Guest Post by Alea Kent
I am a Rumi fan, but have only read his shorter works, having never tackled one of his best known poems, “The Reed.” So I decided to write a poem as if I did know what The Reed was about and this is the result.
But what is interesting is that “Bamboo” was written years before our home burned in an urban wildfire. It is as if I was being given strength to understand what that experience was all about before it happened and know that I, too, would become the flute.
By Michael Avery
I was hiking along Horseheaven Creek just north of Steamboat on the North Umpqua River many years ago when I had a vision. In my mind’s eye, I saw a sacred valley called Horse Heaven, where wild horses still run free. Perhaps there exists such a valley in the area, but I didn’t pursue that reality since my vision was so clear and real to me. I memorialized that vision with a poem.
When the memory of that day kept returning, I realized that I’d missed a lesson or an insight back then. Horse Heaven, and especially one pony, was a metaphor. So, I got out the verse I’d written many years ago…
By Michael Avery
Many summers ago, I moved to Denver, Colorado, to work with some friends. The snow arrived early that year, and I decided to return to rainy old Oregon. Before leaving Denver, I followed an inner nudge and drove south to explore Colorado Springs.
I stopped just north of that city to fill up with gas. As I was getting back in my car, Divine Providence stepped in. A large sign caught my attention. It read: “This way to the Garden of the Gods.”
Guest Post by RJ McBride
As I often find, seeds of wisdom can appear whenever judgmental excursions attempt to sidetrack Soul from Its journey back home to God. Whenever this happens to me, Holy Spirit steps in to show me the higher path.
If upon each new day we are able to share just one contribution that truly comes from the heart, we find life becoming more enriched—we are able to give and receive more of God’s love. Hence, “Be the One.”
Guest Post by Linda Wilken
Some people may be familiar with the expression “God’s green earth,” such as “Why on God’s green earth….” I’d always wondered about that phrase. Why wasn’t it “God’s blue earth” or “God’s orange earth”? What if I changed the phrase “God’s green earth” to include colors other than green?
Guest Post by Gloria Lionz
I’m one of “those” fair-weather people; less than ideally suited to the overcast grays that reside in the PNW as a “routine.” Weather suited me “perfectly” during the three decades I called Santa Cruz’ “banana belt” home. Only four easy blocks to the beach, I was lulled to sleep by the waves every night.
Around 8-9 pm, the ocean would “pull” clouds in to the microclimate of “West side Santa Cruz,” treating residents, even those of us who did NOT own property directly on the cliffs, with excellent sound baffling. Result? Everyone, no matter where their home sat, was treated to the sound and uplifting energy of recycling waves.
So during that era, clouds at night by the sea made me smile. Not so here, near the Columbia River where far too many days (for my psyche) are chilly, damp, and down-right gray. What to do?
By Michael Avery
One of the many things I experienced while living in Hawaii when I was in my late twenties happened on the Island of Kauai. I saw the most beautiful rainbow I had ever seen. Rather than eliciting a feeling of joy, I felt an indescribable longing stir deep within my heart. I was longing for a love that I could not identify.
As I gazed up at the magnificent rainbow arching across the sky, I wondered: Where is the other half, the part that would make it complete. Shortly thereafter, I wrote the following poem.
Guest Post by Alea Kent
A few years ago I had a dream, and in this dream I was at a dance pavilion on the sandy shores of a lake. I was dancing with my Spiritual Guide. Soon we were dancing on the sand, and our dance steps uncovered golden coins. I looked at the coins and then up at my Guide, and the look on his face told me they were a gift for me from him.
Guest Post by Gloria Lionz
Seasons hold places in ones’ being; as do the markers we humans call ‘time.’ Though we’re eternal beings, as one who loves life and does all she can to serve it with tenderness and compassion, writing poetry is one of the most visceral ways my heart has learned to express those feelings.
Guest Post by RJ McBride
For forty some years I’d wandered in a half-awake, half-slumber state of consciousness all the while wondering why life had to be so hard and unjust. Over time, my collective experiences had left me a few grains of understanding. Today, I’ve accumulated enough grains of knowledge to maybe fill a small bucket. And who knows, come tomorrow, I may need a larger container.
But simply storing these grains of wisdom does little good unless sharing what has been learned by one’s endeavors. And yet, for all that such renderings invoke, there are moments when only the poetic voice speaks to what is truly in one’s heart and Soul. The poem that follows is one such example:
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