Friday, July 29, 2005

Eversong - 2

In March of 2001 I discovered the Retreat Center in Sacramento, CA and stayed a couple of days. On the first morning I wrote this,

"The realm of God is vast, too vast.

We seek meaning and purpose, order and rhythm, cause and effect.
What arrogance we have to attempt to limit Heash to what we can or cannot see, or touch or feel. What if the entire purpose of our existence here is only to be washed in the sea of our birth again and again until our souls are smooth and flawless? What if the grinding sand and crashing waves of our struggles produce a music we are not meant to hear?

'Listen for the song, feel,' - will soft whisper the approaching dawn."
………………………………………………………………………………………….
Ah yes, but we do!

And it blends with the music of the Earth and song of the Moon.
The melody is not 'in' us -- it is 'of' us;
Light, Angels, Mankind, lost souls, the Word.
Our symbolized thoughts -- speech -- songs -- actions do not just 'ripple' forth; they join the symphony of creation and stoke the bell of eternity.

As we oft remember random tunes of mundane musical effort, our dreams perhaps are remembered or glimpsed parts of the 'eversong'. And if out spirit dances in the Light, pulled by the strings of pure love; then our soul may be the essence that hears the song --


the Word made vibrantly real --
the anvil bridge linking humanity and Light in Covenant.
On this is our spiritual perception forged.
On this is our character and presence beaten into shape.

Oh the ringing, reverberating sound of the hammer of renewed creation clanking on the soul of our being.

Tink! Tinkidy -- wham!
Such a clamor!
Then, as the impurities are drawn out,
or alloyed with compassion and tears,
the bell skin purifies -- rarifies.
Oh, the chime of the pure spirit's rest.

Don't dance -- fly -- drift -- cascade;
all to the tinkling of a single crystal chime
and an orchestra of 'everbe'
and fine applause of laughing stars.


faucon

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Seven Wonders of My World, Part 2

Yesterday I started a two-part series inspired by an email story and an essay entitled, "Seven Wonders of My World--#2." I've wanted to do a similar entry on my own Personal Wonders since I first saw the title of that essay a week or so ago. I thought it would be fun to see all the Wonders we have in this world and it has been. It's been neat to see Wonders (or pics of them) that I didn't know about or had forgotten exist(s/ed). Tonight I will end with one more type and add my own Personal Wonders to the lists of Wonders around the world.

Seven "Forgotten" Wonders of the World
I. Angkor Wat ~ Cambodia
II. The Colosseum ~ Rome, Italy
III. The Great Wall of China
IV. The Inca city of Machu Picchu ~ Peru
V. Mont-Saint-Michel ~ Normandy, France
VI. Petra, the rock-carved city ~ Jordan
VII. Stonehenge ~ England

For my Personal Wonders I had to think awhile. What in my life could be as marvelous, as wonderous as those I've listed? I've never seen in person any of the Wonders around the world, and I experience the Wonders on the lil girl's list everyday. I wanted to add things specific to me, that aren't on the lists I've compiled. I thought and thought, and though it's taken some time, the list was relatively easy to compile. *smiles* Even though there is a repeat. Just goes to show how important this Wonder is...

Seven Wonders of My World
I.
Love

II.
Family

III.
Friendship

IV.
Temples

V.
Rainbows

VI.
The Peace Garden ~ Tasmania

VII.
Shooting stars/Imagination


I know, I cheated a bit. More than you know actually. *laughs sheepishly* I've never been to the Peace Garden in Tasmania, and I sneaked/squeezed in a last one on the seventh. I couldn't make up my mind.

I put the Peace Garden as one because I like what it stands for; I like the idea of the perpetually burning bonfire and the adding of stones in remembrance of our ancestors. Plus, cross-culturally, (Native American and Hebrew) my name means peace. And my brother, right now, is over in Iraq, helping to fight for Iraqi peace and freedom from opressors and terrorists. So, this garden, even though I may never see it personally, represents something special and close to my heart: Peace and Unity.

The last Wonder(s) is/are equally important to me. So, as I said, I squeezed an extra one in. =0D I saw shooting stars, or a meteor shower last summer(?) for the first time. Though it was chilly out, it was awesome! And with a writer's imagination and help from the appropriate Muse, something of this nature is excellent fodder for a written piece. Hence the addition of Imagination to my list. It's always been a part of me, inseparable really.

Seven Wonders of the World, Part 1

Seven Wonders of the Ancient World
I.
The Great Pyramid of Giza

II.
The Hanging Gardens of Babylon

III.
The Zeus of Olympia

IV.
The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus

V.
The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus

VI.
The Colossus of Rhodes

VII.
The Lighthouse of Alexandria
*****
Seven Wonders of the Modern World
I. The Eiffel Tower ~ Paris, France
II. The Gateway Arch ~ St. Louis, USA
III. The Golden Gate Bridge ~ San Francisco, USA
IV. Mount Rushmore Memorial ~ South Dakota, USA
V. The Statue of Liberty ~ NYC, USA
VI. The Statue of Cristo Redentor ~ Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
VII. The Sydney Opera House ~ Sydney, Australia

Seven Natural Wonders of the World
I. The Grand Canyon ~ Arizona, USA
II. The Great Barrier Reef ~ Australia
III. Iguaçú Falls ~ Brazil, Argentina
IV. Krakatoa Island ~ Indonesia
V. Mount Everest ~ Nepal
VI. Mount Fuji ~ Japan
VII. Niagara Falls ~ Ontario, Canada, New York, USA


* Seven Wonders of the World (According To Elementary Children)
A group of students were asked to list what they thought were the present Seven Wonders of the World. Though there were some disagreements, the following received the most votes:

I. Egypt's Great Pyramids
II. The Taj Mahal
III. The Grand Canyon
IV. Panama Canal
V. Empire State Building
VI. St. Peter's Basilica
VII. The Great Wall of China

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student had not finished her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list.

The girl replied, "Yes, a little. I couldn't quite make up my mind because there were so many."

The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help."

The girl hesitated, then read, "I think the Seven Wonders of the World are:

I.
The Sense of Sight

II.
The Sense of Hearing

III.
The Sense of Touch

IV.
The Sense of Taste

V.
The Joy of Feeling

VI.
The Joy of Laughter

VII.
The Joy of Loving


The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. The things we overlook as simple and ordinary and that we take for granted are truly wondrous!

A gentle reminder--that the most precious things in life cannot be built by hand or bought by man.

Tonight I have shared with you several different types of wonders this ole world possesses. Each is a wonder in its own way, and long have I been fascinated by the Ancient Wonders. Truly, they show Man was capable of greatness even then and that he wasn't as barbaric or as rudimentary in technology or architecture as some would believe. The Modern and Natural Wonders are just as awe-inspiring, but, it is this young girl's list of Wonders that truly has me humbled and agreeing with her over her choices. There is beauty and wonder all around us. We just have to take the time to enjoy them.

* This entry and the next are inspired by the above email story and an essay from Soul Food's Alluvial Mine.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

How Many Gates?

"How many more?"
said the child,
socks around her ankles,
clutching her mother's
hand.

Small, little thing,
baby sweet,
one gate, two gates,
three, all
just too high to see over,
the world looks
big from down here.

School gate, Nanna's gate,
Auntie's gate,
neighbour's gate,
growly dog at a gate,
little one jumps
double her height,
now gripping Mother's
kindly hand.

"It's allright" she
said, "Just one more
and we're home."
Mother passes
the little one a
sweet on a stick,
comfort in the
dark valley of
fears.

"It's allright,
the doggy's gone" -
Sweet on a stick.
Little one, big
world, every day
an inch smarter -
new shoes soon.

The home gate swings
closed and the sun
sets in the west,
a golden,
kindly, watchful
ball of wise light.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005

Monday, July 25, 2005

EverSong -1

on a search of my archives, this came up first ..

CURRENT of LIGHT

Though the Current of Light that empowers I
stretches beyond thought and stardust mem'ry,
it is balanced on self-known soul's edge,
in a dance of Life …
to fine sung Creation …
by Agreement and Covenant now secured.

NOW -- swing to the left in human embrace.
NOW -- ever claim the right of divine caress.
NEVER stop the undulation of growth,
whose vibrations dare engage angel wings.

By my choice the Beginning IS Creation.
By my bold faith the Word is manifest,
not in prideful dream nor ego's deceit,
but in the simplest humility
of knowing that I am of Love beheld,
and all Paths are of and be the Source.

Of this wonderment, surely eternal,
stand ever I in rapt attendance,
perhaps only to provide just applause
for those who choose to drift the Currents.
Yet I may be called to nurturing
of those who choose to return to the womb,
or by soul's indecision recycle anew
as instrument, conductor or baton
in the Now Creation of EverSong.

Every choice is resounding triumph!
One brought me here to limit time and place.
Another handed me a role to play,
guided by a scripting not yet writ,
'cept by ev'ry spirit's interaction.
For though the Current be energy's Love,
It is also 'current' in the BeNow,
drawn to the crossing of each soul's web,
entwined with all others at ev'ry point.

Write! Create! Sing! Prance! or simply Be.
As you choose so go there I entranced,
and of thee, me and therefore we be Now,
for by choice alone will I find our Home,
to breathe Life into your waiting soul.


Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Of Silence

this is a 'list poem' -- meaning that
it started with a list of thoughts on a theme,
then was expanded into a complete poem.
The assigned theme was, "I thought I heard."
I took some liberties ...

faucon


The Space of Silence

I thought I heard a sock escaping from the drawer,
and the drapes battle vainly with the sun.
I thought I heard bread molding in the box
and ice cream chocolate chip.
and believed I heard the shadow skate across the wall,
and a button jumping from my shirt.

What sound of a smile shattered,
or candle growing bashful in the mist?
Are those dust bunnies I heard scurrying around,
or cry of crystalline salt tenderizing my life?

Yesterday I heard a raindrop start a mountain stream
and a window stare through close shuttered eyes.
I was startled to heard a vine drop its lonely grape
and gay mistletoe strangle a lusty oak.
Once I heard dewdrops slide down a feathered leaf,
and an earring dance 'neath blowing brazen hair.

I thought I heard a basket count its forgotten secrets,
and an unplugged lamp praying for a book.
I dreamed I heard a dish enfold some Christmas candies,
and a rocking chair flex its curving arms.
And I heard the blanket, I imagine, sneak upon the floor,
and memory call out my child's name.

but ..

All I heard was your key scraping in the lock,
and the click of furtive light switch
as I feigned expected sleep.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

Song of the Phoenix: Luminosity

Silence, they say,
is golden

(because it burns -
not
inferno
holocaust
pyre, yet

a flame
of desire:

a candle
lit
in faith, or
an ember,
ash-hidden.

Take wing;
uncage
the hot
sparks
of the soul -

firebird
or silence:
it
burns).

Water Life

prompted by Lisa's "Troll Saw"

View from Beneath the Flow

I lay beneath the trembling waters of Shea,
caressed by the ever purifying cataracts
and dreams of creation caught in silent pools.

Find my 'memried toes tickled in the Goddess Sea,
with bold fingers of lighning's guiding Mistress tears,
down -- down to the golden sands of humanity.

Find me now in the whispered mists of dawn's delight
and silvered dew drops of love's yearning pain and joy
in which all life is reflected by the Father's gleam.

Pulse with me in roots and veins of this vibration;
send messages of Light to every particle
of flesh and mind and soul in life by right beheld.

And know that my spirit rests beneath the spring,
where everflows the song and laughter of birth --
or just a leaf swirling in an eddy of faith.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

What the Bridge Troll saw

molten
riversong,

heat shimmer phantoms
mica-spangled sand,
and

sun
kissed
ripples

to make
a shivering, dancing
net
of
light

Monday, July 11, 2005

Flowing through

I'll bite. Here is a story whose impact
cannot be placed on the writer, the reader
or the muse ..
or so I have been told.

This is the only story my mother has never commented on.

faucon
............................................................


Page of Uli

There was nothing special about Uli, except his name, perhaps. He was Samuel by birthright, but his early life had not followed any path described in scripture. When his sister had come along and had been christened Samantha, wiser minds intervened and contrived the nickname. Thus, he was not really even himself, and somehow forfeit for all that. His name was frequently called more in teasing than for assistance or youthful insight into life's mysteries, gifts of a fair haired boy. He even came to refer to himself in the third person as, "Uli thinks it is time to eat," or "Uli is tired of this game!" The officialdom of that time refused to play the game, however, and teachers, priests, sergeants and social workers called him 'Samuel'. He rarely responded. When he was eighteen, he legally changed his name. Samuel was dead. He held a wake. The drinking part anyway.


The very next day, Uli started keeping a journal. It was certainly not a diary, controlled by the flow of passing summer days. It wasn't even kept daily, so the name is perhaps inappropriate. It was a bound collection of thoughts and dreams and reflections. Some was scarcely legible flowing dialogue with a hidden, internal self. There were neatly scripted haikus and penciled sonnets and random colorful phrases that Uli called 'refractions'. Sometimes these found later life in a larger piece. Mostly they molded like last fall's leaves covered by new 'reflections' of the sun. Like Uli's life, there was no order, pattern or direction. A cynic's view might be that he was laughing at the world. His departed mother would have thought he was mostly crying. Taciturn male role models would have lectured on his avoidance of the 'real world'. For the poet, he was praying!

Uli liked to sail and his small sloop was often out early to savor the peace of the sunrise dance on the small waves. He fished some, and drank some and wrote some. The order did not matter as he was always alone. He read a lot of course -- one cannot write with any touch of soul if he does not also travel into the mind of others. He dreamed a lot, lulled by the rocking of the small boat; sail dropped, sea anchor out, rain bucket ready for the sudden downpour -- Spirit's hand at the tiller.

His dreams were not of historic animal hunts, or a western chase across the plains. He rescued no maidens nor flew beneath the clouds nor battled Titans between the stars. Nothing so dashing for Uli. He dreamed of the symphony that plucked at his heart, of the notes he could not sing. Uli gathered the stroke of the dragon fly's wings and the cry of the polishing stone. He measured the beat of the thistle puff as it shattered the sprinkled lawn, and listened to the acorn's falling -- down -- down. Birds were resplendent in their hidden trill, even miles from the shore, for he remembered every vibrant song -- they coursed throughout his veins. In the written journal there was nothing of this, perhaps a man is best known by what he does not say! Uli was thought simple -- he was not a simple man!

When Uli awoke from his erstwhile trip to nowhere, there was no land in sight! His nostrils flared to gather any clue of direction or safe passage, but nothing came. No sounds of life or oil slick or drifting wing above. The sky was a uniform slate of anonymity upon which nothing was inscribed. Featureless -- lacking in texture -- lacking in overt passion. It might have been a reflection of his soul! No silent breeze clutched at his sail and the rudder described a meaningless 5 degree circle on the shallow waves. He could row, of course, but where? Better to wait. A touch of dismay crossed his brow and he sat down to write, not from inspiration -- just something to do. When he found land, it was not home, nor happy, nor any help at all. It was worthless!

The forbidding rocks were uniformly black, but certainly not uniform in size or shape. Each was a sinister barrier to life and approach. Even the sea birds were not drawn here -- at least there were no white striations to break the monotony. No trees, no piles of leaves or jumble of driftwood -- nothing. He allowed the tiny boat to drift around the small island -- no choice actually, for the currents teased with a multidirectional, swirling force. He attempted to row ashore -- why he did not know, but was always pushed away by a tide that always seemed to be rushing out -- out. The jagged rocks made any venture foolish in any event. Yet the island called to him -- not in yearning song, but in whispers. These somber tones came not from fear or dread or worse, but from a bell that was never rung. He rowed away.

"If this island does not allow approach," Uli thought, "then it must point in contrast to another saving path. Any port in a storm, they say. There is no storm and no port!" Row, row. He began to sing.

The gigantic tanker neither saw Uli not felt the crushing blow that crunched the craft into ragged shards. The looming swell or spinning brass blades may have been at fault, but Uli was beyond caring with the shocked interruption of his joyful cry. The ship passed on leaving only flotsam behind, scraps of wood, a couple of pots and a reddish knapsack in a box. These all washed ashore on the bleak island, they not impeded by the sloop's buoyancy or fragile size or pilot's will. The planks caught amongst the sharp boulders to bleach in the eventual sun. The box hinges rusted away to spill the contents into a slight defile, but the pages of the journal were still abused by wind and salt water spray. The writing faded with no less of a song that Uli had ever been able to voice.

A small plane crashed on the tip of the island, far from its charted course. Isn't that always the way? Only the young mother and three children stood upon the rocks to watch the wreckage slide beneath the angry surf. Such despair cannot be retold! But even then, the youngest daughter was disposed to explore a bit and found the wood, drawn by the rustling of the journal pages. They assembled the pile as best they could and tore out pages, many that blew away. They waited. When a flicker of light appeared on the horizon they kindled the fire and watched the hopeful finger of smoke snake and undulate into the gloomy sky. Ashes of pages drifted upward too. Then everything was gone -- every trace of Uli had completely vanished.

Years later a teenage girl sat beneath a tree and spread out a crumpled, withered page. Blue lines were faint. Fainter still were the words she had traced in pencil over the years, lifted from slight indentations in the linen scrap.

"I am the squire of the morning mist, herald of each birthing day.
I am the champion of daily hour's command,
from chivalry's call for helping strong hand.

≈ ≠µ ℓ ю ……


I am the monk seeking peace in Mother Earth
where setting red sun will measure my worth.
But do not fear for God's claim on my soul,
for each day grants new life devoid of pain.

I will bring in the day to squire your birth, gentle gird your loins in mail,
And cap your brow with helm of pure delight,
and grant curved shield of Aegis' might.
Claim your sword my friend and never cry yield
for I will be watching, will never fail.

Where what 'was' joins 'what will be', there is proud eternal braid
that in our evening's death there will cycle new life, to conquer unafraid."

Sunday, July 10, 2005

The Seven Wonders of My World--#2

Thoughts while reading Evidence of Things Unseen by Marianne Wiggins.


I do it every day and yet this afternoon was the first time I've truly considered the amazing ability I have to bilocate--to be in two different places at the same time.

Sitting on my porch--listening to the twittering of sparrows, vaguely aware of the plastic seat supporting my tush--I was simultaneously standing with Opal on her porch in Tennessee when a woman from the TVA came to inform her, her house would soon be under water.

How is it possible that I take for granted this astonishing power to transport myself. Shouldn't I view it as miraculous, hopping from zip code to zip code, or from country to country? What about jet streaming instantly through decades and centuries?

I know what you're going to say. All together now, writers! "WE are the ones who create this miracle."

Oh, please. Let's show a little humility. Give some credit to the person on the other side of the page or the screen. It's the reader who willingly suspends disbelief when we go on about dragons and fairies, the reader who hyperventilates during one of Anita's creepy tours, then chokes back tears when one of you poetic-types hits the nail resoundingly on top of her innocent head.

With only a modicum of talent from a writer, a reader's brain takes countless personal experiences and memories and mingles them together with the printed words to draw out a full spectrum of emotions. So really, don't you think it's time we stopped being quite so full of ourselves?

I mean, it's the darn muse who does most of the work, anyway.

Saturday, July 09, 2005

Manor House at Sakin'el

Thursday, July 07, 2005

Sakin'el Henge

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Another View

With little to 'glean' onto, I'll post
another part of Sakin'el -- the Wood Henge.
Only three arches made of 8' cherry logs,
but the site of weddings, sunrise mass,
and just drifting.


Henge Moon

The arches stretch a little taller
beneath the cloudless moonlit sky,
but not because of the Mistress – no!
just knowing you are here beside me.

The shadows grow short and round about
in an ancient dance with Henge and all,
and the glade swoops down in hollowed bliss
to gather the songs of the night and dreams.

The rough bark sketches fairy signatures
on shadows that smile and hide away,
and my love is written in whispered rhyme
of slow pacing moon and starlit eyes.

This is the place of Joining and Light,
and as two hold hands and circle ‘bout,
all friends are with us in fine applause,
and the warmth of the moon fine indeed.

faucon



Monday, July 04, 2005

Night and Day

from Alexandra "Every day and every night. Word by word"

this was written months ago
about a spot at Sakin'el
........................................................

TIES of TOR

One must sing at Sakin’el
to join bold breeze or silent heart,
by draw of Henge, Grove or Glade;
but for one you must choose where to start.

‘tween hollow and parapet
there are found four strong the Ties of Tor,
seen as steps or seats by right,
ascension or rest as told in lore.

Sit and watch the games of sport,
or archery quest or test of skill;
or climb above to the Glade,
and listen to music as thee will.

These Ties do bind night and day,
in shade of noon or by fairie moon;
and Tegsh will sigh sad farewell
as ye come and go from Tor so soon.

faucon



Sunday, July 03, 2005

Alexandra Roman's Dream Fairy