Poems – Jane Tawel

Still Small Points of Light

by Jane Tawel

Still Small Points of Light

By Jane Tawel

January 30, 2026

We — the still small points of light.

Seething. Searing. Standing strong.

Oh, the kaleidoscope of multi-hued effervescence.

Spinning. Circling.

Spiraling in supervenient streams of consciousness.

I stand in a silence of admiration

of the phenomenon of dew-drops shining

on leaves on trees.

And a small ant crawls across

my cloudy, reflective windowpane,

And I hold it in universal fragility on one fingertip,

to release it — to crawl or not;

dropped on the grey pavement

of life hopeful once again.

Where are the prophets

of the sand that fills the seas?

Where are the angels that

creep among the weeds and shallow graves?

And if I live or die —

what sense has there been in all that has been

of me and you and those and them?

But here is ever more

and this and that.

And we may not rise

but we may indeed

flow.

The fire-flies’ candescence flickers

and skitters through our nights,

dazzling the darkness.

And in their smallness,

minutely a-glow,

they remind us

that all are gifted

with iotas of the Sun.

Wilderness

Wilderness

By Jane Tawel

November 26, 2024

In a certain moment,

a peace comes over me,

unasked for,

Gift.

And I am glad to be in the Wilderness

with You.

I was part and particle

of the masses and

Mass hysteria

of all that thinks

it knows and is.

The noise filled me

but never fulfilled its promises.

But now that I, alone, do wander

through this path-y, spiraling Life,

and wonder through

this endless, fleeting Time,

I know the Mountain never speaks,

except within my aching, still-born heart.

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.

Good-Night

A poem by Jane Tawel

Good-Night

By Jane Tawel

June 15, 2023

Deep sky.

Birds singing lullabies.

Sleep is near.

Stars begin to appear.

Hushed heart.

Dreams soon to start.

Bid day, “farewell”.

Night casts her spell.

Rest and renew.

Tomorrow, love waits for you.

Acceptance

by Jane Tawel

“Sudden rain” by Brintam is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Acceptance

By Jane Tawel

April 13, 2023

Listening to rain, in the still dark morning.

And yesterday, a card came, not too late,

to wish me happiness, and so,

with a bit of habitual misgiving,

I accepted.

There is nothing to do

but accept.

And so, I turn to you

And say, “I accept you,

whatever parts you can give.”

I turn to myself, and say,

“I accept myself,

for what I was (I think),

for what I am (I imagine)

for what I may one day be (I hope)”.

And now I must accept,

that this is the time

and this is Time,

and this is all the time

that we can know.

No one owns Time,

not even God, Who, outside of,

beyond, incredulous at our missed-perceptions,

further out and further in of All Time,

the Yes, still offers us Eternity.

I can’t hear the rain anymore.

It must have stopped.

But I will try to remember it,

as I go about a day,

not my day,

but God’s,

not my day, but yours and theirs,

not my day, but ours, for a time,

and we are God’s too.

Just as the rain is,

this day, this hour, this time,

is just a passing gift,

a gift to me,

a gift to you, wherever, whoever you are,

a gift to help things grow.

And I, like all seeds,

planted in the Earth,

pray to open to the world.

“Create in me, O, God,

a longing to grow and open,

for just this little time.

I bless, You, for the rain.

Create in me, O, God,

acceptance.”

Teatime and Rain

“Quiet Tea Time” by Kirinohana is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

Teatime and Rain

By Jane Tawel

January 8, 2023

And friends came to tea,

something Americans don’t really do,

but which, for some reason, I love.

Just a little meal with lots of space,

space for conversation.

And one day past tea-time,

and out the windows,

I see the thirsty soil,

has sucked down all the water

from two -day old rain,

another thing not often happening,

here in the desert.

The earth has filled and emptied.

The world can still amaze.

And the birds sing and dance among the branches.

My house is full of memories –

memories of friends and rain;

and teacups filled and emptied,

waiting to be filled again.

Golden Harvest

Golden Harvest

By Jane Tawel

July 8, 2022

Golden harvest has come due.

Evening sun commands the view.

Now the red-maned goddess flies,

‘cross the deepening gloaming skies.

Earth’s horizon sings Time’s song:

“Day is short, and night is long.”

Bast, the Lion Goddess comes.

Birds are stilled and people, mum.

Oh, the glory of the Sun,

as the day has come and gone.

And before the Night entombs,

the world’s on fire with Sunset’s bloom.

Dreams On the Journey

by Jane Tawel

empty road surrounded with trees with fog — https://unsplash.com/photos/5FHv5nS7yGg

Dreams on the Journey

By Jane Tawel

July 6, 2021

Dreams often start skidding a bit,

when reality appears in the road.

And if we are carrying a load,

of a vision that won’t clear up,

smooth and pristine,

but rather gleans from us,

the weight of our meaning,

this gleaning,

is to be

and to see

what lies inert in the road –

well, that is the load we bear.

And yet, we compare

ourselves to the myth of ourselves

not sitting on shelves

but growing and changing,

ever rearranging into someone

that is the myth of our true wholeness.

So now, we can go with boldness,

into the might and right

and the true light from True Light,

ever loving and being loved.

Hither and yon,

to the hopeful beyond,

and all the parts of you and I

Become whole.

The goals of every holy scroll

keep rolling us on and on

Because that is who and what and

Why.

Our dreams become the answer

to the real Why.

And the road is never clearer

but only dearer.

And the task is never fearless,

but only nearer.

And we walk on,

dreaming despite the bumps in the road,

or the mist.

Because though we may miss the gist

We will bear witness.

And in the midst

We will resist the need to just exist.

But instead we will yearn to grow,

Becoming One with the journey’s flow.

A Prayer for Hole-ness

brown rock formation during daytime — https://unsplash.com/photos/AWoVDcSYgak

A Prayer for Hole-ness

By Jane Tawel

May 25, 2021

I often pray for whole-ness,

but just today I thought,

that I should pray for hole-ness,

to become what I ought.

Wholeness can often mean control,

but emptying should be my goal,

not only just to make me whole,

but to embrace the empty spaces,

and broken lives, and lonely faces,

of brothers, sisters, enemies–

through empathy come remedies.

For when I leave a legacy,

There won’t be much left of my soul,

Unless I leave a hole.

Listen With Your Heart — a poem

by Jane Tawel

Listen With Your Heart — a poem

By Jane Tawel

April 12, 2021

I don’t know why the birds keep singing, but they do.

When every thing is horrible. It’s true.

My mind is on the negative, transfixed.

The world is broken and our minds up-mixed.

I wake up every day and burn the wick down,

Before my feet have even touched the hard ground.

But little bird is on a branch a-sway,

With ne’er a worry of the coming day.

If God is in the Heavens, He’s in birds, too.

And that would mean, that God’s in me and you.

Oh, listen to what can be heard, unseen.

And lessons from the birds and creatures, glean.

There is a cosmic beauty, love, and grace,

In every feather, furry paw, and face.

We soldier on, when we should really dance.

And let the glory of the world entrance.

Today I will from mindful prison part,

And listen to the whole world, with my heart.

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A poem by Jane Tawel

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by Jane Tawel

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by Jane Tawel

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