I love meaningful poetry and read Rumi, John Donne, E.E. Cummings, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, David Whyte, Mary Oliver, Hafiz and many others. I’ve created this page so I can share some of my favorite poems with you.
I send out a song
I have no words
a haunting melody, a cry, a prayer
to the hearts in longing
It pulses, it quakes
it becomes a whisper…..
It chokes, it gasps
for space to breathe
Strong is the desire, it grows and boldly states
Scared, angry and frustrated
LISTEN TO ME! COME HOME!!!”
It drops down broken
on bended knee, through wailing sobs
pounding the ground
“Come home, Come home, Come home”
Arising, steadfast, full of love
swaying and aching with outstretched arms
tenderly crying out
“My dear, please come home!”
By Heather M Spears
Thank you Elizabeth Carlson for putting into words what I would like to say. Often, I can’t seem to come up with a word or a phrase and I find myself telling people, ” I seem to have no words. ” This poem speaks what is in my heart.
with my imperfections
The way I never get the sink really clean,
forget to check my oil,
lose my car in parking lots,
miss appointments I have written down,
am just a little late.
the small bumps on my face
the big bump of my nose,
my hairless scalp,
chipped nail polish,
toes that overlap.
Learning to love
the open-ended mystery
of not knowing why
to make lists,
use my time wisely,
read the books I should.
hang my clothes neatly in the closet
all the shirts together, then the pants,
send Christmas cards, or better yet
a letter telling of
my perfect family.
listening to the rain,
or lying underneath my cat
learning to purr.
with something I could
cross off later.
the laundry done and folded
all my papers graded
the whole truth and nothing but
the formless shape
the strange off center
“Imperfection” by Elizabeth Carlson, from Teaching with Fire: Poetry That Sustains the Courage to Teach, edited by Sam M. Intrator, et al. © Jossey-Bass, 2003.
A Basket of Fresh Bread by Rumi
If you want to learn theory,
talk with theoreticians. That way is oral.
When you learn a craft, practice it
That learning comes through the hands.
If you want dervishhood, spiritual poverty,
and emptiness, you must be friends with a sheikh.
Talking about it, reading books, and doing practices
do not help. Soul receives from soul that knowing.
The mystery of spiritual emptiness
may be living in a pilgrim’s heart,
but the knowing of it might not yet be his.
Wait for the illuminating openness
as though your chest were filling with light.
Do not look for it outside yourself.
There is a milk fountain inside of you.
Do not walk around with an empty bucket.
You have a channel into the ocean,
yet you ask for water from a little pool.
Beg for the love-expansion.
The Qur’an says, And he is with you.
There is a basket of fresh bread on your head,
yet you go door to door asking for crusts.
Knock on the inner door. No other.
Sloshing knee-deep in clear streamwater,
you keep wanting a drink from other people’s waterbags.
Water is everywhere around you,
but you see only barriers that keep you from water.
A horse is moving beneath the rider’s thighs,
yet still he asks, Where is my horse?
Right there, under you. Yes, this is a horse,
but where’s the horse? Can’t you see? Yes,
I can see, but whoever saw such a horse?
Mad with thirst, he cannot drink from the stream
running so close by his face.
He is like a pearl on the deep bottom
wondering, inside the shell, Where is the ocean?
His mental questionings form the barrier.
His physical eyesight bandages his knowing.
Self-consciousness plugs his ears.
Stay bewildered in God and only that.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY IN FIVE SHORT CHAPTERS by Portia Nelson, 1980
1. I walk, down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. . . I am hopeless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out.
2. I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I am in the same place. But, it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out.
3. I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it is there. I still fall in. . . it’s a habit. My eyes are open. I know where I am. It is my fault. I get out immediately.
4. I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it.
5. I walk down another street.
I CARRY YOUR HEART WITH ME by e.e. cummings
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it(anywhere I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)I want no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart
I carry your heart(I carry it in my heart)
MY VOICE by Heather Spears email@example.com
The woman would wake
The voice from young
Whose sacred heart
I’m Not Lost by Heather Spears
I am not lost, Just temporarily misplaced. I’ve hidden myself so well, I don’t know where to begin.
It must have been a really safe, beautiful world, That’s how this heart works.
What is the password, What is the key, That will remind myself, Where to find me.
The Reverie of Morning by Brenda Marroy
Early morning hours call to me, gently whisper in my ear and resound in my soul.
Come to me, be quiet, breathe, and listen
Today is a new day. A day of creation.
Get out your giant canvas and paint your world.
So, I paint…..and I consciously create,
Another day of peace, gentleness, abundance,
relationships, filled with love and light to guide my way
and the way of all who live and breathe.
I inhale my brothers and sisters and they inhale me.
I exhale peace and light into the ether knowing my exhale will be inhaled by multitudes.
And so I create….a gentler world, a kinder world, a world of knowing and conscious togetherness.
FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS
by John Donne 1604
“No man is an island, entire of itself; every
man is a piece of the continent, a part of the
main. If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory
were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or
of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind, and
therefore never send to know for whom the bells
tolls; it tolls for thee.”
Emergent Occasions, no. 17