Thirteen Crows

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Why do thirteen crows,
lifted high above my head,
circle round and cry out,
then proceed southwest to a
grey bank of clouds
hiding our late spring sunset?

Why do more follow, then more,
until they number
twenty one in count,
wings dip and lift
along their way
to the place of their final arrival?

What I think is the last
to bring up the rear,
this loner does gyre once more,
does she call for me
to join in dance, no…
another circumscribes
to lead them away,
his job to assure full assemblage?

In the midst of lawn mowing and
basketball thumps,
sky turns back to its stillness,
and why do I remember
to retreat to my purpose,
not fleet of wing
but solid surefooted,
mom’s iris in hand,
lone survivors of hail,
to find the vase
of their vestige?

Author’s note:

I was charged with the quest to ask questions.

At first I wasn’t aware of my questions. I was to think back to childhood and find the question that has woven itself through time. Why am I not aware one?

As a child, an only one, I played by myself, with a constant, one-sided conversation. I had no one to talk with but myself. Was it a flow of words instead of a question?

I was a good girl. I never questioned. There was no need. What little I asked for, I received. If I didn’t, I went on my way. I never remember an anger or pout for not getting what I requested. Did I ever ask why or why not?

After some thought, I begin to remember where questions did place themselves, as I listened in church. Ah, yes. These questions have always been with me.

Why is God so mean to make his son suffer on the crucifix like that?
Why can’t women be priests?
Why can’t I crown Mary instead of the daughters of the people who are on the “ins” with the priest?
Why are nuns so mean?
Why did the priest try to molest my grandmother?
Why are priests molesting children?
Why are women not equal to men if we are all made in the image of God?
Why…

It was only until a few years ago approaching my sixtieth year, I finally acknowledged these questions and answered them. Study after study, book after book, I finally found a small group who helped me.

The answers are within, not without. Look there, there is God.

And I walked away from organization realizing I had to believe their creeds, not God’s, but theirs, if I wanted to belong, and I couldn’t any longer.

I walked into nature, what little there is where I live, but more than I imagined. I journeyed and found tribe. I rattle and drum, sing and chant, and listen. Oh, mostly listen.

I found meditation and quieted my mind, well, I try.

And there it was, not God as he is defined in the world I left, but Spirit in all, especially me. Because I was made in love, all of us are. There is nothing to be saved from, nothing to prove. And brokenness comes from not being able or not wanting to know the light inside, deep inside where Spirit resides in all.

And the loneliness I once felt sitting by myself in an ornate building with white words from only men to enlighten, has melted into stream, and lifted up through branches reaching skyward, and found companionship in the eyes of a doggie who prompts, “Let’s go, mom, there’s sniffin’ to do!”

And the crows and the iris and the basketball and the lawnmower speak Spirit and oneness, duality erased, and that quiet whisper I now hear helps me know we are all are One, all will be well.

Amen. Amen. Amen.

“In this vision he showed me a little thing,
the size of a hazelnut, and it
was round as a ball. I looked at it with the
eye of my understanding and
thought “What may this be?” And it was
generally answered thus: “It is all that is
made.” I marveled how it might last, for it
seemed it might suddenly have
sunk into nothing because of its littleness.
And I was answered in my
understanding: “It lasts and ever shall,
because God loves it.”

Julian of Norwich,

from Revelations of Divine Love,
the first published book
in the English language
to be written by a woman. (1395)

Grace of Water

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Day Six

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I.
Water trickled over my forehead.
Now accepted, a daughter-child of God,
to follow dogma. Water legislated
to make it so.

II.
Water sprayed over your writhing body
gasping for air. You are the enemy –
of who, of what – a child of men
who play God, make rules.
Water to cleanse. Water to heal.

III.
Water tumbled from sky
spawning streams, swelling rivers.
Men piped oil defiling you.
Our ancient family stands strong
with you in gratitude, they affirm.

IV.
Water is Spirit, dewdrop
in spring, snowflake in
winter, fall’s foggy drift,
summer’s replenishment.

V.
May we dwell in unity
and wisdom and gratitude
under your benefaction.
The grace of water, the gift of life.

 

Author’s Note:

Today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo:

“And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that looks at the same thing from various points of view. The most famous poem of this type is probably Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird”. You don’t need to have thirteen ways of looking at something – just a few will do!”

Bowl of Sand

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In quiet of morning pause,
growling its mission,
the recycling truck moves
steadily toward our house.
Benny snoozes secure
somehow knowing
there is no worry.

I went one day to the edge
of big water flowing in from
the sea, like sky turned
upside down, I couldn’t
tell if I stood on land
or in clouds.

It is all perspective,
a matter of turning in
to realize the angel-winged shell
or five-ordinaled star,
the bubbly huntsman
or petite pebble configure
myself into the Mystery.

Upside down or inside out,
not growling nor in slumber, 

at edge of ocean
I am hushed 
as tides
brush my feet,

a gentle nudge to affirm
my Heartbeat sanctuary.

.
.
.
Author’s Note:

I have a bowl of sand from my recent trip to the Seattle area. In it I keep the shell of the lightest purple. And a stone of black spiraled with white. I don’t know how it was formed, but am in awe of its simple beauty.

Puget Sound. I call it “big water.” It’s technically not the ocean, but it is. Just like I am not technically Spirit, yet I am. The Mystery.

e.e. cummings was one of my favorite poets when I was young, mostly because he went against convention. I guess I’ve always been a quiet, stubborn rebel. And he used whimsy. Most of which I really didn’t understand when I was young, but laughed anyway. I love to laugh.

That’s my delight in poetry by ghosts of the past. It takes time to mature and understand them. However, they are always there waiting for me to realize that whether I stand on ground or in clouds, they are there for me to see more deeply the more hush I allow.

Just like Spirit.

Aho,

Lexanne

 “Ghosts, right, have nothing to say to us,
Obsolete. Gone. Not so.”
– Natalie Merchant, Leave Your Sleep

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and        

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

                     – E. E. Cummings, 1894 – 1962

Between

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I am filled with You
ab84545d-7af3-4f77-a7d4-4cdeae27fff4.jpg in dragonfly shimmy
two realms inhabited
between water and air,
dreamtime waxes
and wanes, I am
replete in You.

I am filled with You
bounded by moon and
sun, in balance
of wisdom and Light.
Within I trust
both pitch and blaze,
I know I am in You.

I am filled with You
as rigid crumbles into
softness, compassion
and forgiveness fill in.
I am calm in your cradle,
held tight in dear repose
under Your stars and roots.

In gratitude I see
through my heart,
not eyes, no longer
lost in appearances,
a portal opened.

I bless you, myself, 
and all around
to wake up Beingness
that flows through all,
the pathway back to You.

.
.
.

Author’s Note:

 

Coming home.

I understand that allowing Spirit to flow through me is the gift. When I struggle to find the right way or the right ministry or the right worship, I am lost in appearances, veiled in confusion.

I am a portal, a way for Spirit to enter the world. When I release and allow flow without attaching my harness, I am given to the world as a gift. I am not in charge. I fall away when I try to take control.

Art is my passion – writing, photography, imagery in all forms. The photos here are always mine unless I give attribution otherwise. I love to create. Right now I am filled with words and joy of PicMonkey and an iphone camera. I watch dance and hear music that lifts my soul. Theatre brings Spirit alive through real people saying words of writers, a deep ceremony.

I do my work even if there is no audience, because Spirit is always here.

And I don’t have to be “good” at it, afraid to share that it’s not perfect. I share because it is what I do and don’t need to worry about judgement. It is what I am.

Share freely of yourself. You are the gift Divine. Let go. Release. Let Spirit live through you. All is good, so very good.

 

May you sing with morning birds,
filling air with newness.

May you dance with dragonflies,
gilding sky with prisms of light.

May you speak with bees,
words of honeyed sweetness.

May you live in Spirit
opening your heart
to grace and sureness
that we are all One.

And dream this world into being.

 

Aho. Munay. Amen.

Lexanne

Lost and Found

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I lost my religion…

…and found God

I put down the book
too many words flew at me
I read it through
sought their meaning
tried to unscramble code
designed by those
who deem themselves
the only ones who know

I stepped out of grey clouds
covering me with verity
I knew the rules
followed the letter of the law
ignored with guilt and hid
from those who judge
right from wrong

I took off my watch
too much time
spent in
defense

I let walls crumble
my lifted ego dropped
fractured into shards

A pause for breath
boundless freedom found
I don’t have to be
anything
but me

Now I peel layers
to reach the epicenter
one fragrant petal
at a time

There awaits
one canon for all

My beating heart
my dearest friend
my Beloved
always there

There the source
no addendums
explanations
no middle men to confer grace
no fear of doing something wrong
no ceremony where perfect words
grapple in contention
where right dogmas altercate
where gods’ egos clash

It is as simple
as yes and no
no shades of in between and
more difficult than it seems

As the gentlest shaman offered
…remember the root command
love one another…

I now know how to stand
begin anew
one simple movement
one simple thought

love God
love others
love myself

As I breathe out,
God breathes in
an immutable espousal

here I begin…

.

.

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Author’s Note:

For more on this poem, visit JOURNEY/lex.

Almanac Questionnaire.6

Day Twenty One
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Sunday worship, a custom

child with hat and white gloves, black patent shoes
kneeling, hands folded, head bowed in supplication

guitars, women nearer the altar, kiss of peace

a pause, a long time gone

new words for old prayers, re-imaging Christ

no longer defined by Sunday or its tired form

In reverence of Redwood architecture
joining air to earth to that which lies beneath
I stand in awe of your strength
pay homage to your constancy

Three minutes down the city banded
alleyway, a wall to halt my vagrancy,
you press me to change my viewpoint,
look up instead of down, past high rise windows
my eyes ascend to glimpse a peek of sky where
buildings join air to earth
to that which lies beneath
In observance I discover
You are also here

Outside my glazed glass frame
a tree bows in reverence under snow,
crow, owl and squirrel, bees and spiders
await their spring ritual
Tree, oh Tree, you brush my face
in morning hello
tap my window in icy storm
wear that which I cannot control,
innocent release to what Is,
you welcome me to journey
enraptured I bow to You

Lilacs, lavender, iris
purple flora scenting air
fill my lungs with song
I chant Your being

In weep of rain,
I receive your indulgence
wash away quotidian dust
rain, oh, rain
a baptism of comfort issued
Your lullaby and caress

I fear of being homeless,
without a house to cover my form.
But You are home within my being,
a house not of cards to collapse
with slightest breath
but Spirit filled dwelling
where I rest and cry, sleep and love,
You place yourself within
to walk with me in holy sanctuary
all the days of my life

Leo was there to welcome him home,
a scrap from a letter, condolences from Pam
canidae, anubis, golden wolf,
protector of graves and cemeteries
I celebrate your unwavering devotion
Dog and God

Magdalene, a most notable person,
not whore who washed his feet,
that image only for those who boast
of saving souls, condemning sinners,
I know you as woman of understanding
the one who saw, the one who loved
the one who believed
I praise your grace

To be continued…

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.

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Author’s Note:

Click for explanation of this growing poem!

What I’ve used so far…
Almanac Questionnaire
Weather: rain
Flora: lilacs, lavender, iris
Architecture: Redwoods
Customs: Sunday Worship
Mammals/reptiles/fish:
Childhood dream:
Found on the Street:
Export:
Graffiti:
Lover:
Conspiracy:
Dress:
Hometown memory:
Notable person: Mary Magdalene
Outside your window, you find: my Tree
Today’s news headline:
Scrap from a letter: Condolence card for Bremen from Pam
Animal from a myth:
Story read to children at night:
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: Wall
You walk to the border and hear:
What you fear: Being houseless
Picture on your city’s postcard:

Doubt

 Day One
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DoubtRiparian

I stand on riparian ground
that place between
two more certain realities,
liminal,
solitary but exhaling
into One, the way of being.

When I look for you,
feel where you should be,
listen for your words
that have faded from my space,
I cry out so you will hear me,
come back to take my hand
and dance again.

Remembering you are Source.
I still myself, rest assured
that you are Always.

Renegade partners, we
One ourselves,
a geography of
trust and transformation,
an ocean of fidelity where
there is no room for doubt.

.
.

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Author’s Note:

Singularity. Alone. Renegade.

It is important to remember I am not the same person I was.

As I stand in that place within what was and what is and will be, a liminal time and space, I must remember I am never alone.

I am looping over and over again who I was, with who I am creating, and who I will become.

All of me is where everything exists at once, but not yet fully understood.

Take my hand, we are renegades, all of us One and Beloved, in this great dance.

There is no room for doubt.

Lexanne

 

Once more I must credit Grounded by Diana Butler Bass for the inspiration. I’ve borrowed some words and, most definitely, ideas. Her book is transforming my life. Much, much gratitude.

 

 

Jesus said, “So, you believe because you’ve seen with your own eyes. Even better blessings are in store for those who believe without seeing.” John 20:29, The Message

 

My place is the Placeless, my trace is the Traceless ;
‘Tis neither body nor soul, for I belong to the soul of the Beloved.
I have put duality away, I have seen that the two worlds are one;
One I seek, One I know, One I see, One I call
~ Rumi

 

 

 

Welcome!

Happy first day of National Poetry Month!!!!!

Today I celebrate by sharing the full reflection from my weekly newsletter – Journey/lex.

I would love to share this weekly journey with you. You can subscribe here.

Tomorrow I will post more information how, if you are in the continental U.S., you can win a free copy of my book of poetry, Filters.

Hope to see you tomorrow!