Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
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Where have I been?
Went White
Confession
Church is poetry. Poetry is life. A life well lived.
I haven’t given up gathering resolutions. I have relinquished a resounding voice; moving on to disturb the mystery, in hopes the Spirit rises to meet us half way.
Silence is a remedy. A modern day deserted course that digs deep to uproot bitter taste and indulge in honeyed foreplay. Patience chooses to swim in the sweet aroma of (inner) peace, contentment and fortitude than muck around the endless anger of politics.
Rumi says my thoughts eloquently.
If you could get rid of yourself just once, the secret of secrets would open to you. The face of the unknown, hidden beyond the universe would appear on the mirror of your perception.
Make peace with the universe. Take joy in it. It will turn to gold. Resurrection will be now. Every moment, a new beauty.
This post probably belongs on my new blog Soul Signs. But in my inner mixings and until the picture becomes clearer, there will most likely be double postings or a runaway thought posted here on occasion.
I am not new to spiritual things. As a child I was highly in tune with the unknown and invisible world. I am a spirit being, as we all are or can become. I am slowly working my way back into hearing the quiet cricket hour. Knowing I am practicing these universal truths, to not rush to and fro like a disobedient wind is a step. To be a calming breeze on a stormy day, a leap of faith.
Oh dear.
“I live in a shell, so I can’t blame people when they don’t want to crack me. But people like you are the reason I left the nest.”
― Eternal Youth
Mostly this blog is written in an insecure sense of self. There is plenty of advice out there that tells us to fake it until you make it. And I practice that on occasion, until I wear thin that rain-soaked cloak and find I can no longer carry the baggage. It is then I wish to don silken wings that have been packed too tightly in a box.
I have churned out several blogs over the course of 9 years. I have closed down those same blogs and in the process of shuttering the doors and windows of yet another, while simultaneously starting a new blog (Soul Signs) and keeping this blog moving into the future.
Borderline Crossing has turned into both a polished poetry site and a behind-the-scenes curtain call. (Definitely more of the latter.) I was born into a mess and I have only made the world a messier place to live. My inner imaginative world remains quite organized but when I step out the door and enter your mind with word and deed, I leave behind a less than stellar impression.
I am beginning to think I will never really publish a book. Forest Stories is my next brainchild. But then whatever happened to Leave No Stone Unturned or Evening Fog? Maybe just poems in this newest chapbook I propose. (Revision is never-ending!)
I have so many side burners turned on high heat that I am smoldering iron, too useless to make an impact at all. While I am at it, burning down the house seems apropos, with the cold water turned off.
So in fact, this is all my own doing. Right? If I were a plumber, I would certainly fix my current dilemma. Or if I knew a plumber, perhaps I could. Or maybe I enjoy the variety of a well jumbled day. Dishes stacked in the sink waiting for me to pause and enjoy the hot sudsy water. Rooms full of disheveled projects lining dining room table, coffee table, writing room desk layered with linen paper and napkins with jotted notes. Plastic bins stuffed with fabric and buttons lining closet shelves. Boxes of pastels, markers and paper, canvas and acrylics take up as much space.
But underneath an INFP is a deep oceanic peace. Yeah! ✌🏼 J
Tell Those Mountain Voices
Problems that remain persistently insoluble should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way. –Alan Watts
Witness faith
tumble those bitter blues
cherry-glossed lips
bubble up forgiveness
to the ghost
of you.
Sheltered to never
tell about the demons
who walk surely,
roam the core,
hidden for half a century
likely living ever more.
Until this abrupt stop
where the old breaks through
to bathe in hues
of plunged bedrock
and will remain
until you disappear.
Pictograph
But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory. –Woolf, The Waves
to be
wrapped in tree
not easily mapped
a canopy of arm
towering beneath
a search for light
leaping waterfall
bridge this ancient path
stand still among
the breathing rock
Great Spirit found
to be
fading into our center
Portal Vision
Stuff your eyes with wonder… Ray Bradbury
The leaves tumbled to form a soft blanket around her worn out feet. She had stopped the lengthy trek into the woods, as she had made many evenings before, to hear the softest of sounds coming from the east.
“Hello?” she managed to ask a feeble question that went unnoticed by anything or anyone, except herself. She continued to mumble her thoughts, losing track of the moon, now turned west and setting, for the hour had come to welcome Pan.
His song grew mesmerizing and cast a glow about her face. The hoofs of his feet took a beat to match her heart. Ivy vines wrapped around her legs and gently lowered her to the ground. She lay silent and watched as a figure grew close, shrouded in cloud, as the fog had grown thick from a cool evening breeze that washed away the heat of the sun’s hour.
“Listen now and I shall follow.” his words he whispered softly to her ear as she dreamed upon the moss and stone. “In the evening I so chose to find a lady to hear my sorrow.” She picked up the largest of the white pearly rock and rubbed it to a mirror. Gazing she noticed her face had softened with heated blush and rouge. With a swipe, her finger licked off the red and she wrote this mystical creature a poem.
Come! o come! Wisp me away
my devilish friend
who comes to stay
in purple passion
and eternal fray.
The sea has brought you wandering
the glen and forest true
to find your maiden
wrapped and warm
with fire in her head.
Come! o come! you hear me say
the years have worn you down
my cheer, not strife
with flute and pipe
the sorrow worn upon a frown.
The oaks are laden with brimming nuts
and food to last our spring
will come and we shall live
in magic harmony,
arm in arm for eternity.
As Pan approached the fairness of her heart, he bent to touch her silken hair, now golden to light time. He grasped her hungrily and the evening’s stars disappeared. The winter of his discontent vanished into spring. And their summer child frolicked gaily upon the streams.
The Pan statue photographed can be found in the woods at Tower Hill Botanic Gardens in Boylston MA. It is quite a lovely place to stir the imagination. Happy writing, J
Sainted Heart
It started as an earache
which led to sharp pain
felt in the middle of her body.
The drip, drip, drip
water is never cheap
a clearer liquid useless
so she drank from the rusted cup
holding herself together
not touching the wall
but surrendering
an interior
ready to crumble.
Keeled over the kitchen sink
she caught a glimpse
of what the end of life was like.
An endless jungle-rhythm beat heard
watching waves
her days on end
legs see-saw back-and-forth
with the kelp forest sways
leaving her
uneasy.
Chasing Dreams
I belong
where earth invites growth.
Where shadow spreads
the coiled soul.
I belong
under a musing sky.
Under shed skin
of nimble cloud.
Yesterday I took a wonderful class walking a Chartres Labyrinth. It gave revelation besides the release of ill thoughts. Walking on clouds, back to my car, I reached down to pick up a set of leaves.
Which led to a new quilt being built. Last evening, I created a leaf template and cut out nine sets of Buckeye palmate, compound leaves.
Today I am in the process of appliqué, onto nine squares of gray.
What inspires you? What do you do with your musings?
Happy creating… Jeanne 🌊🐚🕊
Interruption.
