Caught Up — Let Go (a poem)

By Jane Tawel

 

two people

“two people” by Katerina Atha is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

 

Caught Up – Let Go

A Song with Words

 

By Jane Tawel

August 18, 2020

1.

Caught up again, and it feels like yesterday,

Dragging my life again, into tomorrow,

With no Today in sight.

And the days stretch on

And the nights are long,

And I lie there wondering

Where have hope and joy gone?

Oh, I’m trapped inside my own thoughts and dreads,

And I can’t get out of my aching head,

And my heart is broken for the things we’ve lost,

So, I worry and fret and I turn and toss.

Oh, I’m so caught up

In what might have been.

Oh, I’m so caught up

In what might never be

And I think there’s no way for you and me

To solve these problems

‘Cause we’re too caught up

and we can’t untangle from the past

and we can’t stop wrangling with tomorrow

and we let today, oh, our only day,

slip away,

slip away,

slip away,

but we don’t let go.

*

Chorus

*

When you get caught up

In the hopes and fears,

And both bring angst,

And both bring tears,

And you can’t be positive

‘Cause you’re so nonchalant,

And the negativity has lost its shock-

Value – what is value any more?

The haters and the whiners threw your ethics out the door.

Oh, I’m so caught up,

Yes, I’m too caught up,

And I need some help

To let go.

*

2.

*

We have got to try

Both You and I

To release and untie

All the pain, all the lies.

Let’s unravel the false bonds,

And what we’ve placed our stakes on.

Oh, I don’t know about you,

But from my point of view,

I’ve made yesterday a jail,

And tomorrow looms like hell.

And today I’ve filled with stressing,

Instead of seeing it as Heaven.

*

I’ve forgotten how to pivot,

From all the things today isn’t.

Maybe you have too?

Maybe you have joined the queue

Of the hopeless and the blue?

But did we really have to?

*

Isn’t it more likely,

We have broken our own psyches,

And we shouldn’t keep on blaming,

All the haters we keep naming?

I admit, it’s my own fault,

That I’ve put a hard, fast halt,

On embracing this rare day,

And to walk the narrow Way,

Of mindfully embracing,

What I’m feeling, what I’m tasting.

*

But I’m so caught up

With a half-empty cup,

That I can’t let go of you yesterday,

And I can’t let go of you tomorrow,

And I can’t let go to drink of Today,

Taste of Today,

Live Life Today,

Be in Today.

*

And because I have been stiffened,

 And not bent, and not listened;

I’ve ignored you and been missing,

Life’s best offerings and visions.

We have made our life a prison.

*

And the We, of you and I,

Keeps passing us by

And This moment flees — bye-bye.

Bye, bye to tick.

Bye, bye to tock.

Imprisoned by this broken clock.

Take stock

Of what we have.

Take stock of just Today.

Just Today.

Just one more moment,

One more today.

One more now.

tick.

tock.

*

3.

Oh, the “Who’s” lost the “Why”,

And most days I just die,

To the life that’s worth living

If only I’d give in,

And let go,

Just let go,

Let myself go.

and let you go,

so I could catch you again.

*

Today can not change

What was yesterday’s pain,

But it can use our pasts,

To make good things that last.

And tomorrow’s not pledged,

But our bets, we should hedge.

For by what we are building,

today for the children,

will one day be our memory,

for the World’s legacy.

*

4.

Let us grab hard and hold,

Let’s be present, and bold

As we treasure the sights and the sounds,

Of just what is around,

In the here and the now.

Let’s renew solemn vows,

And increase our know-how,

Of just breathing, and being,

And in that way freeing,

Both me and you.

We can make dreams come true,

If we just today do.

Let’s do this! —

With a new point of view,

Hope and Love will breakthrough.

*

Coda

*

No longer caught up,

Except in love.

No longer a prisoner,

Except of hope.

Releasing the past,

Except for good memories.

Accepting the future,

But not its fears.

Today, I let go of what has caught me.

Today I choose freedom.

Today I choose to be mindful in moments.

Today I choose to love my life.

Today I choose to love you.

*

Letting Go – Holding fast,

Only this love of ours will last.

Letting Go – Holding fast,

Only love will last.

*

© Jane Tawel 2020

The Emptied Cup — a poem

 

Cups

“Cups” by Bsivad is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

 

The Emptied Cup

By Jane Tawel

July 18, 2020

 

*

I felt a great need to share something,

Encouraging, hopeful, or good.

And I racked my mind and rummaged my heart,

And kept telling myself that I should

Find a quote or a saying that would lift people up,

But I found when I looked: there was naught in my cup.

 

*

You know that cup? –the one we all drink from,

That carries our feelings and all that we think of

The world and the people and what might be “out there”;

The cup of our hopes, and our dreams, and our doubts here.

But my cup was plain empty – not a sludge or a dross,

And I asked myself, “Why should I give a darn toss?

No one needs me to rise to this challenge.

No one needs me to weigh into the balance,

Between good and evil, or fear and hope;

I’m obviously empty. I’m one big dumb dope!”

So, I took my cup into my closet and moped.

 

*

I sat in the dark and licked at my bruises,

And felt sorry for me with no insights or muses.

But then a small voice, like the first drop of rain,

Asked me to look in my cup, once again.

And I saw that my cup was still empty and clean,

And I said to the voice, “what the snap do you mean?”

 

*

The Voice said quite faintly, “Dear child, don’t you see?

When your cup is quite empty, I can fill it with Me.”

 

*

And I realized that only by draining my cup,

Of the self-centered dregs that had filled my soul up,

Could I let the world’s true needs and hungers be shorn of,

All the fears, hates, and selfishness hollows are born of.

And only when I know how empty I am,

Can my cup then be filled by the wise Son of Man

Who taught us to drink from true worth’s living spout,

That is found only when we pour ourselves all out.

 

*

It was only when I learned that I’d always fail,

If I thought my small cup was some great holy grail.

And I’m happy today, to report “I got nothin’

To pour in your ears; or your minds to be stuffin’

With beauty or glory or humor or thinking,

I can’t share any nectar the gods’ have been drinking.

I just have this void vessel with nothing inside,

But the good news is it has been drained of my pride.

So, it’s ready for you to fill with your own needs,

Your fears and your longings, your joys and your deeds.

Today with an empty cup I have been christened,

As a chalice who finally can just love and listen.

For that is how my empty cup will be full,

Of the things that will last in an eternal soul.

 

*

 

There is an old poem about cups running over,

And living with joy in green pastures forever.

My cup runneth over. No evil I’ll fear,

And Your goodness and mercy will to me, be near.

A table’s before me, Your Way will I go,

And with Love and with Peace, my cup will overflow.

Forgotten One Walks – a poem

70655461_2163692977067992_8623810768590077952_o

 

 

Forgotten One Walks

By Jane Tawel

July 14, 2020

We’ve forgotten The One Who comes and Who goes,

The One Who has places to seed.

We have hidden ourselves

From The One Who once walked

And talked in The Garden with Eve.

 

And when I say, “we”, I really mean I,

For I have boxed up with a bow,

The One Who has elsewhere, His fishies to fry,

And other cosmoses to hoe.

 

But as ever as far and away as The One

Seems to be just to me on this day,

The nearness of All that is faithful and true

Will be close to my heart when I pray.

 

Ah, The Garden, with serpent’s cool lies, has been marred,

And we walk in the heat of the doom,

But The One that created the fields and the stars,

Is as close as the child in this room.

 

Look around at the love that you see in the places,

Look inside at the love you can find in the faces,

Crave your forgiving and for your forgiveness,

Hold in your hands lightly what you think you possess.

Seek what you find, find what you abandon,

Naked and needy, become Second Adam.

 

I don’t walk alone, on this planet bright blue,

I’ve been given a help-meet, and her name is “you”.

We’ve been cloned in the image, the Imago Dei,

And though The One has other places to play,

The Truth is, One’s only one human away.

 

We’ve forgotten The One we’ve cast out to Above,

But One’s only a heartbeat away, when we Love.

And I’ve found that it’s only my heart being hardened,

That prevents The One walking with me in The Garden.

So, today the real question is– do I truly desire,

The kind of relationship that Eve had prior,

To the mistake that she made when she thought it would work,

To believe that obedient love could be shirked,

With The One Who had made human beings co-creators,

In a world meant to grow ever greater and greater?

 

Every day I have failed and I eat from The Tree,

I believe all the lies that this world’s all for me.

But this world is for Us,

And this world is for Tao,

And to walk in The Way of the Here and the Now;

For it’s really not true that The One’s out there waiting,

While this world is destroyed with our greed and our hating.

The One is as close as our enemy’s hand,

Or the hunger and thirst of the neediest man.

The One hasn’t left us. We have asked to take leave.

And our absence from Love causes The One to grieve.

The Spirit, it comes and it goes like the breeze,

But to those who Love others, are given the keys,

To a new Secret Garden where the real work is done,

And we walk in the Light and the Love of The One.

 

Let me open my eyes

And stop searching the skies

For salvation to come far and yon.

Let each sister and brother,

Be First Father and Mother,

and Our Family walk once more with The One.

 

Love keeps us together

“Love keeps us together” by jgwong is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

A Short Poem of Encouragement

IMG_7202 3.jpeg

(Jane — where she is)

 

 

If This Is Where I Am

By Jane Tawel

July 9, 2020

 

 

If this is where I am, today

Then I need not choose where to go.

If I am here,

 then I am who

I can be best,

and I can know

That even though I have some fear,

This place I am is enough-true,

To get me through

And help me grow,

Into the self that I should be,

Just for right now,

Just I, myself, and Thee.

 

When our living moments meet us at the day’s designs, then we are created anew into what we have always been most able to be.   Enjoy Living Who and Where you are today,  ~~ Jane

 

Little Things

Little Things

By Jane Tawel

June 19, 2020

 

Sometimes, all we can see are the very BIG, gigantic, massive,

momentous, colossal, towering,overwhelming things which

Threaten to undo us.

The feelings just run through us.

The thoughts swirl round like mucous.

And our souls relate to truth like Judas.

We long for change and newness,

But the mirrors that once knew us,

Now conspire to just excuse us

From the lies that now delude us.

Oh, the BIG things chew, chew, chew us.

And of course, the GREAT BIG Truth is,

We should let the BIG things do this

Or we’ll never overcome.

 

But sometimes we just need a break, a rest, a sabbath,

a time-out, a healing, and a peaceful pause.

Sometimes we need to look at and truly see the little things, like

a bird,

a bud,

a blade of grass,

a bead of water,

a bubble,

a leaf,

an ant,

a grain of rice,

the shape of an eyebrow,

a freckle,

a wrinkle,

a tiny toe,

the nib of a pen,

a fallen hair,

a seed,

a fingernail,

a grain of sand,

a tuft of fur,

a petal,

a pebble,

a smile,

a scar.

 

Sometimes we need the little things to remind us

That because they are worth living for,

The BIG things are worth fighting for.

 

So, we heal what was blinded, and restore our vision

And refocus our sights

 by looking at the little things.

And that makes the big things

seem small enough to face once more.

P1050907

“P1050907” by claymore2211 is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The Mind is a Flibbertigibbet

Face

“Face” by ShellieMW is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

 

“The Mind is a Flibbertigibbet”

A Poem About Living for Now for Tomorrow

By Jane Tawel

May 18, 2020

*

There’s so much static in my brain,

It really gives my heart a pain.

Like flotsam, jetsam, bits of junk,

The thoughts skip by like naughty punks.

I offer to you, J’s Exhibit,

Of my mind, “Case Flibbertigibbet”.

*

Like gnats that bite at things I’m wishing,

For Future’s goals I’m always fishing.

And even when I tell myself,

Tomorrow’s plans must still stay shelved,

I waste the joy in presently,

To try to shape my destiny.

I lose today’s respite and laughter,

By hankering for a blank hereafter.

Could anything less real be dafter?

*

The Past talks trash and keeps on dissing,

With memories, in action missing.

The people, places, faces, finds,

Just roam like vultures through my mind.

They pick and swoop ‘til I’m afraid,

These flashbacks will never decay.

The Past will always be at most,

As insubstantial as a ghost.

It’s best to let my yesterdays

Inform and shape my current ways,

But not to let them roam unchecked,

And joy and purpose, now infect.

For Yesterdays only provide,

Real meaning if we let them guide,

Our current choices and our options,

for Tomorrow’s new adoptions,

of a Life– no matter how small–

that makes a better World for All.

*

So, Now’s the Time I must stop whinging,

And on the negative stop binging.

I’ll give my thoughts a well-earned rest

And focus on the good and best,

Which are not found within my brain,

But in the organ where Love reigns.

The heart’s the true and only center,

Where bad and good can freely enter,

But I decide what I’ll let stay,

Within my heart and soul today.

*

 

My mind can be so adolescent,

I must involve a deeper Essence.

I’ll stop my endless overthinking,

And to my better self, start linking,

Remembered joy and future hopes

But not false dreams or sulky mopes.

Each day I walk a thin tight-rope,

To love, and act, and sometimes cope,

With thoughts that can be used as leeches,

To heal, and grow in all Life teaches.

*

The best’s begun with just a start,

At firing up my loving heart.

Then I delight in fair Creation,

And wallow in imagination,

Of what the world can truly be,

And sometimes letting go is key.

And sometimes we must take a stand,

For Future’s sake, we do need plans.

But there’s a fine line, if I’m truthful,

Between thoughts petty or thoughts useful.

So if I start with my mind emptied,

Of dross, then I will not be tempted,

To focus on the new or old,

But cling to only Today’s gold.

*

The way to change my attitude,

Is by some focused gratitude,

For all I have, am, and believe,

About the meaning of what we’ve,

As human beings have achieved;

And what we’ll dream and do once more,

If only each of us cares for,

The Goodness we can find right now.

If we put our hands to the plow,

And water, plant, and weed and furrow–

Why then, we’ll have a bright Tomorrow.

*

So off you go flibbertigibbet,

Until the next time that you visit,

When I’ll be ready to do my part,

To help my mind with stronger heart.

*

May your thoughts Today be turned to gold, and your hopes for the Future rest in your great ability to feel loved and to do Good.  Be safe, be sane, be hopeful — Jane

It’s Not a Good Time – a poem about not going yet

for Raoul and my dearests: J, C, V, & G

It’s Not A Good Time for You to Go

By Jane Tawel

May 10, 2020

*

It’s not a good time for you to go.

I think you’d better wait.

Let’s take this passing nice and slow,

I’m not really ready to call you “late”.

*

I know I bug you—well, you bug me.

But in this moment, let’s both agree

that under the bridge, our woes can flow,

And it’s not the right time for you to go.

*

We rumbled up and rambled round,

We’ve talked both silly and profound.

I’ve whinged, you’ve whined;

We’ve dashed, we’ve dined.

We’ve made it through the ups and downs,

The smiles, the frowns,

The highs, the lows,

The winds wherever they may blow,

And after all that, I’d think you’d know,

That now’s not a great time for you to go.

*

There’s lots of stuff we still should do.

Some of the same, but some will be new.

We still have dreams we must explore,

And purpose and joy to keep looking for.

So, don’t think you can bid me adieu,

I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you.

*

I’m sorry I didn’t always listen or show,

How much you’ve helped me learn and grow.

The bottom line is– I love you so.

So please stay with me. You have to know–

That it’s not a good time for you to go.

*

(c) Jane Tawel

19/365

“19/365” by DurhamDundee is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

 

Vicissitudinal Hopes – a short poem

Vicissitudinal Hopes

A Poem

By Jane Tawel

May 6, 2020

hope_by_burythereckless-d6vz97y

Similarity breeds stagnation.

Longing for variation,

We risk brave adaptation,

and flip-flop dire causations

to beat the slippery slope.

*

Vicissitudes sire transformations.

With some slight alterations,

We make real permutations,

In our most dire situations,

and learn to cope.

*

Since first the World’s foundation,

And each soul’s true gestation,

We always find relation,

To Love and Love’s creations,

So hold fast to hope.

 

Stay brave. Keep loving. Be hopeful.  ~~ Jane

#3 Poem in “In My Room” Series

#3 In My Room – A Sonnet

By Jane Tawel

April 22, 2020

For those of you who may have forgotten your Middle School English Class, A Shakespearean Sonnet has 14 lines written in iambic pentameter, and rhymes every other line until the last two which will form a couplet.  (You’re Welcome. haha! ) Every once in a while it can be rather a fun thing to try to put form right up there with function, and I thought I’d try it in my series of In My Room Poems.

Windowsill

“Windowsill” by Star Guitar is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

 

In My Room -#3

By Jane Tawel

April 22, 2020

 *

Smells of sage, mint, lavender seep white walls.

Though not for fighting, there is one sharp knife.

Aprons hang like church or temple prayer shawls,

In this room I’ve served in– glad days, good life.

*

Colors much too bright for rooms more mellow,

Impart an ambiance both bold and right.

 Vegetables and fruits recline –red, yellow;

Oven’s warmth melds with sensual delights.

*

There’s salty, bitter, sweet, and savory,

There’s cool and heat and hot and mild and cold.

This room has hosted mealtimes flavory,

And laughs and sorrows here have all been told.

*

I need no place but this to be rich in,

Ambrosial with memories — kitchen.

*

In My Room #2 – The Second Poem in a Series Called “In My Room

The Second Poem in the Series of “In My Room”

By Jane Tawel

021005 #1

“021005 #1” by XiXiDu is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

 

In My Bed Room

By Jane Tawel

April 20, 2020

 

Prone, with geese remnants and cotton fields’ dross to prop my head,

I gaze out the small, square pane,

the portal to other territories than mine

and I watch the Lacebark Elm.

She moves her green limbs like ribbons blown by breezy-tunes.

*

The previous nights’ bacchanalia of books,

lie like drunken guests,

with spines outstretched or curled-in upon themselves.

They wait for another night of revelry,

For the party of like-minds to begin.

They have long to wait on me, their host,

The alarm clock light reads 5:45.

A.M.

*

For now, I lie between leaves and leafs,

Trees and the products of trees,

Both creations of Imaginations

Far greater than mine.

*

The alarm clock sits useless by my right hand,

I have no where to go, but up, as the idiom proclaims.

Time has lost His hold on me,

And sometimes I miss the deathly grasp of His strong hands,

Time, The Steersman of our fate,

has let me plant my deep roots here,

For a while.

I lie and contemplate the timelessness

of leisure and past due-dates in usefulness.

 

*

There’s an old painting on the wall across the room.

It was carelessly gifted to me, and

Given by someone who loved me

and then passed on but didn’t die.

*

My unpaid dressers of wood and iron

Wait attendance in the dusk.

They stand upright, not like trees, like butlers at attention;

they only sway in earthquakes.

Their wooden faces have completely forgotten

Their arboreal parentage;

The things in my room are not tree-like at all,

No longer alive, like the Lacebark Elm,

not malleable like nature.

*

The things in my room have no power over any one but me.

They are nice – perhaps even friendly—

But they do not touch or inspire anything but the past.

And how can anything change the past, realistically speaking?

The things in my room are useful,

But we are not stirring,

or moving like a good story,

We are staid like dreams,

and stagnant like memories.

*

And so too, the photographs propped-up like corpses in bier-like frames,

Their bodies trapped in decayed lands, here, there and everywhere,

Never moving, never changing,

living only to keep my memories on life-support.

I still love gazing though, at their faces, frozen

in the rigor mortis of confused and confusing smiles,

I can’t remember what we smiled at then.

The people in the photographs look like poorly trimmed trees,

With their limbs caught in motion,

Held high in the old winds of the past.

*

The bodies in the pictures are spiritless here,

Like broken eggs, whose chicks

Have flown the coop, have left the nest,

Have departed for Ports Unknown,

Only the shells remain.

I see the spirits pass this room, from time to time,

Soaring like sparrows, cocky like crows,

As other-like and unlike as eagles.

Resurrected,

They wing towards their own suns,

elsewhere, somewhere else, somewhere else.

I joy in that they have left me some crumbs to lead me back,

and wrinkled feathers to assure me that they were once here.

And I re-read their stories,

Over and over and over again,

Smiling fondly,

Tearing up,

hoping for futures in a place of pasts,

in this room.

*

Books are all about the people who,

just like those in photographs,

are available to tell you what is on their minds,

but not for mutual conversation.

You have to be a good listener

If you want to keep books and memories alive.

*

In all these years I have lived the start of each new day,

Like a new chapter,

Waiting for resolution,

Hoping the story will not end too soon.

Hoping when the story is good that it will not end,

that it will not end,

that it will never end . . .

*

I look around, still supine, caught between finishing the chapter I am in,

(it’s a boring one, with me still lying here like a drowned worm, but I like it);

And the next chapter,

(I’ve read this type of day a thousand times or more,

so, I’m pretty sure how the story goes).

*

I think about people caught in books

or trapped, unbeknownst to them, in someone else’s past.

I think about characters that I love,

but whose life stories sit on shelves,

covered in memory’s dust motes.

And I think, how lucky to have a room,

Where stories still have life.

How lucky to have a setting,

Of Place and Time,

Where characters are loved

And remembered

And given root, and then

set free.

*

I lie like a small grey bird in my bed-nest.

And I look for something outside this room

Hidden in the branches of the Lacebark Elm;

and the window pane is clear,

but I can only see my own reflection in the pain.

And yet, I know, that out there are the living stories

in which my reflection mirrors me with meaning.

*

Perhaps it is now the time to rise;

for me to protagonize my life?

Perhaps it is the hour for me to stirrup-up

With tattered wings, but able to still chirrup-up?

*

And so,

Unencumbered by tossed and turned bedclothes,

Or dog-eared corners,

Or alternative endings,

I rise.

I raise my limbs to

dance my own life,

not like a young seedling anymore

not like a sapling, or a limber birch,

but like a sturdy old Elm,

who has learned to sway to withstand the earthquakes,

in a forest of possibilities.

*

I salute the Lacebark Elm

for sheltering me through the night,

And tug a metaphoric forelock in deference

to this space I fleetingly call mine.

I am like, yet not like, that ancient tree outside.

I think the Lacebark Elm

will live forever.

*

I curtsy to replace the book that fell in the night,

And the ancient hardwood of my joints creak,

as I cross myself at the thought of

the power and unbearable lightness of being

that stories have.

*

In this room,

I am Scheherazade.

I am a storyteller spinning stories from truth and fiction,

telling tales to live.

*

*

A story is a fiercely loving thing

in the arms of a place that belongs to you.

 

Elm tree, Trinity Bellwoods park

“Elm tree, Trinity Bellwoods park” by Spacing Magazine is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND