Tag: poetry

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.

(c) Jane Tawel, 2024

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.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2024

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.

© Jane Tawel, 2023

And What Would the Children Say?

By Jane Tawel

Mine Own

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?

© Jane Tawel, 2023

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.

© Jane Tawel, 2023

**My paraphrase of Psalm 121

It Will End, I’m Sad to Say

Roses growing and dying in my Garden

It Will End, I’m Sad to Say

By Jane Tawel

September 19, 2023

*

And then it will end.

And all will be as never before,

and never again,

and never ever more.

But whether I shall enter something new,

through a small crack in the ether,

or a wide-open door,

my current view is that all things old,

will pass away.

And that makes me sad today.

Yes, it will end, I’m sad to say.

*

Hasn’t anyone ever told you?

It’s okay to be sad.

Grief is the gift we fear most to open,

but once unwrapped,

and held tight in shaking hands,

and viewed deeply with eyes continually filling

with the tears of unshed fears or hopeless hopes;

well, then, grief can become a friend

that helps us fill the moments with music,

the music of our real lives,

that the tick-tock-tick of the clocks

try to drown out.

*

If life is a symphony,

and grief is a dirge,

then only the urge

of our deepest desires,

can transform life and love

into what may inspire

Eternal cognition of a unified whole;

but until then we just have to trust,

in what may be the Soul.

*

Oh, isn’t the world wonderful?

*

Today I saw a poor little squirrel,

whose life was ended by the rush

of someone trying to get to work on time,

someone whose mind was probably focused blindly

on things not present, as mine often is,

whose eyes weren’t seeing what was right in front of her,

and missed the opportunity to save a life.

I murmured as I swerved

around the poor little broken, bloody body.

That squirrel was someone’s child or parent,

or friend. It played once in the tree in my front yard.

It hurt me to see it now dead and alone,

as it pains me deeply to think of all that is emptied out,

all that is alone, all that dies.

*

Life is pain,

and therein is truth to The Way.

Life is precious and oh, so glorious,

and therein is hope for the day.

*

And I saw a rose in my garden,

once red, now browned and petal-less,

and it hurt me to snip it

but I did it, even though it pierced my silly soul to do so,

like a thorn piercing my heart.

I snipped off the dead rose-hip,

in order that some other small flower could have the space to grow.

Everything has to die.

But all must choose to grow.

*

And I wonder, how much of my life,

I have squashed and killed,

or just not taken the time for,

or not let grow,

in my rush to think of something

other than what I was doing?

And I wonder, what might grow from me,

when I am snipped off from Life’s vine?

*

Oh, to live eternally

seems a goal not over-reaching.

And yet, our arms are far too short,

and our faith too short-sighted

to reach the end in sight;

to reach the end in Light.

*

Like a misplaced period.

We stop before the sentence end…

We keep restarting before the story begins…

We are not meant to live desiring eternity

but to live in the passions of this present moment.

Seeking Presence, not presents,

we can gift ourselves

with the continual opening up of

Joy in the journey,

knowing this journey’s end will come,

but not what journey may lie ahead,

with each next step of unearned grace,

around the bend of surrendering to blessing.

*

I grieve for the me that one day

(perhaps even today)

will no longer be the me I think I know.

And every once in a while,

in the embrace of my grief,

I feel the freedom to rejoice,

in what none of us can ever know,

but I can dimly sense,

that someday I might be.

*

And so, in moments today,

stolen from Time’s rushing River,

I make my fears and hopes inert.

As in a dead-man’s float,

I let myself be carried.

I trust in the Unknown Unknowable,

and though I still fight against, fight within, fight on,

I try to let the River take me;

take me just as far as the next wave or eddy,

just as far as a small stone’s throw.

*

It takes a bit of practice to let things die.

*

Creator of New Things,

Please snip off the dead things in me,

so that something new may grow.

And whether I shall ever know,

what lives beyond my grave,

I hope that someday I shall feel

the motion of my small, own wave,

lapping against a bright, new shore,

Alive! as never before,

and reborn, in the Ocean of Your Love.

*

© Jane Tawel, 2023

And Let Me Catch Them Up

By Jane Tawel

Circle Dance

And Let Me Catch Them Up

By Jane Tawel

July 21, 2023

*

And when I go,

Yes, when I rise,

Oh, if I rise

when leaving here,

then let my arms be strong and long.

And let me catch them up.

*

For all those folks,

for those I know and do not know,

who think they’ve found their own way,

I will not trouble my mind about them.

I will not stress

the parameters of my own very small soul

with questions about their destiny.

Especially for those who feel there are no questions left.

I’ll let them trust in what they trust,

and agree that they’ve found their own way.

But for my loves,

my own dear loves,

who have seen too many battles fought

by those who think they own The Way;

for my true loves, my own true loves,

who are scarred into inactivity,

demeaned into a frigid heat of bored anger

by those who put a price on Love,

Love, meant to be free to all;

Oh, for my loves, my precious pearls — 

I do not ask You to change them, but — 

Oh, my God, Oh, my God,

Oh, let me catch them up!

*

Oh, for the ones I hold so dear,

the ones I love,

love more than my own life,

and because in this strange and troubled Time,

I know my loves,

I know with the surety of old wounds,

that they are not sure

what this fresh blood can mean.

We live in uncertain times.

I know my loves and their doubts,

doubting that they have actually found their way,

no matter what they say.

I know their fears that going forward is not an option,

and not just the way of open-ended appeals.

I know my loves, who walk alongside,

with trepidation if there even is a Way.

Oh, for them,

I shall not depart from the narrow path,

even as I stumble and fall.

Oh, for them,

I shall blindly blunder forth,

even though the light is often fading.

Oh, for them I shall not claim I know anything,

anything but that only Love exists

and that only Love will remain.

Oh, for and with them — 

I shall raise a fist of protest.

I shall raise an opened palm of supplication.

I shall raise a banner over them;

and my banner over them will be Love.

And I shall day and night, cry out — 

at the gates of the cities,

at the shorelines of the oceans,

at the edges of dark woods,

at the embassies of the nations,

and to all living creatures

and to the sun, and moon and stars,

I shall cry:

“Oh, let me catch them up with me!

Let me grab onto a little finger,

or a strand of hair,

or grasp a big fat toe.

And let me hold their precious spirits close,

as I go on my Way (I hope to God)

and as The Way, (I pray) leads me on,

and further up and in,

I shall grab hold of them!”

*

And in that moment,

that final moment,

when all is changed forever and a day — 

Oh, may my heart be huge enough,

my soul be meek enough,

my self be gone enough,

my fears and doubts be purged enough,

to carry just enough,

and just enough faith and grace

for all of us.

Oh, may my love and Your Love,

and all my foolish floundering,

but still straight-ish path-ed love of You,

may all of me,

regardless of how small and weak,

regardless of how much wondering and wandering

that still lies within and ahead of me,

may I be enough,

enough to carry them again, as once I did,

(or might have tried to do, if asked),

enough to carry them, as You have always carried me.

And may they not feel my arms,

but feel only Truth and Peace.

*

No matter what is,

or what will be,

of all we do not know now,

may Divine Embrace of hope and love

be enough for me,

enough for all of them.

*

And let me catch them up.

Oh, let me catch them up,

to rise,

to rise,

to rise,

and forever be,

caught up in The Great Dance.

© Jane Tawel, 2023

Good-Night

A poem by Jane Tawel

“Joyful Flight and then Good Night” by Linda, Fortuna future is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0.

*

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.

© Jane Tawel, 2023

If-Only’s, What If’s, & Now

by Jane Tawel

“Doors” by robynejay is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

*

If-Only’s, What-if’s, and Now

By Jane Tawel

May 24, 2023

*

The “If-only’s” stuck inside

create a life-time of regret.

We become unaware

that we have created our own unhealthiness — 

Re-gretting. Re-griefing.

Re-gurgitating.

And we bring it all back up,

again, and again,

like bile, like vomit,

like hiccups that never end.

We drink the dregs left from the past,

and our insides ache,

but we keep sucking it all down,

and spewing it all out again.

Like carbonated bubbles,

we keep burping back up past wrongs.

Heart-burn as choice.

We come close to letting go,

but step away,

as if the perfume of freedom,

freedom from the past,

is too heady a scent,

too strong to wear now.

We re-fuse to re-alize

that all of us must leave

the past at the altar.

Kick it to the curb.

Close the door.

Re-lease ourselves,

from the past,

once and for all.

If-only we could leave the past at the altar,

the altar where we forgive ourselves all,

in the same way we forgive others, all,

we would never look back.

We never would look back.

We can never re-turn,

but we can, with re-joicing, re-pent.

Repent! which is just another word

for turning around and turning a new leaf,

and turning out our pockets,

where we hoard past judgments.

We re-place the thoughts of yesterday,

With awareness and love of today.

We can stop.

We can re-fuse the refuse of the past,

in order to sit still,

to be,

in order to walk ahead.

*

Living with the “What-ifs”,

is not a life of hope;

it is a life of fear.

“What if this happens?” “What if I don’t — ?”

“What if she does — “ “What if they — “

“What if?”

Fear of tomorrow,

is a cornered animal,

a dream spent in anxiety

about the un-real.

And the fears

that multiply like choking weeds in my mind,

kill the living garden trying to grow

within me, today.

The worries pound,

like a headache at the door of my heart.

And I bring them all in,

“Make yourself at home.”

And they crowd in like an unruly mob,

fighting for my mind’s inattention.

Trying to gather the slippery slopes,

the thoughts of the future,

is like trying to grasp and hold on to

wisps of smoke.

I peer ahead, through the mists of what-ifs,

blinded by them to today;

they blind like smog, like fog.

Seeing but not seeing,

imagining but not knowing,

wishing but not hopeful.

My mind is a shimmering chimera,

real only to my doubts of what is true,

what is real and true, only in the now.

I look at what-ifs,

as if they exist,

but it is like drawing funny faces on a mirror,

faces without humor,

and I look at my reflections,

as if the reflections are myself

and not an image I have created out of lies,

for things that may never be,

are as much lies, as things that were then,

but are no longer now.

Only the present is Truth.

*

Why do I imbue the present time

with so little valued meaning?

Why do I keep my accounts from the past?

I have already paid them in full.

Why do I invest in days and hours

that might never be?

*

The soul cries to self:

“Rejoice! Today, you may yet live!”

*

Today waits for no man,

and yet it waits for my embrace.

Today’s possibility

stands knocking at the door of my life,

as truly as my heart knocks against my chest.

Spirit whispers, a still, small voice

that calms the storms of yesterday,

that blows away the cobwebs of yesterday,

that comforts the whimpering fears of tomorrow,

that sings to rest, all that should be laid to rest.

The Voice is not heard by the mind,

but speaks to our spirit, our hearts,

as only true feelings, true love,

can communicate:

“Behold, Love stands at the door and knocks.

If any one opens the door,

Love will come in to her, and they shall feast together — 

eyes, ears, smell, touch, taste — feasting.

Present.

Being.

Loving.

And if any open the door,

Love will abide with you

and together,

right now,

you will find peace.”

© Jane Tawel, 2023