Category Archives: Poetry

PART SIX: ANCIENT WISDOM

Four large Ravens visited me in my back garden. They stared at me until they had my full attention. This was a prompt to complete a neglected piece of work. I had placed a complete volume of poetry on the back burner, allowing it to sit for six months. No longer – I got it that this was my priority. In particular the final section of the poetry book – PART SIX: ANCIENT WISDOM. The Ravens left as silently as they arrived. I was humbled by their presence. Here is the introduction to ANCIENT WISDOM.

PART SIX: ANCIENT WISDOM

PART SIX was written when I accompanied two friends, Janice and David, on the first leg of their cross Canada canoe expedition. My good friend Keith Crowe teamed up with me and a yellow canoe. I had never undertaken anything quite like this. Ancient Wisdom was written during the canoe trip, under oilskins, during portages, while cooking in the rain and once when standing drenched and half clothed in a Quebec laundromat. PART SIX is written in capital letters – a writing form quiet alien to me but that is how I wrote it.

My creation of this poem had a double focus. I wanted to leave a document about Canada’s wilderness for my grand-children, so they could be inspired by Mother Earth. When experience and inspiration sparked, I would shout out to Keith in the stern of the yellow canoe that I had to write. I would bring out the oil skin envelope stuffed with poems about the journey. The final poem ended up being very long. I edited it radically when my oldest grandson exclaimed, “Too long grandpa!” I took his response to heart. However, it is still very long. I hope there is enough apocryphal prose to hold the reader’s attention.

I also wanted to weave in the Wisdom of the Elders, to speak about Canadian waterways from the reverence of First Nations. A decade earlier I had become aware that I had a stalker from that ancient realm. She persisted in shadowing me. Eventually, White Eagle Woman, my shaman mentor made it clear I was mistaken. This was no stalker. It was a woman from the 18th century. The female entity from the past was a medicine woman and she was trying to bring powerful medicine gifts through to me in the 21st century. I had not learned how to release my logical, intellectual mind, and did not possess the wisdom to receive her gifts. She had a name – Trailing Sky Six Feathers.

My dumb resistance, however, was no match for her determination. I ultimately surrendered to this Muse and wrote a book about her – Trailing Sky Six Feathers: One Man’s Journey with His Muse. I learned that I had died in her arms in 1777. She vowed to find me in the future to complete my purpose. Through her insistence I learned to reconfigure my understanding of time, place and consciousness. She refused to give up on how dense I was and provided guidance so that karma was reversed, the internal battles ceased and I learned to navigate past and present life experiences over four centuries. The medicine gifts received from Trailing Sky during dream visions and shamanic journeys required that I nurture skills and learn to use them wisely. I eventually remembered a clear mosaic of experiences stretching back to 1777. Past life memories collided head-on with the present, as the relentless shadowing by this Muse brought understanding and purpose to overcome the darkness of my past. This provided the appropriate training to navigate this river of Ancient Wisdom.

It was during a gathering of elders in 1978 that I first met White Eagle Woman. She beckoned me over, looked me right in the eye and told me that she did not like me at all. Quite an introduction. Her rebuke was perhaps well deserved, given how unaware I must have seemed. My disjointed education and experience with the Indigenous domain of mysticism did, however, slowly evolve into a seamless pattern rather than remain as random knots stretching across an abyss. She had been instructed by her ancestors to train me and it began straight away with an eight day vision quest. Her blunt introduction was the prelude to a thirty year period of training and healing under her guidance. She directed the shamanic process of my healing from childhood sexual abuse. This allowed the mosaic of the past to reveal itself.

She also identified Trailing Sky and taught me how to create a medicine wheel in my mind with a circle at the sacred centre. That was the location where I could dialog with Trailing Sky, which I do every day. Each time my life was at risk, Trailing Sky would orchestrate the necessary energies to keep me alive. That must have kept her very busy as she brought me through to safety – time after time. She is not an illusion, nor a projection that I am attached to. She constitutes all that is crystal clear within me – the ultimate Muse. I am deeply humbled and privileged to touch this Ancient Wisdom of transformation. She said to me,

“You have transformed all that you brought in with you and suffered from. The person who stumbled blindly through the first part of your life is not the Ian walking through the second part of life. In India, Arizona, France, the Canadian wilderness and around the world you went to extraordinary lengths to deal with karma. You changed course and now have freedom and alignment. There were so many severe experiences, but you responded by moving in a spiritual direction. You touched universal threads that allowed me to keep my promise from 1777. And we are both grateful for that”

I could feel her smile expand with my own. I placed my two hands together with great reverence and offered a deep bow of gratitude to Trailing Sky Six Feathers.

Namaste….

http://www.ianprattis.com/TrailingSky.html

 

Finding the Poetic Voice.

During my teenage expedition to Sarawak, Borneo, with Voluntary Service Overseas, I kept a journal of the vivid surrounds and how I was feeling. From that time on I scribbled poetry wherever I went, eventually accumulating trunks full of poems that reminded me of the experiences, particularly those later in India.  My extensive shamanic training with incredible First Nations medicine people was also carefully logged, and those notes were a sign post to always be authentic, even when it was difficult to re-read. As a professor I wrote text books and scholarly papers, which had particular protocols that were somewhat stifling. When I started late on the writing craft – I had to re-learn how to write without sounding pompous. I gave up on footnotes!

My challenging journey through life navigated shamanic healing of childhood sexual abuse, guru training as well as a near death experience in an ashram in India. From this vast range of experience I developed an ability to sculpt narrative in a novel way and this was expressed in my poetry and books. My life as a global traveller certainly stretched my attention beyond any limits I could have placed on it. Expansion of mind was inescapable. I certainly stumbled through the first part of life, but then stood strong in my own sovereignty in the latter part. My approach to life comes through experience, crises, difficulties and joys that may have common ground with many readers. To the best of my ability, I endeavor to follow Gandhi’s principles of ahimsa and the teachings on mindfulness. I live very simply as a planetary activist. As a Zen teacher my initial task was to refine my own consciousness – to be a vehicle to chart an authentic path. From this energy the poems and chapters emerge.

My book – Redemption – was first written in 1975. I wrote it as an extended prose poem. It became a lost manuscript as I did not know how to get published at that time. When I rediscovered it forty years later I could scarcely believe my eyes. Anita Rizvi had this to say….  “Redemption is a riveting chronicle of one man’s journey through the stages of innocence, darkness, destruction and transformation.” She goes on to say, “What is so exquisite is the tenderness and honesty with which the author deals with the human condition . . . When the main character’s journey takes him ever closer to the abyss, the author refuses to ‘sanitize’ his experiences.

It is important for me to remain true in telling the grittier and more difficult aspects of a poem or story, also to touch the mystical elements that led to it being transposed to written form. Yet in 1975 I was writing way over my head and lacked the maturity to understand the deep nuances emerging from my pen. The book was writing me and it is fitting that it was not published until 2014, as the time lapse allowed me to grow into the insights and revelations writ large. I was a total mess in 1975 – with a failing marriage in the Hebrides and trying to keep my career intact as a young professor at Carleton University in Canada. I was not doing a good job with either. The surprise for me in 2014 was how I could have written such a powerful poetic novel while in a desperate state of mind. The themes of mental illness and alcoholism are writ large in this deep and turbulent Hero’s Journey to emancipation. Redemption is an allegory for the depression and life difficulties I once experienced, though I did not realize it at that time.

From the rhapsody of an idyllic childhood through traumatic tragedies to the derelict zone of alcoholism and then to a state of awakening – I depict the stations of a personal Calvary that ultimately leads to “Redemption.” The poetic voice in the book is a lyrical and moving tale of struggle, love, loss, transformation and hope. It reads like an extended prose poem reflecting the primal forces of nature and human nature. Its starkly gorgeous and remote island setting creates and reinforces the central themes of struggle, family, community and wonder at the beauty of the world. Its rich cast of characters offers numerous gripping interludes that brim with complex interpersonal drama. Relationships with people, land and sea skilfully brings the poetry out.

In my career as an anthropologist I was fortunate to encounter many First Nation story tellers across North America: Dene, Hopi, Ojibwa, Algonquin, Inuit – to mention a few. Their poetic recounting of myths and history had a deep impact upon me. I would say that without poetry cultures implode. Over a period of thirty years, four extraordinary aboriginal medicine people enhanced my process of remembering the power of the poetic voice. Through their mentoring, I learned how to reconfigure my understanding of time, place, consciousness, and re-write some of Carl Jung’s psychology. I chose to listen to the feminine voice of Earth Wisdom rather than to the multitude of competing voices in my deep unconscious. I am not good at sitting down and writing four pages a day. I wait until the spiritual energy is present within me, then I write. Sometimes this is frustrating, as I want to get on with it, but when I do not stay still and wait – I simply write garbage! So I use the in-between times to do research and edit. When the energy is sparkling, the writing flows effortlessly.  I do not consider this as a necessary template for others. It is just what works for me to connect to the Muse within.  I trust that far more than any impatience.

My books are screenplay-worthy epic tales that weave together seamlessly to create inspiration. Global citizens are staring into the abyss. Instead of being eaten up by it all, I say to them – “Awaken spiritually,” for that transforms everything. We have made our world an unpredictable beast because we fail to work with it intelligently. Turning on the switch of awakening seems to be a good idea right now. That is the prod and direction of my poems and books. We just need to touch the sacred in ordinary experiences of life to find the courage and determination to transform. All of this funnels back into my writing.

The stories I tell in my poetry and books are offered as a gift to our planet. My purpose in life is to share my wealth of experience on how to live in harmony not just with ourselves but with the place we call home… Earth. I shed light on issues that will affect our world for generations to come. The example of my own challenging journey and personal transformation illuminates a path for others to expand their consciousness and chart the course for a future beyond the abyss. The human race does not need to be stuck with maladaptive options and patterns. My writing delivers a vigorous message about personal transformation in order to become responsible stewards of the earth and society.

Books at http://www.ianprattis.com 

Agua Viva

Agua Viva                                                                                                      

 

When I finished writing “Our World is Burning” and got it published in October 2017, I decided to step back and study the writing craft more deeply – particularly short stories. But first of all there was the task of clearing out my file cabinet, which was a total mess. During the demolition, I came across a yellowing folder that contained 40 years of my poetry. Much of it was garbage, but there were sufficient gems to fashion a book of poetry. That instantly became the new project. I had enough material for six distinct poetic memes that played out significant parts of my own life. This required an autobiographic introduction for each of the six sections. The collection is much like an exquisite cheese – it has to be left to mature. At least until Spring 2019!

Here is the introduction to PART ONE: AGUA VIVA.

The poems in Agua Viva – Water of Life – were written over a forty year time period (1978 – 2018). They provide a text for my clumsy emergence into new understandings. I first journeyed to Mexico in March 1978 to a Dominican Monastery – Agua Viva – sixty kilometres southeast of Mexico City. With a number of friends this adventure was to experience a heightened transformation of the path of awareness few of us knew we were travelling. A return visit to the same monastery was made two years later. In 1988 the same core of friends returned to Mexico and made a destination to the Mayan civilization in the Yucatan. The Agua Viva poems were scribbled down hastily and refined with later insight.

There was a return to Mexico thirty years later in November of 2017 – again to the Yucatan. In particular, the Mayan walled city of Tulum. It was located upon a shoreline cliff facing the Caribbean Sea. The ocean provided a stunning turquoise color as the backdrop for jungle, sea and the mystique of Mayan civilization. Previously in 1988, I had sat for hours at the top of the Tulum Castillo looking out at the Caribbean Sea. I was mesmerized by the sublime Mayan architecture and the overwhelming pulse of an angry sea crashing, swell after swell, into the cliffs it rested on. I did not write a poem at the Castillo at that time, too astonished to put pen to paper or even take a photograph. Yet the feelings of that day, thirty years ago, seared into my mind as I anticipated a meeting with a timeless collision of civilization, memory and human nature.

The early poems (1978 – 1988) delivered an uncertain direction as my friends and I threw ourselves to find out what we could not fathom. Trying to identify purpose without too much success and leaning on an awkward posturing. I waited a long time to cap this early scribbling with a candid view of the Mayan city of Tulum – thirty years later. A wake up call from reality arose. The “Agua Viva” poems are dedicated to all of us who seek, strive and then occasionally relax into maturity.

Return to Tulum.

This poem was written while visiting the Mayan ruins at Tulum, Yucatan, Mexico. I was last there some 30 years ago and wrote a number of poems while sitting on the “Castillo” overlooking the Caribbean Sea.

  1. Return to Tulum 

Like tall reeds moving with unison in a jungle pool

the selfie sticks clump together in swarms

before the ancient monuments of Tulum.

Plastic smiles consume their posterity

 

Right where I had sat alone with reverence – thirty years ago.

 

Can sacredness penetrate unbridled progeny,

of opulence, entitlement, noise and distraction?

Vacant minds of pasted smiles.

 

Thirty years since I visited the walled city of Tulum.

Now finding it sequestered behind ropes and security,

the price of graffiti, looting and volley ball.

The ancients could still be heard,

presence emerging with stillness and respect,

though Silent to oiled sunbathers.

Whistle blowing security guards usher hooligans

from forbidden coastal bays and ceremonial locations,

march them out of where they cannot be.

 

Years ago I occupied similar space,

but was bound with reverence.

No security guards to police my silent awe.

 

A whispered wish for moderns to register with Mayan intelligence.

The Gods still Face All Ways,

provide a beacon of memory and history.

Perhaps the selfies art will find matter in time

  • to comply with reverence and respect
  • to replace benumbed fate in a global civilization

intent on destruction.

 

Then other swarms at last appeared.

Legions of people carrying the banner of languages.

Serious, bolder, organized, marching in order

like legionnaires, phalanx by phalanx.

From Japan, schools, Europe, Mexico, Everywhere –

tutored by multilingual guides, interpreters and sages

carrying knowledge of Maya intelligence.

These legions dwarfed the selfies and hooligans

and the Gods That Face All Ways

were recognized, not mocked.

 

With relief, Venus, the evening star of the Maya

appeared in the night sky,

as the walled city of Tulum emptied.

 

A murmur of Halach Uimic dynasty vibrated

through the five openings of the walled city

into the ceremonial center,

then East to the Castillo.

Misnamed by Juan de Grijalva in 1518,

this majestic monument never a castle.

It was a great palace, crowned by a temple

commanding the cliff top,

sloping steeply to the Caribbean Sea.

Complete with blood stained sacrificial stone,

 

Decades ago, before brazen tourism and tight security

I sat by this Upper Temple.

Alert to frightening corner-stones facing West.

Emulated masks with mouths wide open and teeth bared.

I stayed for hours – a healthy distance from the sacrificial stone.

Thirty years on I found a similar stone at the foot of the monument,

on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Caribbean Sea.

Outside the security rope I sat quietly upon the stone.

Silently tuning-out the hundreds of passers-by.

And there it was…

the mesmerizing energy from time before.

Then, I could not put pen to paper.

 

Now, I can.

2015 Poetry Prize at OIW

At the Ottawa Independent Writers 2015 Poetry competition my “Ancient Tree in Winter” won first prize. This poem was inspired one recent winter by a river walk at Carleton University. An oak tree had been swept over Hogs Back Falls and ended up stuck at the stretch of the Rideau River rapids at Carleton University. Throughout the winter on my daily walks from the bus stop to my office – I would stop and observe this beautiful tree trapped in the rapids. Until one day it was gone, The spring floods released it for the next phase of its journey.

 

Ancient Tree in Winter                                                                                                                                            

 Ancient Tree in Winter,

where did you come from?

Now trapped,

cleft by rocks at river’s edge.

Water eddies carve your shape.

 

Ice mires your branches,

snow creeps fingers across the river

as your body disappears under deep laden snow.

Decaying sculpture of existence.

 

Death and birth are there.

Yet your journey carries you through,

While ducks stand on your broken limbs

Preening their feathers.

 

Did you once stand tall and majestic

in a soft Rideau River valley?

host to birds, small animals,

insects and whispering breeze?

 

Were you alone on a high bluff

shading thundering rapids

that pulled you to their embrace?

 

What felled you,

so that you now lie here

Trapped?

Cleft by rocks.

Exquisite beauty of my winter river walk.

 

Waiting for spring’s flood

To set you free.

 

 

 

 

 

The Australia Times Interview: Part Two

Interview with The Australia Times: Part Two

  1. You have a deep spiritual connection with Zen. How is your spiritual practice reflected in your poetry?

The focus on daily mindfulness from my Zen practice enables me to be still and clear. From this energy the poems and chapters emerge. I do my best not to write from a space of frustration or of wanting to get the writing finished. I wait until the energy of mindfulness is tangible – then creating the words and text becomes easy.

Brand Jpeg

2. What do you hope the reader will take away from your poetry?

The courage to believe that they can take steps to transform internally and then make a difference externally. The stories I tell in my poetry and books are offered as a gift to our planet. My purpose in life is to share my wealth of experience on how to live in harmony not just with ourselves but with the place we call home… Earth. I shed light on issues that will affect our world for generations to come. The example of my own challenging journey and personal transformation illuminates a path for others to expand their consciousness and chart the course for a future beyond the abyss. The human race does not need to be stuck with maladaptive options and patterns. We can and must transform. The key to change this deep freeze is Awakening, a spiritual relationship with self and Mother Earth.  My writing delivers a vigorous message about personal transformation in order to become different stewards of the earth and society. I’d like to consider Trailing Sky Six Feathers as the real life version of James Redfield’s best-selling fictional book The Celestine Prophecy. I have nine chapters – loaded with Insights and adventure, plus shamanic training over a period of three decades. Trailing Sky Six Feathers and Redemption are super unique, as they are drawn from my actual lived experience.  Reality based information is in high demand in today’s society, which provides the potential for my project to become a fresh, new icon for today’s hungry culture. Hungry, that is, for authentic transformation.

Front Cover Trailing Sky Six Feathers

3. In what ways has your writing changed you?

In a word – authenticity. I am not good at sitting down and writing four pages a day. I wait until the spiritual energy is present within me, then I write. Sometimes this is frustrating, as I want to get on with it, but when I do not stay still and wait – I simply write garbage! So I use the in between times to do research, edit and look for spelling mistakes and typos. When the energy is sparkling, the writing flows effortlessly.  I do not consider this as a necessary template for others. It is just what works for me to connect to the Muse within.  I trust that far more than any impatience.

Redemption front cover

4. As a peace activist, what do you consider the greatest challenge?

Organization and outreach. Here is an example:

Friends for Peace Canada started on a bitterly cold winter evening, as the Iraq war loomed. I received notice that a Peace Song Circle was happening on Parliament Hill. So I went, accompanied by my wife Carolyn and our dog. No-one else turned up. I remarked to Carolyn, “This is a good idea – it just needs to be organized.” She replied, “Let’s do it.” And so we did and created the nucleus for Friends for Peace Canada.  It quickly grew to a loose coalition of fifty organizations and we asked them to begin the peace process first of all within themselves, then to the community and the world.  Our mandate evolved so that we gave annual Peace Grants to local and international organizations making a real difference, as well as working in concert with other coalitions in the city for environmental and social justice issues.  I also decided at that time to concentrate my energy and efforts locally, feeling that these efforts could infuse global networks from the epicentre created here. I had received many invitations to be a global speaker and teacher, yet felt that a concentration on my home city of Ottawa was the primary focus. I responded to the many international invitations with a gracious decline. I was inspired to devote my time and energy to moving things just a little bit in my city, so that more good things could begin to happen spontaneously. As I soon discovered, there were many good friends across the city more than happy to make this possible.

We organized 5,000 participants at the Peace Song Circle on Parliament Hill in Ottawa, held on a miserably wet, cold spring day in 2003. A sea of multi-coloured umbrellas on a rain swept morning welcomed all those gathered. As other peace protests joined us and sang “All Within Me Peaceful,” the crowd covered the grounds of Canada’s seat of government, all meditating at the end in total silence as the rain poured down on our heads.  The pouring rain was strangely welcome, for it symbolized the tears of Iraqi children, my tears, your tears – transformed into hope through singing for peace with one another and experiencing deep peace.  There was a transformation of anger, anguish and violence into a determined clarity to be peace and to oppose war.  From there we know the wise actions to take.  Those who are waging war would do better if they knew better; but they don’t know better.

Every year since the relentless rain on Parliament Hill, the annual Friends for Peace Days have been memorable. We got rained and snowed on for several years on Parliament Hill, thunder and lightning at Alumni Park of Carleton University – before we moved inside to Jean Pigott Place in Ottawa City Hall. The response to this community activism has blown everyone away, as it went beyond any of our expectations!! The annual Friends for Peace Day is an awesome, diverse, unique Ottawa experience.  It is made possible by the generosity of volunteers and supporters and the diversity of Ottawa who show up to have a good time, be educated and inspired. The Friends for Peace Day creates an epicentre of intent and action – intense at times as people are moved to both tears and laughter. It is fun, poignant and direct. The intensity and joy ripples through the diversity – all generations, faiths and cultures in our northern city. The force of the epicentre roars through the community and activist tables, Muslim families, Asian groups, elders, young folk and the volunteers. The diversity of Ottawa gathers, listens, dances, laughs, cries – and takes home an unforgettable experience of hope and confidence. The family grows bigger each year. All Nations, All Traditions – A Circle of Friendship www.friendsforpeace.ca

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  1. What is your favourite quote?

Rumi’s wise words are most cogent: “Sit down and be quiet. You are drunk and this is the edge of the roof.”

Books Available at www.Amazon.com and www.BarnesandNoble.com  

Autographed Book – Order Through: http://www.ianprattis.com

Four Poems.

Four Poems: The Australia Times Interview with Ian Prattis

Short Bio

Dr. Ian Prattis is an award winning author of fourteen books. Recent awards include Gold for fiction at the 2015 Florida Book Festival, 2015 Quill Award from Focus on Women magazine and Silver for Environment from the 2014 Living Now Literary Awards. Julia Ann Charpentier says his: “admirable command of language brings to every scene a striking visual clarity.” Of his Gold for Redemption Anita Rizvi calls it “a riveting novel chronicling one man’s journey through the stages of innocence, darkness, destruction and transformation.” She goes on to say, “What is so exquisite is the tenderness and honesty with which the author deals with the human condition . . . he refuses to ‘sanitize’ experience.” He depicts the stations of a personal Calvary that ultimately leads to Redemption. His poetry, memoirs, fiction, articles, blogs and podcasts appear in a wide range of venues.

Full Profile at http://www.ianprattis.com

Dancing Trees                                                               

Silver birches silhouette the sky

Gather in numbers,

Silently,

Elegantly, grace “en pointe.”

Sway and breathe

Bend and whisper

Leaves shimmer.

They dance to gathering wind.

Murmur Creation’s tones

In synchrony with stellar rhythms,

Their sound carries waves

Rolling into shoreline rocks.

Silver birches silhouette the sky

Silver beauties

dance for us.

Dancing trees

Dancing Trees

       Lament For a Mariner                                                        

The sea is very thin this day

that Archie Ruag has gone.

Master mariner, graceful navigator,

wise teacher of ocean mystery.

No more to grace the ocean’s ships

returned to whence he came.

My sons at eleven years and ten

children in men’s mourning

saw him laid to rest

in my place.

Storms and hail swept the cemetery

and their small frames

grew in maturing

of Archie’s dying.

And I sit here in Canada

writing, grieving,

Knowing the sea is very thin this day

that Archie Ruag has gone.

I saw him last, pale and weary

with calm before his death.

His spirit surrounded by antiseptic ward,

but not beleaguered.

He knows I was not equal

to his dying.

So he spoke gently to me

of ships

and men at sea.

And moorings

safe to guard our boats

from winter’s cruelty.

And so, in this way

did he gently rebuke

my lack of courage

in his dying.

So that I may have strength

in my own time

of death.

Yet I miss him.

An anchor gone from my seasons

of the sea.

The sea is very thin this day.

     Vietnam War Memorial                                                                   

 

Gaunt with grief:

Motionless:

Stilled, Silenced:

Cold December day:

Grey and bleak.

I could not move:

Stunned: Frozen in Time:

Unbelieving:

Damn it all!

Damn!

It!

All!

It was not my war

don’t you know?

They were not my people

don’t you see?

Do I protest too much?

Name engraved black marble slabs

rising from the earth sear into my soul.

Burning deep to feel the pain, of so many deaths, such futility.

Ball of fire flames my chest,

chills the marrow of my bones.

Subterranean edifice hurts me awake,

transforms deep memories

for my own kind.

Fellow Humans.

Americans,

Vietnamese,

All peoples

caught in the sinister web

of dark and deadly shadows

that lurk in all of us:

Hate, Greed and Power.

I circle the profanity of war,

nerve center of our world.

Grimly aware thought:

Our world must be transformed:

Our world must be changed:

And we must do it. Transforming ourselves

then others in swift urgency.

Else the memoirs

of our civilization

are no more than

Monuments To The Dead.

Our Dead:

Yours

And

Mine.

      Weaving

Let me share it –

This symphony of autumn color,

cascading melody from a sky

pastel grey and fiery red.

Descant to the dancing tones of

a painted forest

cooled by lush evergreens.

Sensual beauty,

rhapsody of forest and sunset sky

fused as a golden sheen.

Caught in a still lake

waiting with patience

Beyond time and space,

Waiting

to reflect this moment of

splendor –

Weaving.

Let me share it.

Autumn Sunset

 

Death from “The Prophet” Kahlil Gibran

 The poem on Death has a last line added from a dharma talk presented by Bhante Kovida at Pine Gate Mindfulness Community on September 12, 2015

Then Almitra spoke, saying, we should ask now of Death.

And he said: “You know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond. And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is laid upon him in honor. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Bhante Kovida and Ian at Pine Gate

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you  indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

For life and death are one as the oceans and rivers are one.

National Poetry Month

Celebrating National Poetry Month – here is a short one about the craft and just maybe who is writing who!

The Poet

 

 Behind a plough of words

the poet drives a furrow,

– never straight.

Phrases spiral upwards,

as an eagle soars in a sky

with no horizon or meter.

Universal alphabet mimics dancing clouds

to touch Creation’s syntax.

Cascading into passages that hover,

tracing cosmic runes

at the edge of knowing.

Words drift by on the morning mist.

A whisper of wind,

That haunts every thought

I breathe.

The Muse –

waiting wondrous so long,

for cracks in façade’s order to crumble.

Then she grants life to a poem.

Essential Spiral