poetry – Jane Tawel

We Walk the Trail Together

We Walk the Trail Together

By Jane Tawel

January 7, 2026

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.

Heroes, Not Monarchs

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.

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.

Every Moment Lovely

A poem by Jane Tawel

Every Moment Lovely

By Jane Tawel

October 10, 2025

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.”

Fallen Leaves

Fallen Leaves

By Jane Tawel

October 3, 2025

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.

One Day I Shall Move On

https://unsplash.com/photos/a-suitcase-on-a-staircase-SrSLOWMnYWg

One Day I Shall Move On

August 29, 2025

This tube of flesh

has held my sorrows well.

But what I am and where I’m going

I can’t truly tell.

Ta-roo! Ta-rah!

The show goes on.

But one day as the clowns dance out

without my laughing smiles;

and one day slipping from my shoes,

I’ll leave the endless, winding miles.

I will be moving on — oh yes!

I will be moving on.

I do not know where I will be

when I am just the Self of Me,

but now each tender step I take,

and every thought I try to make,

I hold quite lightly, no hold or grasp.

Embracing precious moments as my last.

For this sweet Now is fully mine

with just a hint of Eternity’s divine.

One day I’ll leave this world of show and go.

And where I’m headed, though I do not know,

I trust the Good that Love will lead me there.

I know that, though you’ll think that I am gone,

Please know, I just left baggage.

I have moved on.

The Problem Starts with “Me”

The Problem Starts With “Me”

By Jane Tawel

July 15, 2025

The problem comes when I say, “me”.

The problem comes when I say, “mine”.

Then it’s so easy to disagree,

with those who are so oft inclined,

to disagree with Me.

There were some folks who seemed to know,

The Causes and the Outcomes.

They taught that where our treasures are

are where our meaning comes from.

And while this life is fleeting fast

and Space is just a construct

and though Death always seems abrupt,

The Wise Ones know, this too shall pass

and yet, Love’s Spirit always lasts.

So, I am whittling bit by bit

away at what is “mine”.

The Know-it-All that I once was,

is now the Seeker and I find,

that in each person’s form on Earth,

a treasure deeply hides.

No longer do I need to see

just their opposing side,

for they are just the same as I,

and all their fears can be dissolved,

if I choose to be kind.

In every person, large and small,

no matter place or race,

beats the same longing, hoping heart,

behind each temporal face.

And when my life is over,

as every life will be,

then if I didn’t know before,

I’ll know then, that there never was

just “mine”, “myself”, and “me”.

For we are all connected

and One with The Great Source.

I am a ray of Sun Light.

You are a wave of Ocean.

The Dawn will break the dark of Night,

and every argument and notion

will fade before Truth’s purging might.

We are a link in Life’s Great Chain,

and when we die, we’ll wake to find,

that only Love Remains.

A silly word, this word called “love”,

A word that can not hold,

the depth, and breadth and width and height

if all Love’s stories were all told.

Oh, what, instead of fears and fights,

one Person’s Love could do!

So I’ll begin, just little me,

and I’ll start by loving you.

And whether you’re beloved child,

or friend, or stranger or foe,

I’ll look straight at my own dark fears,

and freely let them go.

And I will trust the greatest might

is not in war or what we own

but in each human’s small, bright light

the Light of Love that leads at last

to Peace on Earth and here we’ll find,

on Planet Earth as in God’s Spaciousness,

our Love’s Eternal Home.

Ah, Me! Good riddance!

Good-bye! Adieu!

Only my Love remains.

Only True Love remains.

Only God’s Love remains.

Only, All, We, Love.

Who Are We?

Who Are We?

By Jane Tawel

June 20, 2025

We did not appear as a fluke.

Nor do we wander aimlessly.

I am not the sum of what I produce.

If I would allow it,

my thoughts would rest painlessly

Our words remind us constantly,

of just how little we know.

Today I invite All in —

embracing your suffering as mine.

Forgiving my lack of care,

as I forgive yours,

I will see in us, only The Divine.

Everything comes and goes.

And Time and Space matter little

in this very, single, precious moment.

What I see, in your face, your eyes,

What I hear in your cries, your giggle,

What I touch in your hands and your heart

What I taste in the bread and the wine

of that communion that makes our separate parts —

One —

As all else changes,

As the planet spins and spins,

If you and I ask not, “What do I believe?”

Or, “What do I get?”

Or, “What do I perceive?”

Or, “How can I win?”

But instead, ask: ”Who Are We?”

Then we will find there are no strangers.

There is only one little human being

that I call “I”,

And one other little “I”,

And another,

And another.

And when all our “I’s”

are seen as One We,

we will know Who We Are.

Then only Love remains.

The Little Gnat

by Jane Tawel

The Little Gnat

By Jane Tawel

June 1, 2025

I watch the smallest gnat

flit around my reading lamp.

I bugged me, so,

I tried once or twice to squash it.

But after it kept getting away,

I asked its forgiveness:

“Forgive me, please.”

Why should I murder

a little gnat?

It does me no harm.

So, I shall do it no harm

and thereby live

One perfect

Harmless

Moment.

Why do I choose

to feed on feces

when by turning around

I could find The Feast?

The mind runs willy-nilly,

desperate to escape the heart.

Why?

The walls we build are made

of solid ice — cold and hard.

But even solid ice will melt

when exposed (over enough time)

to the warmth of Love.

And like the Sun,

The Light of Truth

will make cracks in the

iciest and hardest of our walls.

Like the Sun if we look straight at it

we are kindly blinded if we seek the Truth.

Like warm water on cold hands

Love will gently open even the most mangled grip.

True Truth is only found

in Not Knowing.

Love is only found

in Letting Go of grasping the high bars

and falling gently down

into the soft folds of Forgiveness.

Who knows

who the little gnat might actually be?

He will die of his own accord,

in his own time,

as shall I.

Perhaps someday the gnat and I

will meet again

And he will say to me,
“Thank you”.

He will appear as an angel

and thank me for not killing him.

And I will thank him

for teaching me about Love.

Perhaps Someday –

Ah, my Soul —

I will thank even the little gnat,

and All who bring me to

The Place where we are One.

Call Me Back

Call Me Back

By Jane Tawel

May 3, 2025

Call me back,

call me back to you.

Softly, softly,

as morning dew,

as summer rain,

as gentle breeze,

Call me back to you.

Call me back to you,

call me back.

Sweetly, sweetly,

as morning larks,

as summer eves,

as Aspen bark,

Call me back to you.

Call me back to you,

and I shall call too.

Gently, gently

as baby’s breath,

as love’s first kiss,

as butterfly wings,

as Spring’s first buds,

as wisps of clouds,

that float and fly,

and slivers of moon

that cradle night’s sky.

I’ll call to you,

back through time and place.

And though change does come,

in form or face,

I will know You are mine,

and I am yours,

as we call to each other –

Come back.

Transitioning

by Jane Tawel

Transitioning

By Jane Tawel

March 29, 2025

You forgive yourself so easily.

While I —

I struggle to forgive myself the slightest slip.

I am stuck in slippery slopes of seemingly endless slop.

And I crawl up and slide down, somersaulting

in every moment of the monkey mind’s attraction

to shiny or slimy things.

I seek The Eternal…

in me…

in You…

In them, I see only the anger

or fear

of the temporal.

“All we like sheep have gone astray.”

“From dust we came and to dust we all return.”

“Meaningless, meaningless, all is meaningless.”

And Yet —

Transitional phrases hint

that there will be more.

However —

But —

Thereafter —

Even so —

And yet —

Transitional Phases

are the stuff of the Now.

“Between a Rock and a hard place.”

“It’s just a phase, she’s going through.”

“And what we shall be, none know now.”

Was it a pinky promise?

Or a blood oath?

“That I shall dwell in the True Home Now and Forever more”?

Forever.

More.

Be Still — (Pause) — Know God.

IAM

I shall someday leave this messy room,

so full of broken, scattered things

that I have loved and love;

and I shall walk into

that Spacious Room where

Dawn and Dusk and Dark

are One.

No more transgressions, where all is Forgiven.

No more transitions, where all is Now.

No more separation –

Triune Threads interwoven.

One.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

by Jane Tawel

Share this: