say it, but I love you both ...

 

I won’t be going to school tomorrow ...

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  • 2 weeks later...

Walking up and out from the deep ravine

The forceful sound of steps grinding granite

Not far removed from night’s clenched teeth

Or from twisting grips upon the walking stick

The path adorned with cacti and lechuguilla

And in the shadow of time grown to mountains

 

Yet across there is sun on the youthful slope

The desert flowers in yellow, red, and purple

I remember the ease and beauty of leisure

The multitude of crushed stone walkways

Leading freely wherever, for I had many hours

But turning, the light is but a line along the ridge

 

I must climb, I must be careful but deliberate

I must rest and catch my breath when needed

I must remember broken rocks hide footsteps

That travelers with no greater constitutions

Scaled the summit, even if they slid at times

And the desert flower colors were in their skies

 

But mostly I know that you are there waiting

In a tent with the aroma of your life’s perfume

That the hard and piercing ground at my back

Will be lost to the loving softness of your flesh

And words will fall upon me like rain on the roof

And kisses will settle gently on my lips like snow

 

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B3, this is so beautiful, you are so talented and thank you for sharing your Gift with us. May your Dreams all come true one day. 🕊 Peace. :smitten:
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B3, this is so beautiful, you are so talented and thank you for sharing your Gift with us. May your Dreams all come true one day. 🕊 Peace. :smitten:

 

You are too kind.  :smitten:

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  • 1 month later...

What can I say of that minute, that singular Fire?

How to tell of everything but Love burned away?

Of the oneness of time and space with the Soul?

And of ashes of universes breathed into a Soul?

And melded with the Soul and exhaled into place?

 

Something unbroken exists, but senses deceive

My contracting and expanding chest chants

Sings that I am a process of air, not a part within

My stature, a child and tree of sun, soil, and water

The Fire may not visit again, but I remember

 

A spinning circle of children singing and laughing

But the clasped hands detach and they gently fall

And in time the innocence breaks into individuals

Who forget the ring’s tight grip in favor of illusion

That there is a self in this world, alone and apart

 

We became me and roundness became angles

And each learned to think in fragmented thought

Shards of an abstraction that can only separate

Division being the mother of conflict and hatred

Birthing cries of war’s dying and famine’s hunger

 

The unification of the Fire will not fall upon us all

But eyes can open and ears can begin to hear

That Mother Earth is being crucified by the ego

That spikes can be removed and wounds tended

And that hands can join and circles be reconnected

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What can I say of that minute, that singular Fire?

How to tell of everything but Love burned away?

Of the oneness of time and space with the Soul?

And of ashes of universes breathed into a Soul?

And melded with the Soul and exhaled into place?

 

Something unbroken exists, but senses deceive

My contracting and expanding chest chants

Sings that I am a process of air, not a part within

My stature, a child and tree of sun, soil, and water

The Fire may not visit again, but I remember

 

A spinning circle of children singing and laughing

But the clasped hands detach and they gently fall

And in time the innocence breaks into individuals

Who forget the ring’s tight grip in favor of illusion

That there is a self in this world, alone and apart

 

We became me and roundness became angles

And each learned to think in fragmented thought

Shards of an abstraction that can only separate

Division being the mother of conflict and hatred

Birthing cries of war’s dying and famine’s hunger

 

The unification of the Fire will not fall upon us all

But eyes can open and ears can begin to hear

That Mother Earth is being crucified by the ego

That spikes can be removed and wounds tended

And that hands can join and circles be reconnected

Love reading your poems. :thumbsup: 💖 Peace and Hugs.
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I like this quote.

 

“Real generosity is doing something nice for someone who will never find out.”

 

 

― Frank A. Clark

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I like this quote.

 

“Real generosity is doing something nice for someone who will never find out.”

 

 

― Frank A. Clark

 

Yes, very nice - sort of practicing random acts of kindness. 🙂

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Change ~

 

I have resisted change with all my will,

cried out to life, "Pass by and leave me still."

But I have found as I have trudged time's track

that all my wishing will not hold life back.

All finite things must go their finite way;

I cannot bid the merest moment, "Stay."

So finding that I have no power to change

change, I have changed myself. And this is strange,

but I have found out when I let change come,

the very change that I was fleeing from

has often held the good I had prayed for,

and I was not the less for change, but more.

Once I accepted life and was not loath

to change, I found change was the seed of growth.

 

~ Anonymous

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Change ~

 

I have resisted change with all my will,

cried out to life, "Pass by and leave me still."

But I have found as I have trudged time's track

that all my wishing will not hold life back.

All finite things must go their finite way;

I cannot bid the merest moment, "Stay."

So finding that I have no power to change

change, I have changed myself. And this is strange,

but I have found out when I let change come,

the very change that I was fleeing from

has often held the good I had prayed for,

and I was not the less for change, but more.

Once I accepted life and was not loath

to change, I found change was the seed of growth.

 

~ Anonymous

:smitten:  :thumbsup:  :smitten:
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Change ~

 

I have resisted change with all my will,

cried out to life, "Pass by and leave me still."

But I have found as I have trudged time's track

that all my wishing will not hold life back.

All finite things must go their finite way;

I cannot bid the merest moment, "Stay."

So finding that I have no power to change

change, I have changed myself. And this is strange,

but I have found out when I let change come,

the very change that I was fleeing from

has often held the good I had prayed for,

and I was not the less for change, but more.

Once I accepted life and was not loath

to change, I found change was the seed of growth.

 

~ Anonymous

 

Touching, Redwoods. Thanks!

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Who can not like Frost.

 

“The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

 

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers"

 

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

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  • 1 month later...

“Hope” is the thing with feathers"

 

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 

:smitten:

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Change ~

 

I have resisted change with all my will,

cried out to life, "Pass by and leave me still."

But I have found as I have trudged time's track

that all my wishing will not hold life back.

All finite things must go their finite way;

I cannot bid the merest moment, "Stay."

So finding that I have no power to change

change, I have changed myself. And this is strange,

but I have found out when I let change come,

the very change that I was fleeing from

has often held the good I had prayed for,

and I was not the less for change, but more.

Once I accepted life and was not loath

to change, I found change was the seed of growth.

 

~ Anonymous

:thumbsup:

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  • 9 months later...

 

Hello, dear Joe :smitten:

 

I thought to post a beautiful poem, by my favorite Ancient Poet Rumi  :smitten:

It clearly speaks of the trials and tribulations we encounter each day, while trying to survive

this benzo suffering. It suggests, to not fight anything that comes our way, and accept,

as all symptoms have a purpose.

I hope that it resonates with us all, and that it helps in some way  :smitten:

 

Rumi..❤️

 

The Guest House ..❤️

 

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 are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house,

empty it of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

 

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...❤️

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Hello, dear Joe :smitten:

 

I thought to post a beautiful poem, by my favorite Ancient Poet Rumi  :smitten:

It clearly speaks of the trials and tribulations we encounter each day, while trying to survive

this benzo suffering. It suggests, to not fight anything that comes our way, and accept,

as all symptoms have a purpose.

I hope that it resonates with us all, and that it helps in some way  :smitten:

 

Rumi..❤️

 

The Guest House ..❤️

 

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 are a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house,

empty it of its furniture,

still treat each guest honorably.

 

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...❤️

 

Beautiful, Anu.

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For you, the hope of a dozen long stemmed roses,

Not those with petals quickly loosed,

But shared flowering moments of my Life,

That Love chiseled into my Soul,

Long removed, but clear as the present,

From when I entered adulthood

Like you at this time, Beautiful and Spirited.

 

One rose, tan with droplets of mist and dew,

Like earth scoured out by ancient ice flows,

A widened and deepened place in my Soul

A Gift of so much of Love’s Pain

And Tears that filled it to tree-lined shores

So that it became Love’s reservoir and resting place.

 

Another rose, the color of new green in Spring,

Creative actions and thoughts budding out from me,

From roots in soil with Warmth sustained

By a Face I saw once and that everyday thereafter

Rose like a Sun and fell upon my skin and Spirit,

So that Life branched outward and upward toward Her.

 

And one rose apart, distant, and seldom seen

Black night in color with flecks of Stars,

Lying upon the steps of an old schoolhouse,

In the stillness and darkness of a countryside evening,

A Word waiting to be Born, to be heard, to be remembered,

From a voice buttered and dripping with southern drawl.

 

And now a rose blue at its base, then blending to orange and yellow,

A Kiss poured into a throat so that it caught Fire,

Spreading to my chest and then to arms and fingers,

Hands holding a Face I did not see through closed eyes,

But eyes perceiving for a minute something boundless and infinite,

God-saturated until the self was burned and sacrificed.

 

This one, a kaleidoscope of color with waving petals,

A coral reef, panoramic, with swimming and swaying colors,

A snowmelt Colorado valley, with columbines lining a clear stream,

A patch of Texas wildflowers emergent after a cold winter,

An immersion so Beautiful that you can only pause and appreciate,

And in that contemplation only one word emerges, the name of my Love.

 

White with red blotches and unclipped thorns the next one,

A rose the fragrance of altruism and deepest Love,

The barbs piercing bleeding hands not destined to hold,

White petal dove-wings stretching to fly to a remote calling,

A time, a place, a person, some differently designed life.

Letting go, but still the fragrance wafts and rises on my purest days.

 

A rose grey with windswept edges, tightly enclosed,

The light of a fishing pier at night, confined and narrow,

All other thoughts lost to darkness beyond the fringes,

Wind at my back winnowing away Love’s pain,

Rolling waves and tides moving my troubles beyond light,

Casting and casting again for Her, ceaselessly, tirelessly.

 

Speckled and marbled with pink and browns and whites, this rose,

The effervescent and flowing sands of a spring near the base of a tree,

The upwelling along some deep tap root, unseen and of unknown course,

But at the surface, cupped hands dipped in thirst,

To be ecstatic that you are drinking directly of Her Soul,

And to relax in the sound of the splashing water of Her voice.

 

A rose dark red, elongate, with blue along its borders,

Love stretched across highways and Time,

Sadness painting the absence, the periphery,

But to meet at earliest opportunity with the nervousness of arrival,

To inhale Her presence as the breeze of a Blue Norther in Autumn,

And to burn like tinder from a spark loosed from the greeting of shining eyes.

 

Now a rose of enriched yellow, sturdy upon its stem,

Before and after, trusting friends of the highest caliber,

Secrets melting before us, but bound again in shared and cooling wax,

If a Soulmate, then a friend at first glance and forever gazing,

To chuckle, as large an element as romance and never subservient,

Laughter and Love, muscles on a sternum, beat the wings of a lifted Spirit.

 

Promises made, a white rose laced with pink edges.

The reds of contemplated aged Love and Blood seeping into the days of youth,

Staining a reminder that an open Life is an open Heart,

Accepting readily all uncertainty and all burdens,

Knowing all the while the world is turning, there will be a burning core,

And it would be sufficient to spread and subduct all challenges beneath us.

 

And last, an iridescent rose, shimmering and opalescent,

The remembrance of certain magic in this world,

That a quickening of the Heart does not end in every case,

Rather, that Souls may be entwined forever, despite Life,

And that the weathered lines cut into our faces by Time do not sever,

But, instead, they are river channels for Love to traverse another day.

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