|TRACY BROOKS believes in the power of poetry and stories. As an intuitive empath and Shamanic healer, she offers channeled writings and poems to support others, www.facebook.com/soulbeckons. Death has always been a teacher to her and she has communicated with those that have passed on for most of her life. This whispering between worlds is the foundation of her first book, which is being finished now. When not writing, she is busy homeschooling her children, receiving wisdom from her dog, teaching yoga to young people, and offering various spiritual practices to others. www.tracybrookswriter.com|
Patience promised me
I would find my way through life
when I became her
How the afternoon sun is creeping slowly away
her golden rays embellishing everything
I am reminded
When I sit beside any prickly or perfect thing
my only thoughts are of nothing or everything
both without any hesistation
I am reminded
The moments when every sound is known
yet a certain newness abounds
and each part of me tingles in familiar
I am reminded
Finding my home in the eyes of a loved one
time standing still
I am in awe
Inviting softer connections to all there is
I am reminded
I am already there
Quatrain, to include someone famous we admire coming to share dinner at our house.
MAYA IN MY KITCHEN
“To enjoy meals, slow down and ignore the rules, says the one and only Maya Angelou.” Here she was now, saying this to me in person, with a grin so big and a laugh so infectious. I was puzzled and confused at her early arrival and takeover in the kitchen. Yet, what she was creating smelled delicious, and she was enjoying herself…
Child, come to your table,
with your big open heart,
surely you are able,
let us now start.
Bring your phemomenal self,
sit where you like,
all trepidations are melting,
let us banish your strife.
Partake in some wine,
let us savor everything,
this is our time,
true presence we must bring.
Bellies all full,
we can gaze upon the night sky,
on stars we shall wish,
like air, we shall rise.
The Five Vital Signs of the Artist
The true artist: draws out all from his heart. (this line from”The Art
of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction” by Dean Young)
With the heartspace being the vital center, find your own baseline. Seek out this touchstone, daily.
This space must be checked and nurtured frequently.
1. Temperature – never want just normal.
Burn with passion, be heated with some visceral pulls.
If hypothermia sets in, and you have gone too cold,
enter your creative cave and hibernate. Nourish yourself, refrain from harsh judgements, avoid laxatives for any blocks. Return to 3 (see below) when blocked or stifled.
2. Pulse – your unique drumbeat, your ways of being heard and seen. Must be given free expression, censorship can harden arteries, too much editing too soon will disrupt the blood flow.
3. Breathing – no more shallow inhalations, no more partial exhalations. The vital breath requires a full cycle of gathering and releasing. If all else fails, sit softly with one hand over heart and one on your canvas or paper and let the breath remind you of what is essential.
4. Blood Pressure – pay attention to where your energy is going, let your deepest spaces call you back if you have wandered from your primordial soul too long. What is building up and stagnating?
Where is the movement needed? Never hoard away what needs to be shared.
5. Pain Scale – do not ignore the aches or whispers, for they can become huge pains and critical bleeds quicker than you realize.
Bleed on the paper if you must, yet never wrap a dirty wound.
Gentle diligence and protecting any authenticity is imperative.
Remember, you are an infinite creative soul.
You have decided to share something of your vital heart.
Nourish your body, mind and soul.
Take as many Spirit supplements as needed.
Fresh air and nature will always be a steady reminder.
Trust your inner voice.
LAUGHING WITH MAX — A Few Haikus, of what my six year old has said
Dreads being naked
unless in community
future nudist here
God speaks nightly
If I listen I hear him
or he may be she
My voice is rusty
my nose is very crowded too
this cold isn’t nice
A group of Haikus, can stand alone or be together.
Dedicated to my time spent looking up, a daily (sacred) ritual.
Winged ones speaking,
in another time and place,
I am sure I flew.
The sky opens me,
remembrance of distant lifetimes,
looking up brings peace.
Whenever caws come,
I will run outside to look,
honoring the calls.
Allowing the songs,
to reach past the skin deeply,
My Soul Likes to Ponder
How does one shift through difficulty?
allow what is stagnant to fall away
let you soul reunite the broken
Will we believe the ache will pass?
let your hurt places fall to the earth
Can we recall that our soul wishes to wonder?
trust the small yet steady reminders–
let life flow through you freely
let your heart sing her new song
I Pray By the Moon
I pray by the moon
she hears my heart
knows my soul
In her sweet illumination
I see God
I feel the secrets speak
I have felt her magic
I pray by the Moon
she calls my name
the voice of Spirit
of times before
the mergings of past
delighting into now
I pray by the Moon
she knows my inner aching
my unheard dreams
and wishes to the sky
asks me to speak them
give them to life
I pray by the Moon
Sit and Sift
To sit with what is
without moving things around
to allow whatever is swirling
to be comfortable enough to have its say
all things eventually speak
not always in words
yet given voice to whatever is nudging
is balm for the festering hurts
to sit and sift
a sacred act
takes time and grit
takes the stinging of held back tears
mixed with the movement of what you had wished you said
it can take many hours of numbness
softly prodding the things that have been refused
letting them know it is safe to peek out
for they won’t be chased away again
like panning for sought after treasures
you must be ready to go through it all
willing to hold what is hideous
sit in the darkness
feel the fertile void touch your marrow
embrace the prickly and jagged spaces
knowing you may get scratched deeper down
to sit and to sift
is an act of reclamation
rebellion to the noise
a call to go home
The simplest stone,
small and hidden,
in a pocket,
found on a mossy clearing.
Across the ocean
lifted by tiny hands
Carried in a handbag,
along with butterscotch candy and folded tissues,
tossed inside the darkness,
After the tiny hand grew into a frail and weathered soul,
the story was often told.
Revisiting days of small things mattering,
When she died
the stone was buried with her,
or so we thought.
Someone must have collected it.
Echoes of life in still things,
we are full of reasons to doubt,
the way Spirit permeates every speck
holding the stone,
On the Fullness of Being Emptied ~ A Rondel
The Womb has left the building
retiring into quieter times
given to pear shaped life sublime
covered in a golden guilding.
Now content amongst new clearings
partially pulled by newer truths
the Womb has left the building
along with misspent youth.
Sitting beside new beginnings
softly opalescent shores
crowded nest becomes a mossy moor
with spacious and soulful millings
the Womb has left the building.
Creating with the dream space prompt
Entering The Pith
Loyal are the memories
shiny pans will hold the marrow
what is essential is never lost forever
golden are the orbs of light
weaving the dead to this life still
but we are careful watchers
stalking silently, sights unseen
upon a most graceful surrendering we are heading into the concrete abyss
diving head first
we are left undaunted
as lucid dreams are ripe with heroic acts and everything only benign
longing to be free
murmurs like disgruntled lovers
familiar grows too big to hold
swimming in forbidden places
grown larger than the awake places
yet burned to the ground
we rise from colorful ashes
only to throw ourselves again
to where the dark spaces are first formed
of this insurmountable void we are stripped
to what the primordial beings have been saying
faintly I hear the voices
sipping the bone broth
I feel like the beginnings sit beside me
Find six or seven words you like and string them together for a title of a poem and see what you compose from this title.
The Integration and Hallowed Unfolding of the Fledgling Who Savors Authenticity
Minutely usual yet oddly herself
in a nest no longer comfortable
some sense of adventure seems to call
waking long before the sun even stirs
deeply feeling as if reverence may matter
even the unseen bow to what rises
and even quieter spaces unfold their own sweet glory
belonging here, for the moment,
flight will soon be upon her.
Here’s to the slower days,
filled with creativity and play.
shout out to unscheduled hours,
baking,puttering and arranging flowers.
less time on striving,
enjoying the journey with no focus on the arriving.
singing along with every song,
dancing and knowing you really belong.
so much laughter to go around.
off to the yard for fresh air and sun,
barefoot time to play and run.
basking in times one can never replace,
savoring every sticky embrace.
dog and child rolling in the dirt,
ladybug perched upon my shirt.
soft breezes upon my face,
delighting in this gentle space.
The 9th book, 9th page, 9th sentence prompt
The ninth book on my shelf was Mary Oliver’s The Leaf and a Cloud.
This is the world.
Indescribable beauty merged with undeniable pain.
People who have refused to give up sitting alongside the half dead ones.
We like to to imagine we are without any tethers to what aches down deep,
yet in moments where the chatter grows silent we see all too clearly.
Either we are all connected or inside exquisite bubbles,
what shakes one branch may not reach us quickly,
yet I believe roots that run deep feel the vibrations,
and tiny blights can befall even the majestic.
The prompt of a conversation between myself and a favorite poet. I have chosen the delightful Maya Angelou.
The in between hours, when one is unsure of whether it is dreams or just a quiet clarity in the still darkness, I hear a voice.
Motherly, yet not my Mama. I have heard this powerful voice before, it is the one and only Maya Angelou.
I find myself quite alert and very emotional.
Seems the contents of a pushed aside poem have reverberated to the heavens. “Too messy, too raw.” I told myself.
Well, Ms. Maya’s words were loud and clear—
“Watered down is no way to serve your poem. I suspect you know this down deep child. There should always be something softly tangible, or even wildly unforgiving about your ponderings on the paper. Go ahead, offer up some barely clad vulnerability, yet don’t overdress it. Let the reader not have to work so hard to disrobe it. Let everything be so powerfully personal, even if it aches, especially if it aches. Feel for it all so deeply, yet never ever get attached to the words. They don’t belong to you. You must serve those that feel the hunger and never worry if they have cleared their plates.”
How comfortable is the longing,
dwelling in a curious space,
letting go of distant strivings,
childhood smells drift upon comfortable breezes.
Here where time grows still,
seconds march upon the memories of forgotten laughter,
the wind reminds me of home,
of scraped knees and Italian ices dripping down my legs.
Summer always tells me
to remember all the moments that sun would kiss the pavement,
mimosa trees throwing their softness,
and songs were just like breathing.
Now when the afternoon’s light barely begins to fade,
I almost taste the days of sweat and fireflies,
of cartwheels in the grass,
and friends who grew beside me.
To offer a different spiritual perspective than our own.I tried to vist Atheism. I truly had a hard time and seemed to only be “allowed in part of the poem.” Grateful for the prompts that cause a stretch…
Finally drifting into a sleep
fitful were my musings
landing in a nearly barren room
clutter free yet chilly
my favorite shades of purple
and one most comfortable yet practical chair
my thoughts were organized and made sense
yet chaotic swirls grabbed my heart
I kneeled to pray
floor fell out from below me
free falling into some grand abyss
the golden ropes seem to catch me
the net gave me tangible support
some form of stability may be trying to hold me
oh but the beyond spaces were beckoning
surrendering any fear
I leaped into the wind
faith would be my guide
closing my eyes
surrendering to where the journey takes me
This turned into a poem that honors the ones I lost too soon, and those that have suffered similar pregnancy losses.
Ode to the ones that got away
for they left some indelible grace
wonder that never fades.
Leaving the womb space
long before their lease was up
destined for distant places holding lightness.
Perhaps it was indecision
or sacrificing some choice
choosing not to walk as one who merely exists
Is sadness what they shed upon the departure,
or is unspeakable joy their ghost
flesh surely holds the stories of sacred beginnings.
They leave such tiny echoes
etched upon the abodes of the future dwellers
misty encouragement to those that wish to remain.
Growth tells her stories,
honoring in the hollowed places
reverent in the grieving and grateful walls.
Day #11 Haiku
Suddenly, we shift
Things no longer burn inside
Ashes into wind
use these words: rivulets,told,pleasure,holy,growing,hand
Growing older with you has been a sacred journey
we walk together on holy ground
every time we come back to the love
that small and steady rivulet of us
grew deeper and wider than any force
this adventure has been greater than any story ever told
your hand in mine has given me life’s infinite pleasure
delighting in life
we move together
DAY #9 Glosa / Quatrain prompt
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words
and never stops at all.
~ Emily Dickinson
For ever wasted moment spent worrying
nothing changes through it.
So many give off toxic emissions from what they buried alive.
A dying Cactus flower can never adequately describe tomorrow’s Orchid.
When you weve the years together,
Stitched together with old longings and pulsing memories,
mismatched pieces are all piled together.
Left with the prospect of everything changing
Suddenly, one breathes deeper,
“Hope” is the thing with feathers.
Born of restless hearts and solemn vows,
times were shifting into collapsing.
Concrete never grows when watered,
a million tears can’t bring back the dead.
When whiskey becomes what you bathe your wounds in,
trouble gets dressed up and covered in crimson silk.
Forgotten are the ones that move too easily,
steady are the hands that choke the ache.
silence plants minute seeds of a future malignancy,
that perches in the soul.
Glorious are the glances that move backwards,
looking ahead becomes the afterthought,
life traversed in some sort of fever,
stagnant air breeds a festering discontent.
Things one fears multiply when watered in shame.
castles crumble slowly,
the strong fall down much harder,
yet the ghosts keep moving
the troops keep marching
and sings the tune without the words
Butterflies won’t land on the broken tombstones
they follow from afar
winged ones whisper overhead
they seem to sense the final laps
suddenly things left unsaid
movement drags on
yet broken hearts grow beyond limits
love makes one wonder
and never stops at all.
with the prompt of through the window and from a loved one’s perspective, asked to show the difficult balance of mind/heart
Looking Up Close From Afar
Through the tiniest crack in the windshield
only visible to those who know its there.
Noonday sun beats with a nagging,
so many reminders,
What’s left undone is reawakened,
as small familiar voices seem to taunt him
recalling days when it was common to laugh with those you loved.
What is left but hesitation housing sadness.
The warm breeze is swollen with yellow dust,
and he can not help but remember when belonging held him gently.
When the wind picks up he takes it personal
the unlatched gate blows open loudly.
Connections become distant as the voices get louder.
Once again, he fears the emotional apocalypse of pent up things that escape,
suddenly remembering how badly he needs get things done.
Pulling out he glances at the rear view mirror
and faintly mumbles as he drives away.
Everything looks old and disheveled to him through his cracked and dirty windows.
haiku created from prompt
my mama’s last breath
universe sang along slow
laden soul lifted
getting fed is all you want
pretending to be feral
keeping your distance
yet entering houses at night to lay beside the warm ones
claiming sweet freedom
yet demanding you’re heard
showing up just as the bowls are lifted
seems you hunger for far more than food
Sitting in a tattered box
the once magnificent hair now matted
Doll with no name
used to be called sweetie
Faded and forgotten
something far prettier glistens
put aside less carefully
naked and covered in magic marker
rubbing against cardboard
useful no more
surrendered to whatever way is chosen
Prompt- Prose poem
The inner turbulence averted,this time, my connection now surely felt, to sky above and below.
emptiness was the blackness of heart
corroded by festering fears
gangrene of vital things
black mamba devouring pieces
the venom seeping and sour and gray
along came the numbness
the ashen color of someone half dead
when sadness is swollen and you choke
on the fumes of your imagined madness
then that part died the black vultures pulled the rotten apart
no longer here
into the infinite void
surrendered to the pure blackness of creation
the wombspace of darkness
the gray matter forming slower this time
here was a respite
humbled and hollowed breath was grayness and weak to begin gray storms of the soul
black retreats of being
extreme and urgent
quiet or neutral
whatever way she looks shades of gray and black still follow
What Comes Knocking
Exquisitely delicate yet infinitely brazen
moments where words were inadequate
etched so deeply
the glance upon forgotten promises
Eyes became moist in the imminence
surrender we must
when the body dwindles
the soul must grow
As the frailness of the earth skin
begins to show
the eyes must hold the conversation
in the swelling silence we shrink
Breath becomes the slow song
when death waits at the doorway
it forces us to see beyond the worldly senses
softening the edges of time
We may choose to let it permeate through
or pull back in defense
If chosen to let one be split open
the rawness brings the buried treasure out
To merge with something far beyond
yet as familiar as the blood
sacred silence leads to a buried voice released from prison
life and death mingling sweetly