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Showing posts from January, 2014


These words describe my experience in finding God…   I realized how the Supreme is always there waiting for us to call out to him in whatever situation in life we find ourselves in. In fact he becomes happy when we intensely wish to re-establish our relationship with him. In my Bhakti faith, God's name is Krishna and he is all Love! This is why Krishna reciprocates with us according to our desire to sincerely connect with him. He is ever merciful and is always ready to forgive us “fallen fruits”. Like Fallen Dry Fruit There is a far away memory of the olden days, when I felt like a fallen, dried up piece of fruit on the most lowest plain of dusty dirt. Idly waiting by for the seconds to take my life completely. Life had a grey hue without a drop of nectar. Where do I belong? Not here. Not there. Not anywhere on this planet Earth. Better to go back where I came from. Let's go! I'm ready. Wait...where is that? Where do I come from?


The ebb and flow of the creative process presents us with two very different ways of looking at the times of stillness…  It can feel like a dreaded curse, or an invitation to enter our soft inner cocoon and transform, even just a little. This poem is for everyone who has ever felt stuck, lost and hopeless, and is a reminder that only in the darkness can we see the stars. When We Hit The Wall                                                    by Jenn Lui                                      The landscape before us changes                                                 There is an unbearable stillness                                                 In the air that grows stale and wretch                                               All colors fade and retreat                                      The great expanse curls and shrivel                                                Dries up on itself and shrinks                                      Ha

THE MEETING WITH GOD by Jennifer Doane Upton

This is a poem dealing with an ambiguous asceticism… On the one hand, this asceticism is necessary; on the other, it is in danger of going too far, of cutting off the very life it is attempting to heal. “My soul” is the Self that is beyond the identity of “I”. This poem is from my recently-published collection Black Sun: Poems 1965-1985 (Finishing Line Press, 2014) which can be purchased here. Photograph 'Dark River' by  Ziut Klosinski  The Meeting with God I, who do not know my own soul’s name have already seen her, disguised as the shadow of a river, saying to me: “Cry as much as you can for you cannot live another day without meeting God. Your heart cannot be broken more.” When I came back into the world all those of the world made me forget you, saying that I’d loved you more than anyone could love God; God would punish me, they all said, by making me love even more. How can I pretend not to know you when I have loved


  Enjoying the view from my backyard hot tub, I gazed at the moon… It was hanging in the sky as if for the first time.  I began to sense this poem forming in me as an act of healing a deep, old wound.   This was the beginning for me of finding that all of nature wants to communicate with us…we just need to stay aware and enjoy and absorb the gentle whisper in our spirits. Artwork 'You Shall Have Homes'  by N.C Wyeth (1928) Moonbeam Repair broke my own barely-beating heart went un- noticed let alone fatal pain endured then absorbed, changing its shape until it appeared- a floating disconnect once full and impervious two halves forming the whole self-righteous and solid closed to the light suddenly cracked and imperfect, at the ready for the outpouring of emotion tumbling through tumult at the ready for the laser-bright white beam through half-slit eyes travels through eternity

WINTER SINGS by Maureen Kwait Meshenburg

Sometimes I need to quiet down the noise in my mind… That’s when I surrender to my quiet meditation and bend to hear the voice within.   I have not been meditating for a long time, but what I find so intriguing about sitting with my breath, when the quiet whispers to me, is that my heart brings me to my inward me. To let go of the doing, hiding, to let the chatter that comes, scatters and spreads away like water, like the melting snow of winter. Winter Sings if I wait, to hear the- quiet voice, reach my- thundering heart, is it the light, that blinds me- or is it my dark, in the cold, that breaks- winter sings, the song- of dying. it all brings- me to the change, of me. when all I do is, hide and stop- cover myself deep, with thoughts, doing, chatter, let it all scatter… spreading away, melting into water- from white snow, clear, reflecting, pure in its seeking- bringing it all, to perfect silence. when I


I wrote this poem after riding a wave of emotion…   I did not fully understand why or where the emotions were fully coming from. The human body has muscle memory and sometimes feelings come to life as a result of our letting go of past pains and hurts. But sometimes these heartfelt times are simply a reflection of the hormonal changes in our bodies. This poem was written in honor of the great change women all over experience when we enter menopause, if we're lucky enough to live that long.  The Magic of Menopause The unexplainable waves of emotion as if I might cry while listening to any soft song or upon reading a soulful poem astounds me. No matter how much joy surrounds me there is a sadness and I enter it, feel the fullness of it, gratitude and love for my life, my husband, my new puppy, our home, cannot hush this rush of weep. I practice the art of letting go, ponder the depths of love and happiness as my hormones sk