Category Archives: Reposted from elsewhere

Song of the Soul

belas bright ideas

I grew up amidst plenty, Depression-era
lack transformed into expensive Japanese
silk paintings hung above a cut glass table,
black lacquer chairs, raw silk seats reserved
for holidays unfit for seven children, dreams
of people I never really knew, though
they precipitated my life;

I might have preferred distressed plank flooring
and a wood-fired oven over cork and carpet
and all the confusion, byproducts of too much
striving and not enough stillness;
motivations well understood by me now,
having thrown myself into enough fires
to acknowledge and amend miscues, misdeeds;

Like Arjuna in the Baghavad Gita,
many have have beheld the face of divinity
as it exists in all creatures and life forms
everywhere, whether perceived as good or bad;

I, too, tremble at the feet of this knowing.

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Corner of the Eye

simonhlilly

2017/07/img_2881.jpg

CORNER OF THE EYE
(A touch of faery sight)

I see, and not quite see, this sleek man in blue
Quietly through the oak woods of Sunart,
(Just so, as through your own mind now),
The whispered past and the roaring futures.
Green rock, black root, the boulder house split,
Door leaning ajar, and the elders:
Roof and walls of a tumbled croft,
And hearth music in the song of insects
That drub the late summer air
In the folded waiting of the far north.
Listen to a tuning fork, high and clear struck.
The sense of it continuing on, a breath on sound,
A pulse of wingbeats. That is how it feels,
Stepping between the path and the oak
And the high larch, and the dripped lichen.
Watched by the timeless, curious eye.
Gone, to them, in a single blink,
As they to me, a flit of mind
Between…

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On Losing Hope by Jill Talbot

The Machinery - A literary collection.

Illustration by Arushi Gupta Illustration by Arushi Gupta

Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.
– Anne Lamott

If Hope were a guest I would lock her in a cellar.

If Hope were a movie I would not eat the popcorn.

If I saw Hope on a sidewalk, half broken, I would keep on driving.

If Hope knew the real me she would run screaming.

If Hope were a digestive biscuit she would be full of animal fat.

If Hope attended your wedding you can be sure you’ll end in divorce.

If Hope were sitting here I would tell her I want her back.

If Hope saw me naked she would say, We’ve got work to do.

If Hope found this poem she would burn it.

If Hope were a bartender everything would be on the house.

If Hope were a fruit she would be an apple.

I lost…

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The growing chronicles #3 Hypochondria

This is why.

TheFeatheredSleep


It’s still a man’s world

a world where most of the earth

would stone two women in love

and those women who break the glass ceiling are often

unrecognizable as women

for they eat

with their bean soup

the dry wafer of other females
If I tell you

I am not prideful

it is the quiet and the book

an occasion of solitude

interspersed with longing

I’ll never be a loud mouthed girl to hang your spurs upon

but still I know how to talk to the moon

and I believe in you
At night

poorly lit by lamps

like yellow faces downcast

we walk vigorously

hand folded in hand

and that simple act

I cherish

above any gift or benediction
When we are apart

monsters live under my bed

shadows rinse in continuing pass

the joy of breaking bread

shatters

as bloodied

the unseen art of war

within gentle…

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Between

Eyes + Words

Written by Jacob Ibrag

Infused with intentions to question

every direction, she stood tall between mythical

creatures and fictional characters. ‘I see through your

words and misguided suggestions. Others feast on your

promises of limitless pleasures, rejecting the road painted

with growth and lack of instant gratification. I pray to fail

and rise, to drive through all your influence, to laugh

when I’ve fallen, to never give you an inch.’


Photography by Luca Pierro

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light through glass (20170613)

Words and Feathers

for a single moment
perhaps that pause
between heartbeats
the sun shone through
the wings of a butterfly
and i understood
the reason for cathedrals

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Being quiet and listening

Mindfulbalance

Everything that happens to you is your teacher…

the secret is to learn to sit at the feet of your own life and be taught by it.

Polly Berrien Berends, US author

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The Eyes Have It

Take a look around you. Now cover your right eye and look carefully at the scene or some specific object. Then cover your left eye and look carefully at it. You will notice that it appears a little different each time, though you may need to switch back and forth a few times before you appreciate this fully. It is apparent that what anything “is” depends on the point of view, and it makes no sense to assert that any particular view is “THE ONE AND ONLY TRUTH”.

If this is the case when we consider the two eyes in a single head, think what this implies when we start to consider all the eyes in all the different heads there are.

Of course some folk only have one eye, and some folk have poor sight or else their vision is distorted in some way, while other folk are completely blind. It would be foolish, surely, to argue with them about the “Truth”. Perhaps an approach to the question with a little more understanding and compassion might be appropriate.

Hold on to what is good,

“Let go to hold on.”

Purplerays

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‘Hold on to what is good,
Even if it’s a handful of earth.
Hold on to what you believe,
Even if it’s a tree that stands by itself.
Hold on to what you must do,
Even if it’s a long way from here.
Hold on to your life,
Even if it’s easier to let go.
Hold on to my hand,
Even if someday I’ll be gone away
from you.’

~A Pueblo Indian Prayer

Artist~Brad Schmidt
Text & image source: Remember ღ Once upon a Time? https://web.facebook.com/RememberOnceUponATime/

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Reflective

“Share this.” OK … (And I love it BTW)

belas bright ideas

I never told you I loved you enough, the only ones
to whom it might have mattered and mattered much,
how could I? There are certain things one apprehends
only with age, the fact that most parents were
mere children themselves when they raised us up;

Now when I look back, I am able to glimpse humanity
more humbly instead of simply placing familiar labels,
Mom and Dad, great brazen fire-breathing dragons
of the household, both admired and feared
for their outsized demeanor, similar to the church God
I prayed daily would grant me safety and comfort
in place of the warm arms I yearned to fold myself
into, though dared never trust;

Even with busy single parenting, I was not able
to reflect upon the scope of the job, absorbed
as I was in all things survival to comprehend;
too enraptured in my own harried drama to sit back
and draw…

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