Poetry

Genesis

In the beginning, One became Two so that He could listen to Her. But She did not speak. She danced naked and silent before Him who dumbfounded babbled and gazed, gazed and babbled meaningless ecstatic baffled syllables like Yah! Hum! So! Ha! which were seeds of creation, wondrous particles of God's...

woman, flowering : a painted poem

My desire is pushing, lighting me through this mud. I am the lotus. Can I focus on anything but the light? The light takes forms And the forms vanish Again and again. The Sun is calling the Moon. I am relieved, Sense...

The Mnemosyne Weekly: Poem Twenty-Six (Wilbur)

Richard Wilbur "Apology" From Things of This World I've long admired Richard Wilbur's beautiful poetry, which is playful, formal, and perfectly polished. This poem, which I pulled from New and Collected Poems, but which originally appeared in Things of This World, is a little...

Six Week (In Person) Class with The Writers Circle

Writing From the Heart & Soul: a workshop in Spiritual Writing

after the Rapture

)mad magicks(  Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine #20 will be emerging late this weekend (after the Rapture)  http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine Jesus cried, and somebody grinned -- don't whine Jesus smiled his love...

The Mnemosyne Weekly: Poem Fourteen

This week I'll be memorizing "Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802" by William Wordsworth. Here we're invited to observe a beautiful, peaceful, blissful moment that, in its description and stillness, has always felt like a painting...

The Mnemosyne Weekly: Poem Thirty-Three (Nye)

Original Post: http://melissastuddard.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-mnemosyne-weekly-poem-thirty-three.html Pierre-Auguste Renoir Onions I'm always a fan of that which praises something humble--in this case, the onion of Renoir's still and of Naomi Shihab Nye's beautiful poem, "The Traveling Onion." Leave it to a poet to look at...

The Mythmaker

At sunset on the day of the vernal equinox, naked-eye stars were drowning and descending from sky to seashore. A local made a homeric wheelbarrow good enough to load Apollo, Castor and Pollux, the seven daughters of Atlas, and...

Your Opening: An Easter Poem

The garden is not grateful to the gardener. The bud does not cry, 'Open me!' Darkness untangles threads of light without God's fingers, filaments of pollen spilling from the reckless void. The gardener is grateful to the garden. Only...

In The Name Of Love

When we allow time to become more linear than transparent Our dreams are filled more with doubt and worry That something precious might change for the worse or become shallow Deep into the now moment feelings and...