Revolution

It wasn’t supposed to be pretty,
it was revolution.

Status quo had to go.
It wouldn’t serve to continue on.

Change is frightening.

The phoenix rises from ashes
to capture life on its wings
pushing into the vault of heaven.

He came to wrench us out
of comfort and canon.
And it wasn’t new rules
He let flow from his human soul.

It was the voice of the Divine.
This love has no tenet but revolution.

When compassion
is blanketed in guidelines
Holy Light is extinguished.
It cries out for dissent.
Rip away the heavy cover,
release Radiance once more.

His throw down
was to let go.
Cut loose clinging fists of certainty,
madmen’s fear tactic
for power.

Open palms receive Grace.

He came to us as we are,
real flesh
with sorrows and despair.
He learned from mistakes.
He asked to be released.
He knew us from within
our carnal senses.

Only then could He bring us
to absolute revolution,
understanding our pain,
feeling our joy.

In revolution He
didn’t serve us
a pretty God.

In revolution He
championed us to
pure Passion.

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Author’s note:

In honor of Labor Day today, I offer a different way to see His job. I am looking at my “job” in a new light today.

Peace.

The Animal Inside

I howl when the animal inside me sings.
I howl to let the world know I am,
the animal inside me sings harmony.

I wear red when the animal inside me wears blue.
Red sears hurt hurtling my way, spring water blue
calms my fear.

I wish for the moon to fall from sky. The animal inside
me weaves wishes braiding a ladder I climb to lead
the moon back home once more.

I collect sighs and sorrows from souls lost in wander,
the animal inside me collects dandelion puffs on which
to place each one, and blows.

I wait for Venus to rise and Sirius to spin out
of control, while the animal inside me twirls with
the stars in a tango of dreams.

And sometimes when no one is looking,
I lay myself down under the willow and cry. When no one
is looking the animal inside me cradles me to sleep.

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Author’s Note:

Our writer’s group met again tonight, hopefully a return to regular meetings.

We used a prompt from Bonnie Newbauer’s book, The Write-Brain Workbook, 365 Exercises To Liberate Your Writing. We used Day 105, Animal Tendencies.

Visit Thursday Afternoon Writers on Facebook to see what others wrote. (I know it’s Wednesday. We used to be called Wednesday Afternoon Writers, then moved to Thursday, and now we’re back on Wednesdays. Think we need a new name?)

Harvest

The generosity of earth unfolds,
opens wide its arms,
as summer days fade into chill.

Harvest wealth tumbles from luscious
vines and stoic stems.
Trees pregnant with bounty
bow in offering.

Cicada song my lullaby.

The gracious earth
does not demand
but freely gives itself to me.

Oh, Holy Mother,
Creator Exuberant,
I revel in being your child blessed.

Cicada Psalm

When one day passes into the next,
a thin time,
when deepness of a new day
begins its passage,
I heard cicadas,
a thousand voices,
sing Your name.

It filled the room with such reverence,
such verve,
I wondered
how one could possibly sleep
through the sonance.

Why didn’t the neighborhood notice,
throw open their windows,
dance outside their doors
in nightgowns
swirling and twirling
in adoration.

Chanting your thousand names
in late August,
early morn
I gave thanks for their prayer,
their praise
in honor of us,
who,
in our mortal lives,
sleep through thin times
under starlight and cicada psalm.

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Author’s Note:

I walked into the bedroom very late at night, early morning, a few days ago. It was cool, so the fan was not on. The sound of the cicadas was so loud, I could hardly believe my husband was sleeping right through it.

I immediately thought of the thousand names of the Divine. I thought of the new Celtic spirituality I am coming to understand and embrace. I thought how lucky I was to be alive.

Thank you to my Celtic friends, Scott Jenkins, Macushla, Kathleen E. Moore, and so many others. I am on a new journey and every day brings delight and blessing and gratitude that you are in my life.

Woman of the Dogs

In the hours past midnight, my window wide to the wild air
I listen for it, coyote’s call. Their chortled howls announce

game on. As I settle into sleep, I wonder who will be redeemed
this night, excused from their table. You came to redeem me,

chosen by your favor. How do I escape into your embrace?
My heart yearns for your hand if you will hear, reach out,

hold me near. When she appealed for your touch, this woman
of the dogs, she changed the game, she defied your rules.

Weary in your travels with plans for others, You tried to ignore,
brush her by. But a mother’s love fears no beast or challenge

under moon’s gaze, only death. This wasn’t your plan but hers.
She knew your passion, demanded a share. You grew in

compassion. I lay still in silence listening for beastly yowls
knowing You will hear me and be there when I arrive.

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Author’s Note:

I don’t usually repost.

After today’s homily by Fr. Scott Jenkins at A Church of the Holy Family, ECC, I felt the need to change the title back to the one I originally considered using and dropped thinking it was too harsh. This story keeps coming back to me. I may need to explore it further.

Thank you, Fr. Scott for more insight on compassion. He introduced us today to the work of Stephen Gilligan and his definitions of three types of compassion. In short, I see that this story of the Woman of the Dogs shows me that I need the kind of compassion that will make me strong. The mischievous kind that shakes me up and shows me that I am able to face my fears and ask the Divine for what I need. I don’t need the fierce or tenderness kinds that keep me a victim and weak. Well, maybe once in a blue moon when I need a bit of rest and time for regrouping. But it is the mischievous compassion that gives me strength to realize that I am beloved. Thank you.

Click here if you would like to read the original Author’s Note on Syrophoenician.

Chocolate Ice Cream

I believe in signs, not in alchemy, a
nonsense to be shooed away, but in
a way of seeing. When one quiets the

pounding beat of the daily tattoo, stills
limbs and breath, curbs babble riffling
through the mind, there space opens

for seeing. It is simple, more simple
than the simplest mind could ever
devise. The meaning behind your

smile, the direction of your toes, a
tiny hand sticky with chocolate ice
cream. These are the signs endowed
to those who want to see.

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Author’s Note:

The end of summer. Simple joys. Quiet nights. Doggie mantram walks. Chocolate ice cream. Bliss.

In Tandem

The road is quiet tonight, the berth wide. An almost
full moon lights the way, one big round, too distant

from anything to be able to befriend another soul.
As I walk I hear my feet pad along, no other footsteps

in tandem. One does not contrive a friendship for this
journey. One does not go out one day and say, hey, will

you be the one I share my secrets with. One does not
choose from a lineup the soul you give yours to. One

doesn’t slap down a check in return for time spent. No,
one does not accord friendship this way. The opening

of a heart is a delicate operation. The road is quiet tonight,
the berth wide. I walk alone knowing You alone are with me.