Leaning My Heart On Your Soul

 

Lately
When I go walking
Dogs and I
I walk to the nearby
Memorial Wall
whose simple message

 

calls my name

I stop by the wall
Made in memory of Robina Steiner
And read
words
that fill my heart with courage

 

 

to live on

 

 

It is by the memory wall that I find
the right words
to have inscribed
in my new ring
a band of eternal love
the only bridge
to that other world
where I can rest my heart

 

Leaning my Heart on your Soul

I Send My Heart

I stood in front of that black-limned door-

I heard the bolts thrown open

I heard the locks click

I heard the un-used hinges squeal.

 

I stood there, held captive, against my will

As that door swung open

And I looked inside

And beheld the soul-searing blackness within

And I trembled.

 

I heard the howls and wails

Of Grief and Anguish

I heard the cries of Fear

And Loneliness and Rage.

 

The cold winds foul with Sadness

Cutting with icy fingers of Pain

Rushed by my face

And swirled around me

And tears bled from my eyes.

 

I stood there, terrified, frozen

And then

An ageless endless eternity later

Before I had to step inside

The door slammed shut in front of me.

 

Blinded by tears I heard the crash

And fell to the floor, huddled in exhausted relief

Thanking the God of creation

And all who would hear

That I had not had to step inside.

 

I have turned my back on that door

And tried to forget that it is there

But sometimes I feel a cold draft

On the back of my neck

And I know, that having been opened once,

It is not so securely locked as it was before

And I shudder.

 

I send my love through that crack

That hairline crack that the draft seeps through

I send my heart through

To those

Who had to step through that door

To the wailing darkness inside.

And I pray that they will not be lost

But will find their way through

The Grief and Pain

To the door that

Lies on the other side.

To Life.

Clouds by Rupert Brooke

Clouds

Down the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon’s hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
And now with profound gesture vague and slow,
As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say the Dead die not, but remain
Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
And watch the moon, and the still raging seas,
And men, coming and going on the earth.

RUPERT BROOKE
from Fresh Fields Poetry Series – Longman Australian Edition
(Found by Imogen Crest in a roadside box of books with Enchanteur.)

“Sunset Clouds”
image
(copyright Imogen Crest 2007.)

I greet you all

A very dear friend once gifted me with these word and now I pass them on to you.

I am your friend and my love for you goes deep.
There is nothing I can give you which you have not got,
but there is much, very much that while I cannot give it,
you can take.
No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in today.
Take heaven!

No peace lies in the future which is not hidden
in this present little instant.
Take peace!

The gloom of the world is but a shadow.
Behind it, yet within our reach is joy.
There is radiance and glory in the darkness
could we but see – and to see we have only to look.
I beseech you to look!

Life is so generous a giver, but we,
judging its gifts by the covering,
cast them away as ugly, or heavy or hard.
Remove the covering and you will find beneath it
a living splendor, woven of love, by wisdom, with power.

Welcome it, grasp it, touch the angel’s hand that brings it to you.
Everything we call a trial, a sorrow, or a duty, believe me,
that angel’s hand is there, the gift is there, and the wonder
of an overshadowing presence.
Our joys, too, be not content with them as joys.
They, too, conceal diviner gifts.

Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty
– beneath its covering -that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.

Courage, then, to claim it, that is all.
But courage you have, and the knowledge that
we are all pilgrims together, wending through
unknown country, home.

And so, at this time, I greet you.
Not quite as the world sends greetings,
but with profound esteem and with the prayer
that for you now and forever, the day breaks,
and the shadows flee away.

A letter written by Fra Giovanni, 1513

Yours in Service,
Chesten

Dreaming as Art

 

 

Growing up, we were not encouraged to dream, neither day- nor night. Night dreaming might be mentioned if it was scary or taught a lesson. Anything else–the mysterious, flying, living a wonderful life–was dismissed as a waste of time. And day-dreaming was no better. You could have been learning, cleaning, studying, or making yourself a better person. As the only American-born member of my family, this did not seem strange. My parents had not ony gone through the hard-time 1930s, but they went through World War II in one of the countries that lost.

To read the rest, as well as see a link on how to daydream, visit my art studio. There’s chai on the table.