Journey of the Heart

  Rules   There is  a restless beauty in the winds  of simple despair   sands of time  shatter  no matter what age or time grab what wills you   stamp out the cold fire of rules: those foolish things  blocking creative forces always  to be reckoned with. Safety  never makes  true things. Even in minds  saturated with brilliance.   Step differently- finding your gait, opening new worlds where you stand with love, out of reach  of old monsters. Not fighting just stepping to the side where people live, knowing the difference in bones of fearless  self-made lives. (This poem will appear in a posthumous collection of poetry to be published in 2022) Janavi Held  (1965-2018) was a soulful dancer, artist, poet, photographer and yogini that was suddenly struck with an incurable illness in her forties, and spent the last five years of her life bedridden, writing poems. During that time, Janavi published her first poetry collection  Letters to my Oldest Friend: A Book of Poetry and  Photography ,

  Night Flights  ( With thanks to Emily Dickinson) As the sun’s slipping past the horizon Bestows slumber on day’s brightness Unveiling night’s shadows and myriad scintillations, So when consciousness fades, Reason rests, liberating deeper and subtler currents. By intuition, Emily writes, Mightiest Things assert themselves, And potent indeed are night’s perils and possibilities When the soul takes flight on Wings unshackled from logicality.   Base instinct, innate or long-ago induced, Primitive and fear-based, sweeps and dives Through dreamscapes harrowing and confusing, A dread funhouse ride cacophonous, Labyrinthine and exhausting.   Another course, Emily’s true intuition, A calm, connected knowing Like an infant gazing into their parent’s eyes, Is easily swept away, but when flown proves Quietly miraculous, a peaceful reaching out, Soaring on starfire through infinities, A treasured gift of stillness.   Wakefulness resuming, night flights Left behind but the unconscious  Mementos re

  Freshening A focus on attending to the pain, the needs of others has long been my companion. So deeply ingrained  that I tend to override my own, yet I both hurt… and need. This antiquated habit  of putting myself last sometimes constricts  my sense of allowing  the rhythm of healing to move freely through. But, it does anyway. When I spiral softly  into another chasm  that needs attention I can get confused, think I must do something, apologize, or that I’m simply  supposed to hurt. Eventually, though, my breath joins the wind in the trees, the pulse of the ocean, the vastness of the sky above. I can smile, say hello to new Health, let pains release over time. With a freshening of companionship in this vessel that is me, I become more and more adept  at riding  the steady waters of healing, letting them carry me along. (This poem originally appeared in the author's blog found  here ) Sarah Carlson   has many pieces to her whole, as most of us do. Those pieces include: mother, te

  Go Easy   Go easy, my soul through days that threaten your heart and guide you to your knees spent and humble, as well as days of glorious  lightness of being, when weightless  you are uplifted as if on wings.   Moreover, the many days of  breaths and sighs wherein sorrow and joy lie side by side tenderly clasping hands as the moments roll by like a moving picture, remembering only at the end that it was just a dream. Carolyn Chilton Casas   is a Reiki Master and teacher. Her favorite themes for writing are: healing, wellness, awareness, and the spiritual journey. Carolyn's articles and poems have appeared in   Energy ,   Mujer Holística ,   Odyssey, Reiki News Magazine, The Art of Healing  and in other publications. You can read more of Carolyn’s work on Instagram at mindfulpoet_ or in her debut collection of poems titled   Our Shared Breath . *For submission guidelines,  click here

  Dancing Whispers   Looking through a looking glass every now and then, I see a flourishing green acreage, we once called home. With children playing yard games to the yellow yard light and fireflies blinking lights in clear glass mason jars never to roam. Playing hide and seek and Red Rover-Red Rover: Those are the times I’D LIKE TO LIVE OVER… A brand-new prefab home sits there instead. The house in ruins— torn down, not even a single bed… No place to lay my weary head. There’s no revolving door anymore, no treasure kept within from before. It’s just you’ve been gone so long, and, in this life, we carry on.   I tarry not here too long missing you all, the way that I do. But these thoughts fill up my head.  So, I write them down instead. Hoping they’ll dance telepathically to you… But carry on, I will! Looking for you on a merry lush green hill, skipping along on a clearly marked gravel trail, I’m staring into the brightest tangerine sun praying on bended knee you can see me this day,

  Today, we feature an excerpt from Ayala Zarfjian’s poignant and deeply moving new poetry collection,  A Corner in the World: Holocaust Poems for My Father.   Ayala’s words powerfully resound as a beautiful tribute to her ancestors that died as a result of the holocaust, to those that survived, and to all the silenced voices of the persecuted around the world today. Woven into her vivid, yet gentle treatment of the terrors of the holocaust and ancestral trauma, is also a powerful warning that we not let such a horrific past repeat itself, that our species not lose its heart and soul. The following, is a poem she wrote in memory of her aunt, Sally Eckhaus:     Sally   I no longer remember the sound of her laughter. I no longer remember the scent of her perfume. Did she bake challah for the Sabbath? Did her hands form a perfect braid? The wind whispered her name.  Her hair flowed when she walked.  Darkness, illuminated by her smile. She embraced her husband for the last time. The memori

Confronting my Aloneness Aloneness, why does it make me feel so empty When it is the truth of humanity  We are each alone in our individuality  On our own path, with our own destiny  No two bodies or minds alike Nor is our history  We meet as travelers for a short while Taking it to be forever  Seeking to build a nest  With illusory twigs of water. Tara Anand  is a Life Coach, Counselor, Mindfulness & Yoga Teacher, Writer & Author of  " Why the Lotus Blooms: Choosing to Stand Tall" . Deciding to honor her inner voice at the age of thirty-four saw her life and identity profoundly transform, including her legal name. Tara helps women connect to their inner wisdom and make authentic, fulfilling choices. Her writing has been featured in national publications, the poetry anthology, " Where Journeys Meet: The Voice of Women's Poetry " and on leading wellness blogs. Tara is based in India and can be contacted via her  website   or on Instagram  here.  *For subm

  The Language of Rain   Rain keeps plunging in its sun stealing shapes as grey shadows take away the depth of my sky blue.   Foggy messes blanket me in moist quiet.   Here, noise is disguised by languishing water drops everything disappearing into a satin sheet of weather covering minds in introspection and at home desires fall into place.   That air, heavenly air carries my desire to be in it all the time no indoor tomb for me.   I wish the rain to never stop and perpetually bring these crazy July winds always wet through my ever-open windows.   Thunder comes  on the heels of water asking me to pay attention waking me  to outside fragrances reminding me where I was born.   As a resident of this earth I know it is raining for me because I have been dry for too long. (This poem will appear in a posthumous collection of poetry to be published in 2022) Janavi Held  (1965-2018) was a soulful dancer, artist, poet, photographer and yogini that was suddenly struck with an incurable illness i

Wombman's Call  Gentle Woman sent forth by heavenly order birth giver to first born black cap Crowned Heart shaped placenta 'most beautiful thing' she ever did see.. Relentless days and nights crying many years past by returning to Gaia proved most unimpressive to this one she had been waiting for.. Assigned Special duty she was called to upkeep Ancient codes dormant in her soul Ready for the work to clear the break Deep caverns chamber echo many sacred waters enough Love she'd ever quench.. Aside in partnership stoked wild fire imprints All Ablaze cackle snaps fiercely into soft mist Alchemical seals destined to reunite balance, transmute, restore Original codex made Golden again that which Always was Sweet mother holy of faith whispers into the wire 'Child of Free will what will your destiny be?' 'I am a birth giver of an ancient future world, muma love, within another dream.. I am One at the Centre Galactic Womb Where All may Enter here and die Rebirthing

Shelter   I don’t know if I know how to listen to silences so old, quietude contained within rock crafted into brick, held in a mortar of mud and pebbles, bound in ancient spring water and clay.               Minds speculate:             what must have been, what still is, the living traditions we struggle to maintain, how we find and lose meaning, place and displace our humanness, forget our belonging on the earth, strive then and now to survive.    Thunder in the cradle of the canyon. A few drops of rain land on my cheeks and on high desert dust.             I let cool wind brush my hair, caress my brow,              let my head rest in the laps of ancient women who made comfort out of a landscape, out of their call to nurture life. I don’t want to know anything but this stillness, this moment away from the entire world,             this gap in time.   I could settle here, let exhausted bones and my burning, broken-down heart relax into stasis  next to grinding stones unused now for