THE THRUM OF HIS PRAYER by Leslie Caplan

 I wrote this poem last year when my son was leaving Bali after returning there, to his birthplace, for five years…

It's a long story, but to put it in a nutshell, my son is half Balinese and went there to reclaim his birthright. I had lived there for eight years when he was born, integrating and becoming a deep, intrinsic part of the culture. To this day, I stay linked, but when he left, I felt my lifeline to that island fade a little. I grieved his departure. I understood that it was time for him to leave, just like I knew when it was time for him to journey there as a young man. It was his rite of passage and in many ways, it was also mine.  

Although my own blood is not Balinese, my afterbirth is buried there next to the family temple along with all generations past. I am considered blood to them, through a marriage that dismantled, and forevermore, through my son whose blood is mixed with an ancient, three thousand year old culture that calls me home every day.  I wrote this the day he left Bali. Me, on the other side of the world, but my spirit was there witnessing this ritual. 

The Thrum of his Prayer 

by Leslie Caplan 

The restless angst of spirit calls you 
to sit still


As you pace the room up and down the walls


your ancestors weep for your departure


And as you leave,


the pulse of my lifeline fades


just a little


Like a voice muffled behind closed doors.

You return from one place to another

Wings stretch across sky

where rolling hills turn volcanic

and dry crisp terrain turn wet with rain

As roots slither beneath

the surface of Earth,


the thrum of your prayer

join your hands together

Swirls of incense smoke billow

from the offering you make.


You lean into the whispers

and with holy water, adhere dried grains of rice

to your third eye



As you inhale the wisdom born to you, 


you kneel at the altar that first placed

the soles of your feet to the ground

You are closer now

to the land, to the flower petals that symbolize

a thousand of your lifetimes

Long fingers reach inside layers of smoke

to adorn your hair with flowers.

You bow to the light already inside you.

I bear witness, the glint of obsidian in your eyes

They come from me,

yet deeper still,


they are from the same earth

that buried your placenta

deep inside the chamber

of a three thousand year old Banyan tree

This rite of passage is complete.

You leave there a man

as the child in you remembers

the many languages of your tongue

Wet with flavor

Wet with spiced earth

Wet with knowing that when you leave, 


you are never gone.



Embodying the strength of the warrior,


you can move freely now

between the hemispheres of your belonging.

Leslie Caplan is a passionate writer and has been published internationally. She is a professional Writing Coach and editor who encourages and evokes the strongest, deepest expression of the writer's voice and heart.  She also facilitates writing workshops where writing is used as a tool for revealing and healing.  She lives in the small town of Ashland, Oregon and you can connect with her on her website here. 

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