I’m Beginning to See and Feel

I’m beginning to see the light of the free flow of life, 

The light I must have in order to create the power.

I’m beginning to feel the power that flows through me,

The power that allows me to begin to blossom and burst forth.

I’m beginning to feel the light and energy of each day,

The day that brings free mornings and creating nights.

I’m beginning to turn the corner of new light of healing,

The light that warms me to walk with the power of healing.

My power comes from the light and my ancestors;

My ancestors lead me to the spirit.

The spirit enters me each day to feel the power of the ancestors;

My ancestors guide me to heal the earth and my inner soul.

The light surrounds me and envelopes my soul;

My soul becomes strengthened to reach out and touch.

My touch reaches from deep inside me and touches other souls; 

Those souls cover me with a warmth that satisfies my heart.

My heart sings with an exalted joy;

My joy touches all who enter my life.

My life fulfills the love of those who came before,

And so my ancestors fill me so I can fulfill my mission.

And so I can see the joy of life;

My life feels the warmth of contentment.

Contentment allows me to reach out to share my love;

My love allows the everlasting power of healing.

Healing brings me warmth;

Warmth covers me with satisfaction;

Satisfaction makes me know I am alive.

And so life goes on to heal,

And therefore it is!

© Hilda Ward, 2015

Orange Coneflower
photo by Tony Russell

Suddenly Like Light

Time changed without his notice, suddenly more like light

tracing the tops of pines, spectrum of greens finer and more haunting

than tones of an Indian raga, mysteries in a needle's breath--

eyes ached against borders of being human, to know

this shade of a young fascicle at dawn compared to its late afternoon

hue, when the odor of baked pitch and resin presses up

to the canopy, or this night color, tantalizing, back-lit by autumnal half moon--

too delicate for his own receptors--green which forced his kneecaps to earthen debris,

drew out a prayer, lips fervent and wet, to just once see with eyes of an owl or hawk,

to divine from this ebony green how old the needle was, how much life

it contained, how long until a breeze would usher it from the branch

and fold it into the earth.  He began to think that if he watched closely,

the whole future might spread out before him in a ray of light. 

He couldn't remember when the thought first occurred

to him; it seemed now that he'd always believed it.

© Michael Mahoney, 2014

Long-leaf Pine
Photo by Tony Russell

Death and Poetry

for Penny Holt

1

I think dying is a lot like writing poetry.

There is some fear when you approach each,

but you don’t let that stop you.

You notice how death and poetry

only deal with what is essential,

the essence of yourself, your spirit.

You see your flesh as a thin membrane,

separating you from that ladder of light

you must climb

to weave words together 

or to die.

I expect there will be kind angels

to help you climb, and others

who will wrestle hard with you until dawn

so you will become strong enough

to bear blessings

that flow from their hands.

2

I know that when you write

it is a sort of death,

a birth into a new world

you have been creating

since the day you were born.

It is probably the same

when you die.

You will bring your own 

loves, fears, dreams

with you, creating your own Heaven,

bearing it like the shell

a sea creature forms

from ordinary bits of life.

Then, there is light.

Both dying and poetry

are all about light,

how it leads you through shadows

you think you might drown in,

how it is the thread

that ties together

your past, present, and future selves

so you can write or die

with your whole self,

a plant with buds, flowers,

and seed pods bursting.

3

To write poems, you must trust

the path to appear before you,

but only as you plant your feet.

Dying, I think, is much the same,

an act of faith,

or maybe a wild leap

into invisible arms,

that like the earth,

have always held you up.

© Jean Sampson, 2014

Hearts-a-bursting
Photo by Tony Russell