Journey of the Heart

Meditation IV by Ann Metlay Breathe in. passage to my lungs, forked path that meanders toward the depths of my soul. Push through  my arms push  through  the narrowness of fingers  which grasp for tools of  my mundane life. Overpower  the blockage in my feet which choose to tread on paths grooved from ordinary cares. Breathe out. Tunnel through my bones, through marrow and blood which grant  me life. Remove debris which buries my soul; take from me the bitter taste of bondage held in daily drudgery; lift fatigue from my every cell. Breathe in. Inflate me,  Spirit, with your holy vision; fill me with your essence. Come in me, pass through me, so that I  might become one with your perfect order. Breathe out. Ann Metlay ,  a lifelong writer, grew up in the 50’s’ in Berkeley. Her family shared a love of folks songs and close experiences and observations of nature.  These opportunities continue to influence her poetry and her visual art ...

This poem was inspired by  the soul wisdom gained from the latest Mercury retrograde cycle, whose energy helped me reconnect to my deep need to be seen and beheld through a multidimensional lens and move away from relationships that leave me feeling flat and fixed.  This reconnection is a need that each of us as soulful, sensitive women have. A need that beckons us to honor it, so we can keep growing and becoming our higher expression. A need that I believe begins to heal and be filled, when we turn our gaze inward and do the sacred inner work of bearing full witness to ourselves. (This poem was also inspired  by  the song "She Will Be Loved"  by Maroon 5).  She Will Be Loved   And she will be loved-- Not in half cups or half flux or measured half notes. But in euphonic, tectonic compositions of soul.   And she will be loved-- Not in droplets or puddles or small streams of self. But in vast depths of  oceans that mirror  her full se...

Sometimes, I feel myself fighting a battle between the light and darkness within me… It's as if there I struggle with selfish desires on one side, against divine, pure love on the other. When I feel this stirring within me, I call upon the Goddess, the Divine Mother, to help me with this fight. Though I sense that it all boils down to my own willpower: to resist that within me that is of lower states: darkness.  Because, sometimes I find, that if I don't look deeper, the dark love looks sweet and inviting, but only brings bitterness in its wake, and as its consequence separation and destruction. Sometimes this fight with darkness brings out despair, and I feel like giving up. But there seems to be a faith, or a hope, in my heart that I can tap into, and that puts me on my feet again. It is a sacred process, which I find to be extremely empowering and inspiring: the quest to find and cultivate within myself the pure, chaste love of divine origin. The Fire ...

I wrote this after my miscarriage... I am not sure at what time since time and space became a big blur during those endlessly sad days. On the morning when this piece was born I had dragged myself out of bed and sat in the sun in our garden. When You Think by Ulli Stanway When you think you won’t make it
 You can’t get through all of this pain 
When you have reached your inner darkness
 When you think you want to sleep forever
 When you are sure that you are so alone, so very alone
 When you look up and the sky is clouded
 When you feel this deep hurt, more than words could ever say 
When you are in the winter of life You look up and you slowly open your tired eyes
 You see the first ray of sun
 You notice that the plants that have recently died are now growing again
 You notice a little blossom – maybe purple
 You start to see beauty
 You will see a bird flying in the sky, effortless and joyous
 You open up
 You decide that you see beauty...

Reaching the ripe and slightly terrifying age of 53 I realized that I don’t really know myself anymore… At least, with children nearly gone from our family home and all manner of changes happening personally and globally, it feels like I don’t. As if I’m a fuzzy photograph I can’t quite make out, or a book with a stuck cover. I don’t quite get what my role is, or what my next moves in the dance are... So, when a friend and colleague offered a class that meant I would spend a year and a day writing a book of me, I tumbled right into the chance. She mentioned that one of the themes we’d be exploring was “awareness.” The next thing I knew, there was a poem on my computer screen, and a whole new way of thinking about awareness. Awareness by Tracie Nichols Awareness... is wings is needles of rain on my arm is opening o p e n i n g o p   e    n     i       n       g eyes an...

I wrote this on a day where I found myself breathing so much for others, I was gasping for my own breath… It is a reminder that we are given the beautiful gift of self for the purpose of honoring, cherishing and loving that gift. Though we may choose to give much of ourselves to others, we are not owed to anyone.  I believe that when we share our energies, resources and hearts out of a sense of obligation, we are not operating from a space of authenticity, truth or love, and we begin to feel diminished. We end up denying ourselves the very ingredients we need to nurture our souls, expand our lungs and care for the gift of self. On the other hand, when we operate from a space of freedom, choice and grace, we allow our hearts the space they need to let their wild horses run free, so we can seek the ingredients that give us an abundant sense of self and continue to become who each of us is meant to be. Sky and Cage You owe yourself to no one. Your precious ...

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 ...