Jane Tawel

Morning Promises

Morning Promises

By Jane Tawel, July 28, 2024

****

Gorgeous delight,

this Morning, fresh and new.

I put up a good fight against Your hopeful face,

But why did I ever doubt You?

You have come, not on soft, pitter-patter feet

as once you did when youth was cleanly cleaved

along the lines of good and bad

along the fenceposts of win or fail

when all the dreams we ever had were moored

along the shores of youth’s grim holy grails.

No, your arrival seems to come without my choosing.

And I fight your crashing cymbals waking me from

restless, aching sleep.

The morning light begins to seep like opening wounds

and stirs the ancient fears that all must keep

as close as terminal denial could ever be.

And yet — perhaps to dream — ah, there’s the rub! —

to sleep is but to die a small, white-noise-ed death.

But — Ah, Good Grief! Dear Morning!

With Your quickening breath,

I wake, perhaps to dream,

perhaps to simply welcome one more cup

of coffee, tea, or toasted bread with honey.

Oh, Gorgeous Delight!

Another day is welcome, I’ll admit

And as I sit, I sip anew this life,

this breath,

this dawn lovely.

I wake to dreams that circle round

The Past, The Present, Perhaps… Infinity…

Ah, Dearest Daybreak, Welcome here!

My soul awakes to deeply drink

and dream with open eyes

the peace, the hope, the joy of

All.

With Love embracing,

I face this glorious day,

And forward-backward, onward facing

I open heart and mind

to Be

at One

with You and me

and just, perhaps, a little bit

to glimpse this Morning’s hinting promises

of Genesis Eternity.

The Prophets and the Poets

By Jane Tawel, July 19, 2024

The prophets and the poets,

don’t make much money.

Living not by their wits,

but desperately by what they hope is their wisdom,

they often are fasting

to lose the weight of the world,

to be thin enough that all becomes transparent.

If only they could share the truth,

with words that lighten and light.

Eating one’s words

starves one of daily bread.

And the vines of divine revelation

produce only vinegar and thirst.

The prophets cry, “We Thirst.”

And the poets mourn,

“Why use bread for war and not peace?”

Eventually, the prophets and the poets,

have no alternative,

but to leave the bone-dry banks,

and float downstream.

Unmoored

Unleashed

Unmourned

Adrift.

And there are those days

(and some dark, lonely nights)

when they are desperate to paddle to the shores,

where the solid people stand,

counting profits and not prophecies,

gathering praises and not poems.

Oh, the prophets and the poets have been too long starved.

They have no sensibility

of what others call sense

And at last, as they float,

yearning words fail the poets

and the prophets can only mumble —

their rage, silenced into grumbling.

The crowds have been against them

throwing stones, covering them

in their rubble of words.

They have been censored

by the ennui of the poor

and the materialism of the mercenary

by the loud and the proud,

by the honey-ed and the money-ed,

by the fountain of youth

that all seek who fear old souls.

Silence for the prophets is not golden tongued,

but a still, small whisper.

And the poets are gathered,

at the still point of the turning world,

but yet to join The Dance.

They await their chance.

Leaden-footed verses pull them down

in their clumsy hopes.

And the poets and the prophets

raise hushed voices to the Sky.

“Deliver us”, they cry.

But their words float up

as the Streams of consciousness

carry them away.

Will the gods some day find

at the end of the World’s Waterways,

a happy band of sufferers,

of seers, and seekers,

and all the least listened to —

Find them at the End,

playing weightlessly in the waves,

splashing each other with imagery and symbols,

fishing for food for thought?

Will the mighty someday look down from their rocky peaks,

and find that they have climbed too high

and the dive down now would kill them?

Will we who ignored the song-writers,

the soothsayers,

the children and the very old,

will we left behind

find that we stopped up our ears

and we hardened our hearts

as we hardened our flesh?

Will we discover that we heard only noise

and spoke only words of deaf prose?

Will we find that we have dried-up all the waters

that would have carried us along

buoyed up with the words of the poets and the seers?

Will we some day see

that our stony hearts,

and our craggy consciousness,

did not bring our statues to life,

but made our idols into dead gods?

Oh, My people!

Will we turn out our pockets and know at last

that the pebbles we kept

and refused to toss in to The Stream,

were only great weights on our souls,

holding us down, down, down, as we rose,

drowning us in our own dry deserts as we drank,

and in our refusal to listen

bursting our ears with the beat of our drums?

Oh, we should have listened

to the old,

to the wise,

to the poets

and prophets,

to the cries of the children,

and the messages of the myth-makers.

And now the

poets and prophets float free.

Finally,

their Truth

and The Way of The Words,

have released them

restored them

rebirthed them.

They have been moved

as they never moved others

into The Deep Watery Way.

Now continually composing

in Never-ending New Creation,

They rise.

Dancing waves suspended

in Eternity’s Ocean,

At last…

As One…

As One…..

On our last trip in June, I bought some sea shells from the Sea Shell shop in Morro Bay. I gave a shell to friends and family, to remind us of the important things in life (besides work J) that sea shells symbolize.

Shed anything from the past that won’t serve your best interests today. Just like a mollusk sheds it shell to grow into something better and bigger, we, too, must shed the limiting shells of our past, whether negative patterns, outdated beliefs, or painful experiences.
Don’t let imperfections distract you from seeing beauty in things. Be as resilient as a shell has to be in the big, often harsh environment of the ocean. You have already weathered a lot of storms. Let the shell inspire you to find healing and wholeness even amidst life’s greatest challenges.
A sea shell protects the fragile, delicate being that lives inside it. Create your own protective spaces, carve out time for self-care, and set healthy boundaries.
In all cultures and religions, shells represent life. Remind yourself often that Life is good.
Shells remind me of all my favorite places in all the world; places I have explored, visited once, lived at, and have wonderful memories from. Make sure you find time for special places, and if you can’t get to a special place, go to your memories of those places and be rejuvenated and renewed.

May this sea shell remind you of how special you are –unique in all the world – there is only one you! May it remind you that there are people who treasure you as a family member or friend – as I do.

Let Me Take Your Sorrow

Let Me Take Your Sorrow

By Jane Tawel

June 6, 2024

Let me take your sorrow,

if only for an hour

For I am old, not like you;

no longer armored with pangs of youth.

Let me take the tears you ache too much to shed.

And I will let grief flow through me

as your fast stream flows free,

flows free through my slow-moving sea.

Let me take your anger

until you need it again.

Let me take its energy

and keep it safe from misspent deeds.

And when you’ve rested and had some play,

I’ll give it back again.

Then you may lead the charge

to change the world once more.

Then you may slam the doors

on past and future visions of hate.

And in the house of my own self,

I’ll shut the gate on letting loose

the rage on life’s injustices.

Your anger’s safe with me

until you know its rightful cause,

until you know your strength.

Let me take your fears.

For I am old (though not an elder).

(Elders are wise and I am only willing.)

And though I’m still afraid to fall;

I’m more afraid to see you tumble down too far.

I’m not afraid to stay down there.

It’s often peaceful in the depths.

I’ve loaded up a life with care

and carefully, I throw old baggage out.

And piece by piece, what’s left of me,

must t’wards the end, walk fearlessly.

The greatest fear of all draws near.

And nearer, nearer does Death come.

I have nothing here worth fearing,

Except the nearing end of all the life!

Of All The Life and All The Love!

So let me hold each of your fears.

I’ll hold them close, while we sing lullabies.

I’ll wipe your fears away like baby’s tears,

cradling your fears within my ample heart.

Go! –live your life!- not fearless- No!

For fears protect and fears can guide,

but I will gently rock them,

so you may pick them up again,

when they’ve become at least more stilled.

And when your fears grow quieter,

then you will find their shadow strength.

Yes, you will find the strength in fear.

Yes, you will find dark’s might.

And even Life-Death’s greatest fear,

the fear of endless night,

will be the greatest strength of all,

the strength of how to live each moment, right.

Oh, let me take your sorrow,

your anger and your fears.

I’ll take them all for hours,

for days, and months, and years.

Oh, let me take your tears and grief,

and let me take your rages.

And like a tree with many leaves,

and like a book with endless pages,

you’ll shed the dead;

write more beginnings;

and I’ll keep listening,

keep being willing

to take your pain for just awhile

that your soul can recover.

And even when this life of mine,

has passed away and seems all over,

I’ll still be there beside you.

I trust somewhere,

somehow,

some days,

my spirit will reach out to yours.

For Love will always find a way.

And I will take your sorrow,

and I will take your anger,

and I will take your fears;

and fly them far away with me.

And fly them far away.

And you, oh, little, precious bird,

will live to fly –

will climb as high as you want to climb.

And you will know that suffering,

is yet a strength along The Way.

And you will rise, and fall and rise again,

to live this precious moment,

to love this precious day.

The First Could Be The Last

Thomas Park, Unsplash

The First Could Be The Last

By Jane Tawel

May 19, 2024

The first cup of coffee

The last drops of tea,

The argument you always win

The look the mirror gives back to me

And birds in full cacophony

And trees that hold their secrets

And flowers that always, always die

And smiles, so rare, from strangers

But thoughts of you and them and us

But memories of such and thus

But dreams like intersection lights

But sleeping days and wakeful nights.

Ah, Life! Too short, too short to grasp.

Oh, love too small and love too vast.

Oh, seize the day, seize just this moment.

Awake and breathe. Drink deeply. Love.

This too shall pass.

This morning’s cup may be my last.

And what will be, no soul can see.

This moment is all I’ll ever know

A rare small glory is bestowed

in bird, and tree, and this warm, lovely cup of tea.

Hold all things lightly.

Keep holding fast.

Time passes quickly.

Next moment is the Past.

Yet what I am

that seeps the soul

is what I drink from,

what’s in my cup.

And looking up, to sky and rain

I can not help but hope

that birds and trees and these small hands

that hold your face; hold cups of tea

shall somehow live this moment well

to wake into a world of harmony;

to wake to live again eternally.

Myself, Woman, and Child

by Jane Tawel

Unsplash+Hrant Khachatryan

Myself, Woman, and Child

By Jane Tawel

April 14, 2024

How to say what is meaning beyond Meaning?

How to dig deeply enough to fill up the holes?

Why were you so sad, my child. My child who was once me?

Why do you not let yourself weep, my child? My child, who is still me.

My heart is full of sorrow, but my anger and fear first rise up,

trying to protect me from a grief as old as my ancestors,

a grief as new as unborn hope.

Who once roamed the earth so freely;

who are those who still cry out within me,

crying to see peace fill the World-heart once more?

What dreams and angels hold out unglimpsed hope,

singing of what I dare not grasp?

My soul weeps for a world always at war with love.

My soul weeps for the lost who are evil

and the lost who are so very good.

Shadows come and go.

Shadows.

Ah — my soul rejoices with Her re-joining!

Ah, that which is deep within me,

calls out to Deep.

And for a while still,

my body breaths in and out,

and my heart beats still,

with thoughtless, wordless joy.

And my spirit rises to that

which is unseen, but sensed;

that which is unheard, but felt;

that which is unbelievable, but is known.

Knowing and Known,

I find my sorrow comforted by my curious love.

And the child and woman within me,

are for a moment, sure,

that one day,

we will be One.

Look, Be, Beyond, Here, Now

By Jane Tawel

January 29, 2024

Look into the mirror that has no form.

Looking deeply, down within the depths

you will find who You were meant to be.

Walking amongst,

between, and in,

you will go beyond.

And the shadows will no longer scare you.

And the fears will no longer tear at you.

And you will find you are more —

More than mind,

More than body,

More than your desires,

More than your beliefs.

You will find you are soul.

You will find you are sometimes

Whole.

But when the parts of you

threaten to splinter or

rise up and rile —

You will return to the mirror

and there you will find

that all your parts are taking part

in your rebirth.

They only wait for your surrender.

Only when you see blessedness

and love in the Mirror,

can you find it in another.

Then you will be a mirror for others,

and your reflections of yourself,

will become the reflections

that others need,

and theirs are that which you desire;

and back and forth,

back and forth,

the world’s mirrors will merge,

to reflect only Faith,

Hope,

and Love,

for only these are real enough

to remain.

Today all you must do is —

Be;

but as you are being,

Be fully alive.

Be fully in love

with Life.

And when it hurts,

be the Father and Mother

to yourself and hold yourself

and cradle the child within your very own soul.

And when you are taking yourself

far too seriously,

then release your grasping,

and hold yourself lightly

in your own frail human hands.

Then you will be able to let go

of what is not meant for you to hold on to.

Then you will have hands open

to lift-up another,

to hold another,

to open to wonder and light.

Then you will let go

and let God and All,

Look.

Be.

Beyond.

Here.

Now.

My Blog’s Eight Years of Poems are Published

Hello Blogging Pals,

I have published eight years of poems taken from my blog. Yes, it is a hefty tome, haha. Yes, you will need to over look typos as editing / publishing was difficult this time due to technical difficulties in KDP. C’est la vie! It is a journey of some interesting years in the world, 2015-2023. Some of the poems are not so great, some are possibly pretty good. All are explorations in living and in the genre that speaks to Big Ideas and struggles with words — Poetry.

Thank you to all of you who have read my poems (and other stuff) over the years. If you are interested in a copy, there are two, one with some pictures which is more expensive and one with just the poems — on Amazon on Kindle and in paperback.

Here is the link to the one without pictures:

The other can be found on Amazon and is called just Musings and Meditation, A Pictorial Version…

Thank you dear bloggers for all your comments and likes over the years and most of all for all the great stuff you keep writing that I love reading. May today bring you joy in your journey, Jane

On a New Explore in Spaces

by Jane Tawel

“The Path To Introspection” by catmccray is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

On a New Explore in Spaces

By Jane Tawel

October 24, 2023

I used to follow dogma,

like a person on a short leash,

pulled by my dog-ma,

until I realized,

a person should not be leashed.

I was pulled along by men’s straining half-truths,

(And ideas are often skewed,

by patriarchal, masculine, power-needy views).

Of course, as I worshipped at stagnated troughs,

baptized in another savior’s used bathwater,

I became complacent,

but also confused as I marched a rigid path.

In the safe crowd trodding wide roads,

I was more and more alone.

I thought that I was the master,

leading the Dog,

but one day I said to myself,

“Self, it is supposed to be G.O.D. leading you,

not D.O.G.-ma leading you.”

I had it backwards for quite a long while.

So, I left all my old leashes in the pews,

and walked out the door.

And the light of a thousand new suns

was blinding.

So, I walked blindly,

and tried to tune my soul

to listening, instead.

What does one’s own heart sound like,

when the sounds of all others are stilled?

What do one’s blind eyes see,

when a thousand suns appear?

Now I stride along, and often trip.

My knees are so scabbed they look like

bloodied red Rorschach tests

glued tight on knobby knolls.

But I fall again and again,

and I am finally realizing,

what it really means to

Rise.

I pick myself up and look down many paths,

until I choose a path to follow.

And I know I only need to follow a path

for a while,

until a new way,

that is always also the Old Way,

appears.

I am an explorer,

exploring outer space

through my own inner space.

Radical!

I am finding new ways to understand,

but more importantly,

I am finding new ways to Not understand.

I am finding new ways to get lost.

Good explorers always get lost.

True seekers always get found.

Oh, I am questing

for a clean, well-lighted space.

And now and then,

while exploring my own inner space,

and letting the outer spaces of Mystery,

simply Be;

I am finding that

the spaces created between you and me

by the powers that be,

are smaller than the truth of We.

And in some small way,

I am trying to close the gaps,

narrowing each hard, empty space between us,

And bringing us closer to being

One.

And What Would the Children Say?

By Jane Tawel

And What Would the Children Say?

By Jane Tawel

October 20, 2023

And what would the children say?

If they were allowed to speak?

Would they ask the adults,

why they always want war

instead of a world where

each man, woman, child, has enough,

and enough to share?

If they were allowed to speak,

could the children teach us to care?

Would they sing songs of love,

and hymns sweet and long,

singing our world into peace?

And what would the children do?

If they were allowed to act?

Would they begin dancing

instead of marching?

Would they play and laugh,

voices raised in loud joy?

Instead of raised voices

of mothers and fathers

and teachers and governors,

and princes and soldiers

would they grab hold of hands,

tear down false walls between lands,

would they show all in power

that it’s more fun to create?

And what would the children pray for,

if anyone could hear their prayers?

Would the children say softly,

“Please, please, Someone care.

It seems the world’s crumbling

like building blocks rumbling,

and some times, we’re afraid,

that the mess grownups have made,

will leave nothing for us to repair.”

Would the children lie down

in their beds at bedtime,

and quietly whisper,

a prayer to a God,

a God who still hears

a small child’s quiet question:

“Will you save us, dear God?

Will you save all the world?

Are Your hands, my dear Papa,

big enough to enclose,

my small self, my small hopes,

my small fears, and small faith?”

“I know I’m just a child,

but a wise man once did say,

‘A small child will then lead them’,

and so, God I pray,

make adults see we need them

to stop causing pain,

and remember what it’s like

to be a small child again.”

“And the children of the world, God,

we will help you, dear God,

if you’ll just let our voices be heard.”

Oh, how would the world,

turn around and be changed,

if adults turned their hearts

to the children?

If a child had a voice…

If a child had a choice…

What would children do now?

If they could?

Author: Jane Tawel

Morning Promises

The Prophets and the Poets

Sea Shell Sagacity

Let Me Take Your Sorrow

The First Could Be The Last

Myself, Woman, and Child

by Jane Tawel

Look, Be, Beyond, Here, Now

My Blog’s Eight Years of Poems are Published

On a New Explore in Spaces

by Jane Tawel

And What Would the Children Say?

By Jane Tawel

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