Journey of the Heart

We often do not really want to hear experiences from other people because it moves us from our perfectly closed capsule… We are often afraid of what changes could happen. This poem is called 'Dialogue' but there is just one voice speaking, the other is there but it does not say anything. The other just absently listens. I believe that listening, sympathy and understanding are needed in this world. Dialogue What if I tell you that I inarm the Source many, many times while in sore impotence it inaudibly asks me to still be the part of a golden thread that keeps our place breathing. What if I tell you that of my many eyes just one is for me while the others float in my presence to make from me a love nest, to warm me enough for transforming all the weeds into bursting buds. What if I don't tell you that I'll leave tomorrow like many times would you nevertheless would you anywise remember me formless remember not ...

  Feeling a little nostalgic today, I was inspired by an old photo to write of the warm memories of my childhood...  I was but a baby when the image was taken, my observations are based on stories and later knowledge of my mother and her sisters. I am sure this does not stray far from the truth.  The youngest, whom I was named after, absolutely adored Frank Sinatra!    I was just seven when my mom passed, but I still remember the laughter, the warmth, the love that existed as family came together, whether for a holiday, or just Sunday dinner. As a mother myself, I hope that I have passed similar memories on to my own son, and he in turn will do the same one day when he is a father. The Photograph that inspired this poem Continuity by Ginny Brannan On entering, we are assailed by the smells: sausage and sage, butter, brown sugar, cinnamon … comingling, tempting. Then the warmth oven on long before dawn, steam rising from various...

It was a quiet morning, a normal morning…. The refrigerator was humming, the clock ticking, the crows cawing over some especially tasty bit from the compost pile. Just me, a grocery list, and pen. No foreshadowing. No hints at what was brewing in the ethers. Then She was suddenly there. Her. The Great ineffable Feminine. Her voice ringing me like a wobbly crystal bowl. In that moment it was her words that cascaded through my heart and out my pen, calling me back into presence. Calling me back into my body and my life. Rescuing me from hum-drum coasting. I wrote and marveled. So few words. So much meaning. Moved, as so many of us are, by a voice that all at once seemed not to be mine, but felt deeply my own. A Holy Part Of This by Tracie Nichols Sunlight can smell like ripe peaches or salty marshes and in the wind you may notice the mineral tang of a distant mountain So why is it that you only notice these things when they are called to your atte...

I went in for a gender ultrasound for our third child at 19 weeks, only to discover our sweet baby no longer had a heartbeat...  I delivered our son, Dason, the very next day on August 10, 2012. This poem was written in the months that followed our devastating loss. Writing poetry is one of the most healing ways, for me, to confront difficult emotions, process and validate my overwhelming heartache and to find the courage and strength to forge ahead. My son’s life and death has truly awakened my spirit and my heart will continue to beat in honor of him as long as I am on this earth. My Angel in the Sky The sun outside is shining bright. Not a cloud up in the sky. And yet this darkness swallows me whole. My heart chokes on goodbye. Sorrow wraps around me tight, Making it hard to breathe. And though I know this too shall pass, For now, I’m asked to grieve. The life I once held close to mine, Protected in my womb. Has died and gone to heaven...

Emily Dickinson famously said, “I dwell in Possibility”… The first time I encountered Dickinson’s poetry, I was very young. I loved it immediately, but understanding it has been an ongoing adventure as I’ve grown older and as my experiences have broadened and deepened and become more various. I Dwell in Possibility. To really understand how glorious it is, to dwell in possibility, it’s helpful to consider the opposite - being imprisoned by Impossibility. Dwelling in Possibility is not about living in the future, or about obsessing with “maybe”s and “what-if”s; it’s about believing that “all things are possible”. It’s about not giving up, not allowing oneself to be crushed - about not letting disappointment drown the remains of hope. Dwelling in Possibility is the way to keep on going when things get tough - and the way to avoid being discouraged in the tiny things that can seem so heavy and so hard. It’s how to live when the differences we make to the world seem so...

I took a break from writing for about three months... This was the first one back. Life has been nothing change. And I report back feeling full of hope and very happy. All I Know Can Only Grow The air wrinkles in my sight And I know I am high. Chill as the first snowflake  And just as free I take the memories And let them fall like pouporri. Life tastes sweet as wild cherries. Change grows yet another wing As I continue to fly  In order to soar knowing when Less is more and old Is new and age wears a crown Of lavender and my shadow Caresses the crevices of light I find by looking past the moon Into a dawn that promises  Bliss in the sun and a winter Where all I know can only grow. Edith Lazenby : “I  love to write. I began writing poetry in elementary school. Sometimes I write poetry daily, other times not. I adore Mary Oliver, her way of embracing the light while acknowl...