Tag: poetry

Hope’s Plucked Feathers and Bits of Light

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Hope’s Plucked Feathers and Bits of Light

By Jane Tawel

Thoughts and riffing on Emily Dickinson’s poem, “hope is the thing with feathers” and meditation on the quality of our Light.

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The feathers of hope seem plucked to the skin.

The chill seas have plasticized Beauty.

The soul is not perched but in free-fall it seems.

And the sweet tunes are perniciously wordy.

*

We are abashed with fire and ash

Hearts sore from flight from Power’s storms

Frigidity of soul-less gales

Compassion’s hands, hard to keep warm.

*

I am this one small speck of dust

Blown by the Wind of time and place.

But even bits of dust can shine

Reflecting Light’s Eternal Flame.

*

The shore seems further now than then

And like a bird in flight, I long for rest.

My heart is fluttering, fearful, tense,

and all the raging makes no sense

When all we little creatures want

The same –

safe-keeping, seeds, clean air, warm nests.

*

Hope flies again in fleeting moments

when the clouds clear from my mind.

And through the dark and thundering storms

I sometimes glimpse the Rainbow’s Light beyond.

I think She meant when once she said,

“Hope is the thing with feathers” — 

It’s not a thing that I can know.

For who can understand a bird?

A bird still awes me — Creation’s Wonder — 

And maybe just as wonderous, so is Hope.

*

We can not understand or cage

this marvelous grace of hopefulness.

Just as I can not make The Light,

but only clear my soul for His Reflection.

There’s nothing I can give to Hope,

“It asks no crumb from me”.

But even in extremities,

crumbs from Life’s Bounteous Tables can be sweeped

into our waiting, emptied bowls.

And as Our Mother felt Her womb-child leap,

Hope perches — fluttering, moving — 

Waiting to be born to Life,

once more today within our souls.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Nature Has No Kingdoms

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Nature Has No Kingdoms

By Jane Tawel

February 22, 2026

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Nature has no kingdoms.

No names, but what we give them.

No fame, but when we use them.

No needs but those we rape from them.

The fish and trees and God-created birds and bees,

are at the mercy of man’s own ego-needs.

Creation can’t fight back at us

because a Mother’s love can not destroy her child.

She must look on with helpless care,

as her human children hack her limbs

and nuke her beating heart

into a burning cess pool — 

once burning deep with Love — 

now shallow, broiling,

heart still aflame

in Nature’s dying throes.

*

Nature loves its anonymity,

its secrets and Its secret stores

of pleasure, beauty, and divine intentions.

Nature loves a vacuum — of human willfulness.

But otherwise, It thrives and strives

and circling, circling, circling

treasuring moments,

Creation throbs

with Holy Love and Life.

*

Why do the people again and again — 

throughout our shallow, fleeting things

that we call history and our place and time — 

Cry and demand the rule and greed of kings?

What does a small man need to need a king?

We circle and circle and circle the years;

we circle and circle and circle the drain;

and ever and always again and again

we forget our faith and place our fears

in the hands of the tyrants and idolatrous gods

in this man-made valley of unnatural tears.

*

Oh, small and longing human,

rest your eyes on the greens of the hills,

arouse your awakening in the blues of deep waters,

feel the soft earth beneath your bare feet,

listen to birdsong and small things in the night

let all Creation restore you to your true nature.

Creation is God’s first and only trusty scripture.

*

You have no need of earthly kings,

for there is One Whose Kingdom comes — 

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow

and today — 

in Father, Heir, and Spirit –

and in this Earth, our Mother and our Home.

*

Here and Now. Be still and know.

We live and move and have our being,

here, where meaning pulses, and souls long,

heart to heart, twinkling-stars to songful-dawn.

In small-ish things, great Mystery lives.

The Tree of Life takes root and grows

above and through and in us all.

*

We need no one with clay-shod feet

to give us faith in what we can not speak.

Nature needs no idols.

Like Her, we worship best

in love of Known-Unknown.

Like Her, we worship best

when all are free, and all are One.

Creation — moving, growing, groaning — 

Creates and recreates a Holy Throne.

Like leaves that fall and mulch the earth,

We only rise to glory who die to find rebirth.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Mires and Wires

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Mires and Wires

By Jane Tawel

February 17, 2026

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Some of us dig in.

We dig, dig, dig down

into the sands

of our times,

into the tidepools

of our minds,

into the sucking mire.

*

We are seldom able to fly,

but like birds on a wire,

we are called to balance —

precariously, it is true —

but trusting

that not one of us can fall

without the Weeping of the World.

*

Here, where some of us have landed,

poised with wings tucked tight,

there is no room to gather

that which cannot be eaten today.

But those who choose to dig holes

like moles and augers in the land,

store up their treasures

leaving their names on the inverted pyramids

sinking into famed obscurity

and drowning in the solidity

of their false hopes.

Poor creatures —

so richly mistaken

and shaken to the core

by the fears of their impermanence.

*

I have dug myself plenty of holes.

But now I place my own small hope

on small movements of mine

fluttering, hopping at times from foot to foot,

attempting to share in the tight-rope act

of small beings barely balanced

in this singular time and place.

And like a small brown wren

I wonder how or when

in what future unknown space

will we, little birds —

(being now so often trapped and caught,

and bought — a dozen for a penny) —

will we at last be gathered

like chicks to Our Mother’s breast?

Here on this unsteady string of life,

we long for The Nest

and for the rest we once knew,

and yearn to know again

covered by The Father’s Mighty Wings of Refuge.

*

It will not be by digging in

like a burrowing beast,

mistaking flowers for tares,

that I will find peace.

Nor will we know the love we seek

by running like lemmings or hares,

after any crown or prize

that we may chase.

We fledglings live encased

and see only through the cracks

of our embracing shells.

But incubating here

we wait to rise in glory.

*

It is still the same old story:

Only by falling and falling

and failing and flailing

into grace after Grace

will we learn to fly.

And someday, we will see The Face

of the One Who has kept us

hanging here in the balance

between life and death

where the faith of small birds

finds hope.

*

By dust we were created

and to dust we shall return.

But The Wind blows where it will,

and some will spread their wings to catch it

and will rise in flocked flight.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Seemingly Endless Night

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Seemingly Endless Night

By Jane Tawel

February 11, 2026

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This morning the darkness clung to the earth

like a shroud.

Shrouded myself

in a bathrobe, tattered and greyed,

I had welcomed the rain

and embraced the night’s sweet repose

listening to welcome-water in a dry land.

*

But the dawn didn’t come on schedule

and as I sat in habits

of coffee drunk and ideas thunk,

I began to despair

at this seemingly endless night.

Perhaps we had finally, inevitably

used-up all the light?

*

The horizon is still,

and stilly pitchy

like an upturned bowl

filled with dead ravens;

a sky darkened,

deep as the deepest

cavern of coal

starless, and moonless

and sunless.

And the neighbors’ windows

are shuttered and closed against me,

soot-covered

from fires in hearths

and fires in bellies

lonesome and long-extinguished.

*

What if the sun never rises again?

I imagine the deaths

of plants

and trees

and children

and you and me.

How frail we are

spending decades

never imagining our death.

Unless a seed is planted

in the dark earth and it dies,

the plant cannot flower and live.

Dark and Light — 

The paradox

of Death and Life — 

we balance quite precariously here.

*

Ah, World,

Ah, Beautiful World,

Forgive me for

my constitutional complacency.

And I offer up

a soundless keening

for all who have lived

in Nights that must seem endless.

And I pray as One,

for One and All:

“Let there be Light”.

Today is Eden

or not at all.

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Deep Shadows and Pulsing Waves of Light

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Deep Shadows and Pulsing Waves of Light

By Jane Tawel

February 1, 2026

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There doesn’t seem much more to say…

But is it because words fail,

or because there is so much to say

that thoughts cascade like raging waters,

tumbling over the rocks of disbelief?

*

My stony heart creates the stubborn patterns

of fears that justice will never roll down

like waters again.

The riverbeds look so dry,

and how can the tears of the trampled

restore them?

*

On the long, long journey

back to Home,

We have ambushed ourselves

with the trappings of our ingratitude

and our floods of unchecked greed

are no longer dammed

but damning.

*

The rivers dry up

with the mud and muck of multitudes

of unheard cries and barren hopes.

The plains are icy — 

keeping the healing in check.

Our baptized souls have been

swept clean of the colors of the rainbow

and the Earth is hardening

over the frozen souls.

*

There is still the Still Small Voice

in the vibrant luminosity

of all who have suffered

at the hands of those so certain

that their worship

of the black and white cartoon characters

have nothing to do

with everyone’s instilled radiance.

We strive to shine

like shimmery dewdrops,

called to reflect

Great Majesty

in all small things.

Only after the storms come

can the Sun create a rainbow.

*

And so, we continue to dance — 

multihued and dappled

deep shadows in the shallows,

and waterfalling, pulsing waves of light.

*

The Universe conspires

to flood our barren land with Hope,

and flood our waiting hearts

with Love.

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Still Small Points of Light

by Jane Tawel

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Still Small Points of Light

By Jane Tawel

January 30, 2026

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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.

© Jane Tawel, 2026

We Walk the Trail Together

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We Walk the Trail Together

By Jane Tawel

January 7, 2026

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Each day before Dawn

I walk the trail with you.

But you keep your eyes averted,

pretending you don’t see me.

Sometimes you talk with someone

who is not there;

but I am passing so close to you,

that I could touch you,

while we are walking the trail together.

*

Each morning we are there,

individuals in a group of early risers,

early seekers of breaking dawns;

still, you pretend I do not exist.

I used to find it annoying –

I used to think you meant to slight me,

that I was not worthy of your smile

or your cheery hello, like some of us share

in the brisk and pre-sunned morning air.

Now I wonder –

Am I really invisible to you

like angels often are to me?

Do you come on purpose

in the darkling light so

none can see your guilt?

Or has your mind so imprisoned you

that you can not free yourself

to see that which surrounds you

in this precious present Here and Now?

What is it that has frightened you so?

Who hurt you in a way you can’t forget?

How do you return to your own home

still so alone, so alone,

without weeping on the way?

*

I used to save my smiles for those

who gladly greet me each morning

with the happy knowledge

that we are so very, very privileged

to have another — one more — day;

that Life is very good

when we can — when just because — we all return

to walk the trail together.

But now I smile at you

as big as my small self can smile,

with no expectation that you will smile back

or that you will even raise your eyes

from this hallowed ground

on which you carefully place your next step.

The smile is not only for you,

Oh yes — I smile also for me — 

for in The Ground of Being

there is every chance,

an angel you may prove to be.

We are but passing through,

yet someday, all trails

will lead to One Home.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2026

Heroes, Not Monarchs

Don Quixote — The Literary Hub

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Heroes, not Monarchs

By Jane Tawel

December 22, 2025

This is my poor attempt today to wrestle with some of the brilliant, enlightening thoughts of Joseph Campbell and Richard Rohr and of course, some of the great myths and stories of questers and seekers and heroes.

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We foolish mortals who think the prize

is in being a queen or a king

so we miss the boat

and we blind our own eyes

and mistake the Soul’s Odessey

for ego-trips and small I’s.

We search and we search for that one special thing

that will make us feel better than,

mightier than,

holier than

all those who make us feel weak.

And there’s no happy ending

cuz we always want more;

so, we blithefully live with our bane of the poor

cuz we’re merchants and monarchs

in our ivory towers;

and we dirty the water and trample the flowers

and give up the whole earth

for our fantasy kingdoms

Never counting the cost…

Never counting the cost….

Never counting the cost

of not finding the pearl of great price

that we lost.

*

We are called to be heroes

all on the same quest

where the least and the lost

are the first and the best.

We are not dragon-slayers

if true heroes we be,

but we’re slain by the Dragon

and our windmills are tilted

and our offerings are jilted

at the altar until

in our search for the grail

we just fail, fail, fail, fail

because only by losing, we win.

*

True heroes are questing

and searching for more

of the wisdom that comes from

not reaching the shore, but from

Battling the waves, and from floating Inside

All the Mind’s raging tides and

The Heart’s endless strife

as we paddle and drift on the currents of Life.

True heroes are longing

and never at rest

but at peace beyond knowledge or lore.

And they know that in less, they are more;

for true Heroes must journey

in darkness and doubt,

trusting Mystery will lead them Ashore.

*

The heroes in history have found on The Way

that the gate is too narrow for war.

And the heroes we treasure

knew the gift and the joy

of the greatness in suffering

and the love of the voyage

that will end not in conquering

or in showered in crowns,

but in Kingdom revealed

that looked once upside-down

based on monarchs, and money and might;

but when Heaven’s doors open,

Life is now shown to be

only Truth, Beauty, Love and God’s Light.

*

Our great myths are communal.

Our story is One.

And since Time has begun

Heroes’ fingers have pointed

to the True Truths Eternal

of all under The Sun — 

that our treasure’s internal,

Grace-given, not won.

And the Son is the servant

The hero — Our Soul — 

and we toil and we toil and we toil and we toil

not to win, but to die to the self.

Not to rule or defend,

but to die for a friend

and to love ’til the story

has come to The End.

*

Only heroes can know

that there’s no place to go

where the true joy in living

is given for free.

For the quest is the same,

both for you and for me:

The Quest is the sorrowful yearning of love,

but the end’s a Divine Comedy.

To be home in this place — 

Just to taste, hear, and see — 

All the Goodness of this one precious life.

There is nothing to harm us or cling to or flee.

Yes, a transformed-by-Love hero

is what God calls us

to Be.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2025

Every Moment Lovely

A poem by Jane Tawel

unsplash Olga Darti

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Every Moment Lovely

By Jane Tawel

October 10, 2025

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Every moment, lovely.

Every moment, trued.

No place, no race to dash ahead.

No past or future clouds the view.

*

Every moment, precious.

Every moment, life abounds.

Every touch, and sight, and smell,

Every taste and sound.

*

Every moment, new again.

Would that it were true.

Every parcel, every part.

Every pleasure, every pain.

Held within my spaciousness.

Held in love within my heart.

*

Moments pass so quickly.

Opening doors and closing blinds.

How tragic is our wastefulness

with shallow hearts and cluttered minds.

But oh! As I reach for my cup

before I even drink,

to see my hand reach out and up

and watch the dust motes fly and land

upon the fingers outstretched there

with sweet-cracked nails and knuckle-hairs.

Delighting in each small, dear act.

Delighting in each pulse called “me”.

And seeing you, just as you are –

Each moment can be so lovely.

*

Every moment, precious.

Every moment, stilled.

Every moment, treasured.

Every moment — just for me.

It makes me catch my breath and say:

“Every moment, lovely.”

*

© Jane Tawel, 2025

Fallen Leaves

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Fallen Leaves

By Jane Tawel

October 3, 2025

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Falling leaves…

How we complain

The work to gather them

with rake or glove- ed hands.

Why not let them lie in peace?

And let the winter storms

cover or disperse them, as they will?

*

I remember times of joy

in making piles of leaves.

When the boy and girl

would come and mess the piles

by jumping into mountains

flattening them to plains

that tiny hands and feet could tread with ease.

I remember times of laugher,

as all my gathered, hard-worked piles

would be the brightly colored ammunition

of flinging, flying, softly crackling leaves.

What an arsenal of happy thoughts,

could be a pile of leaves.

We held the leaves like fluttering birds

No longer leaves imprisoned in a cage of tree or bin,

But free in flight with new-grown wings,

The leaves no longer fallen, but redeemed.

*

A single leaf alone, left on a tree,

is much a lonely thing that clings,

to what is past and can not grow

until it dies to rise again, mysteriously in Spring.

But fallen leaves tell all our ends.

And myths are made from simple things.

We all shall fall

and soon decay — 

But ah! — to use my final days

in being gathered, gathered, gathered up,

with all the small, soft-colored things

by Hands that fling me towards the sky

Where flying up — I find I am no longer just one leaf,

But something beautiful with wings.

© Jane Tawel, 2025