“What if the world is holding its breath – 
waiting for you to take the place that only you can fill?”
David Whyte

Why, in the middle of your busy life, would you pause to read poetry?

Because good poetry points us to what truly matters, which is why I use poetry so much in my work.  A good poem offers sanctuary, reminding us of the necessity, power and beauty of contemplation.  In a world hell-bent on filling space with activity and silence with noise, this is a subversive act.  So slow down, digest a poem, let it take you by the hand.  Allow yourself be touched, even changed.  Indeed, poetry has been know to save lives.  Nuff said.  Onward!

Image: Paul Cezanne, Still life, pitcher and fruit

November 2019 ~ Believing the Guest

This poem is for anyone who can say, “Yes, I too, have been on both sides.”
And then forgive…all sides.  May it be so.    

Believing the Guest

Where do all the forgotten
promises land? “I would never
hurt you.” “I will love you forever.”
“What’s mine is yours.”

I have been on both sides.

Sometimes in our frailty
we don’t follow through.
We simply don’t deliver.
But often, we promise
what can’t be promised.

It’s not a matter of lying.
Though sometimes we lie.
More that the hawk’s wings
can’t cover the sky.

Mark Nepo, from The Way Under the Way: The Place of True Meeting
Copyrighted material; for educational/therapeutic purposes only.

Image:  L’Oiseau de Ciel (The Sky Bird) by Rene Magritte

By |November 1st, 2019|Tags: , |

October 2019 ~ Let Evening Come

Happy 13th Anniversary, Poem of the Month!

In honor of the years, a spare poem that blesses sentient beings and other forms – a bottle, a hoe, a shed.  Kenyon’s poem doesn’t argue with time’s passage, but rather is a meditation on intimacy with life as it is.  May you find solace here.

Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

By Jane Kenyon, from Collected Poems.
Copyrighted material; for therapeutic/educational purposes only.
Image from Anthony Wilson’s website: The Year of Living Deeply

By |October 1st, 2019|Tags: , |

September 2019 ~ Coyote, Coyote Please Tell Me

Trickster, Teacher, Fool, Divine Immortal, Urban Legend, Sexy Beast, Trouble  Maker…..
survivor and creative force of nature.  Who can say what Coyote really is?  Not even Coyote!

Coyote, Coyote, Please Tell Me
What is a shaman?

A shaman I don’t know
anything about.
I’m a doctor, myself.
When I use medicine,
it’s between me,
my patient,
and the Creation.

Coyote, Coyote, Please tell me
What is power?

It is said that power
is the ability to start
your chainsaw
with one pull.

Coyote, Coyote, Please tell me
What is magic?

Magic is the first taste
of ripe strawberries and
magic is a child dancing
in a summer’s rain.

Coyote, Coyote, Please tell me
Why is Creation?

Creation is because I
went to sleep last night
with a full stomach,
and when I woke up
this morning,
everything was here.

Coyote, Coyote, Please tell me
Who you belong to?

According to the latest
survey, there are certain
persons who, in poetic
or scholarly guise,
have claimed me like
a conqueror’s prize.

Let me just say
once and for all,
just to be done:
he belongs to none.

By Peter Blue Cloud (1933-2011)

Coyote with feathers:  Painting by Lakota Phillips

Here is a wonderful article by Rebecca Solnit in The New Yorker:

By |September 2nd, 2019|Tags: , |

Lucky’s Corner


A tasty morsel of poetic medicine from Lucky,
who now resides in the Spirit-World.  Down the hatch!

“To walk quietly
till the miracle
in everything speaks
is poetry.”

Mark Nepo

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