poetry – Page 3 – Jane Tawel

A Prayer

by Jane Tawel

A Prayer

By Jane Tawel

September 27, 2024

I pray that mine will learn True Love.

I pray that mine will find The Way.

I pray for safety for each one,

and that sufficient is the day.

I pray for each that has been given

into my weak and feeble hands,

and then I pray for all the planet

in my own place and distant lands.

I pray at last for my own soul

that grace and love will set it free;

and that my heart and mind and will

may find its peace and home in Thee.

Poems on Not Growing Old– But Aging

by Jane Tawel

Poems on Not Growing Old — But Aging

by Jane Tawel

(Family)

Poems on Not Growing Old — but Aging

Shall we age, but not grow old?

Poem 1

By Jane Tawel

August 13, 2024

Shall we age, but not grow old?

Figures of speech,

becoming

more important than keeping our figures.

Old happens.

Aging, like good wine,

good cheese,

and good life,

old is not, but

aging is a choice.

(us)

How We Go Through Life at Our Age

Poem 2

By Jane Tawel

August 12, 2024

We shall go through life as guests now.

Not always honored,

often merely put up with.

We are invited as a duty,

as the rather tattered

Shattered

Battered

Pieces of what used to be.

Do we still seem Whole to you?

I doubt we ever did.

But now the part we played

is a piece of the past

and it doesn’t hold up under scrutiny.

Oh, I understand –I was once young too,

Believe it or not.

No, it doesn’t do

for the young to look too closely

at our wrinkled hands and brows,

our sagging guts and breasts,

our lack of hair, and lack of –

of —

of….

oh, what is that darn word I was searching for?

Oh, if only you could see beyond

what you think of as lack,

to the wealth we hide in back

of our front-facing old shells,

and see to the inside,

our true selves.

Minds slower but fuller,

bodies weaker, but battle-scarred,

hearts congested with so much love

that eventually they break.

Don’t let the doctors fool you

with the scientific diagnosis.

In the end,

our hearts break from carrying

So much love.

Oh, So.

Much.

Love.

And we will agree to attend

to you and your events,

only because we keep hoping

against hope

that the treasure we could bestow,

the wisdom path we could show you

will at some time

some where

some how

be enough,

be enough —

for those of you we so love.

We only want to help.

Yes!

We have always loved you

More than you could know,

More than all the leaves on all the trees,

More than all the stars in all the skies,

More than all the wishes on all the birthday candles,

More than all the babies born and all the graves filled,

More than Time itself,

Yes! Forever and a day.

Oh,

More than all of all of everything –

have we loved you —

More than our own lives —

And, we could hoping

that we here and now

will break through! —

to you, my dearest dears.

Oh, we could, old as we are,

Raise you up — help you rise above

the sick darkness of the Times

and the viral condescension of youth

and the aching, longing of dreams still incubating

in your dear, dear hearts –

we hope to show, to share,

the strength, the care,

that only age can bring

and you will see at last,

we will shine!

We gift to you, if you can take it —

The gift of age

Shining through and upon and in —

Searing light

Light of Seers.

We give our attention

to the minutiae of you,

and to the essential essence of you as well.

Because there is nothing we love so well as you.

And what the hell,

We show up,

with hearts aching

and minds breaking

Because we,

who have lived so long,

are really still just children,

and we ache to be loved

not as we were,

not as one day we might be,

(or rather when we might not be),

But just as you do,

We long to be loved

just as we are.

(Run Happy)

This is the Fun Part

Poem 3 — A Haiku

By Jane Tawel, August 13, 2024

This is so much fun.

Free to be you and me.

Getting old is great.

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.

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.

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?

In Light and Dark, Out of the Garden, and On The Path

by Jane Tawel

“light behind dark tunnel of trees” by Wim Vandenbussche is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

In Light and Dark, Out of the Garden, and On The Path

By Jane Tawel, October 10, 2023

And waking up to birds in the Garden,

heard not seen.

My mouth, dry as fallen leaves,

thoughts crumbling into dust not swept away, but hoarded

A heart as dry as leaves from an ancient but desiccated Book,

falling apart.

My chest hurts,

fluttering helplessly,

like a trapped bird in a cage,

throbbing like a song trapped in a tunnel,

too faint to hear, yet pounding in my ears.

I struggle out of night’s tight bonds,

and the prison of sweaty anxiety-tangled sheets.

Unsolved puzzles of otherness

causing night-fears to cling to my morning,

and morning is already imprisoned

with jello-bars;

thoughts of yesterday, flabby and gel-like,

clinging to today like suckers on a beached rowboat.

My oars went floating out

on the Tide toward Tomorrow.

Ah, me!

If only I could reach through the pain

with outstretched arms, not strong,

but lengthening in supplication,

away from the unformed center of myself.

Oh, My God, where is the salve

of Your nothingness,

the salve of forgiveness and delight?

Salvation is a funny thing,

a flimsy hope,

a solid rock.

The salve of my salvation stings,

and pain heals more than blissful wishes do.

The scabs cover over the relief of treasured addictions,

and for a brief moment,

I rise and float,

like a feather on an unseen wind,

like a small twig floating on a wave.

Nothingness is experienced,

as the unbearable lightness of being.

And my some-thing-ness,

my some-one-ness,

is adrift and moor-less.

The path never widens,

but as I scrimp on forging ahead,

I forage for food

to sustain my courage,

The Way seems clearer if not cleaner.

The brambles’ marks toughen my skin,

and heal over to make my feelings

calloused in new strength and some hope.

The fears reside nearer my front door,

but I learn (sometimes)

how to brush the anxious thoughts out,

like sticky cobwebs,

shooed away for whole moments at a time,

banished out of the home of my heart.

Shall I create salvation for myself,

and all within the place I dwell?

Shall I embrace my shadow self,

my night-self,

my dark soul?

And finding within the darkness, will I know

the freedom of not seeing but yet,

still blindly groping forward?

Oh, to walk in green valleys!

Oh, to rest by living streams!

There is a light ahead,

shimmering just outside the Garden,

and though it may waver recklessly

leading like a foolish and small fire-fly,

flitting along My Path,

I will seek The Light,

and I imagine I will find it not out there,

but within myself.

And when I can not see it,

I will make a friend of the Dark.

And wait for the dawn.

I reach for signs along my way,

and I will trust in the pain,

brushing up against it,

my fingers touching

the surface of my pain like rough bark,

scraping my knees on sharp sharded stones

strewn loosely in the road,

scratching my face as I plow through thick thorny places,

secret places of despair,

and fear and the grief that blossoms,

Iike a rose in the world’s heart.

As if…

As if…..

As if I keep walking,

through nights of bruising thoughts,

Salvation may come in the morning.

The path never widens,

but as I forage for food to sustain my courage,

The Way reveals the place of wholeness

abiding in mystery.

Peace passes through the dark

and beyond understanding.

And I let my spirit float,

out and away from the shallows of Life,

floating into deeper waters, and

trusting in The Sea

which holds all waves.

Even mine.

“I lift my eyes up,

to the mountains,

where does my help come from?

My help comes from You

Maker of All Being,

Maker of Light and of Dark,

Creator of All Life.

My feet will not slip

as I walk in The Way.

I will be guarded over

in the dark,

and while I sleep.

There is shade in the sun,

and the moon at night.

There are guardians all around me,

and no harm will come to my life,

I am safe, now and forever more.”**

I do not know but trust —

I do not know,

but keep seeking darkness in Mystery,

light in Hope,

peace in suffering,

and joy in the journey.

I choose to trust.

I am not alone.

You are not alone.

We are not alone.

**My paraphrase of Psalm 121

by Jane Tawel

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Poems on Not Growing Old — But Aging

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