River-Tree Whispers

Independence

2009-07-05T09:09:00.001-05:00

.
Clear as a cool summer morning
after the 4th of July.
Independence Day.

I first understood life,
my own life, on my deathbed.
That bed —- a bloody battle field,
in all its glory and horridness.
Acute, the senses.
The smell of soaked soil
on my right cheek and in my ear.
The salt-taste of flesh by teeth
broken to rough sharpness.
I felt more alive than ever
in the pain.

Every action – precise.
More response to
a force inevitable
and certain in cause –-
rather than reaction
to a loose chain
of unrelated events.
Everything relates.
There are no tentatives.
No more unknowns.
All culminates in now.

Even the devious
glint in his eyes
seemed paramount,
as it was punctuated
in the flash of sunlight
on his blade’s swift arch,
as I parried it’s first hack
with my infected forearm.

In that instant
I know one thing:
This life was over.
Fear no longer ruled over reason.
Destiny’s next card was dealt.
I played the hand of fate
with true intent.

This morning
I see it rained in the night.
Last night after displays
of clamor and flash
that studded horizon’s crown
the smoke of fireworks settled in
like the mist of that mythical city
hiding again the truth
from new seekers.

It is clear now.
The many blasts
and colors expanding
in light-blooming skies
and exquisite dreamscapes surreal.
Gone—with the last finale,
yet forever set and clear.
Vivid and clear
as the rose window
by morning light.
Preserved now
the imprint of truth.
A truce of consciousness.

I lay in the field.
And see it clearly.
The one truth coalesced
from the duality of life
on this small earth.
Evil-doers becomes sainted.
Hot flesh becomes fillet of Soul
cooled by the chill
of guilt and horror.
And light becomes darkness
and brightens again.
Balance. All opposites
merge into each other.

The one thing I know
is that death becomes life.
And life—death.
Independence from the perpetrator.
Freedom from terror,
from greed,
from fear.

The glint in his eye
becomes the Light of God.
Enmity resolves.
And all is one.
With my brother.
And one is God.
Balance.
For God is Love.
And Love is God.

Two squirrels chatter
from opposite trees.
But the morning cardinal
sings again from the oak.
After independence
truth in action is Love.
.

July Sky

2009-07-01T22:28:00.004-05:00

As the raspberries thirst, my heart also yearns. But relief could be any morning or afternoon. Yet evening sky just teases in its beauty.

Azure match to many shades of gray
Hues highlighted white and silver striped
A hint of pink and golden glow --
July sky still tries to speak
With lies of rain.

Rock Work

2009-06-28T23:02:00.004-05:00

Rock solid. Stone cold. Heavy. Hard.
And the most plentiful substance on earth.
Stone cold, solid rock. Or maybe incendiary ash, or molten lava, shifting sands.
Tectonic plate. Continental shelf. Mountain peak.
Butte. Precipice. Cliffs of Dover. Rock of Gibraltar. Sugar Loaf.
What is rock, but the facial features and bold character of this planet we live on?

Limestone. Granite. Shale. Marble. Agate. Jade. Obsidian.
Arrowheads and spear tips. Clubs and forts and the ammo of catapults.
Crash the gates. Steal the gold.
Diamonds. Amethyst. Amber.
Coal. Charcoal. Carbon.
Sediment. Fossil. Coral reef.
Life. Death. Stone.

What is rock, but ancient memory preserved for ages to come?
Recorded. Set in stone.
Past, present, future.
We live. We die.
Generations of ancestors and progeny are but fleeting thoughts.
Civilizations rise and fall. All in the tick tock of rock rubbing stone.
Life forms come and go.
Rock—the witness. Doesn’t care. Stone cold. Unforgiving silent monitor of Soul.

Why do I love working with stone?
Pick. Hammer. Shovel.
Chisel. Mortar. Trowel.
Shape. Stack. Set.

Roads and walkways.
Steps and walls and monuments.
Columns, coliseums & domiciles.
Lintel, arch, beam and buttress.
Bridges, fountains, statues, cathedrals.
Sculptured art museum.
Easter Island, Egypt, Atlantis.
Druids, aliens, slave.
Past, present – Soul.

My body aches from lifting and hauling and placing. But I love working with stone.
Brick and block. Concrete, cement. Sand and water.
Life and death and stone.
Soul on a planet of rock. Shocking, but true.
Solid and liquid and gas.
Matter and energy. Space and time.
And stone.
The elementals collude.
Earth and air. Fire and water.
And always, the Spirit, the stone
And Soul.
There is a plan. Can I know it?
All biological life is merely changing fashion for stone.
We are fleeting.
In this world, but not of it.
Buddha. Arjuna. Lai Tsi.
Jesus, Paul and Peter.
Popes and presidents and Czars.
Dictatorships, republics.
Communist, fascist, socialist.
Democracy, freedom. Enslavement.
Chaos and disorder. Revolution.
Greed and gold.
Power and fear.
Love.

The planet and stone and Soul.
I love working with stone.
And as the body toils, the mind works through every possible solution.
Level and plumb. Pitch and camber. Pressure and balance.
Thought provoking. Stone.
Rock work. The means to time travel.

Which great-grand ancestor was the mason? Who taught me this?
Was I the master, the slave? The climber? The miner?
I built a retaining wall last Saturday. And inlayed some brick along the front walk. Lots to do yet before the project is complete. But I love the work. Rock work.

.

Ocean Blessing Desert

2009-06-18T21:37:00.003-05:00

.
Ocean doesn’t know this desert’s hope.
Yet every storm is of the current
Caressing hills and valley rich—
Giving life before depletion
In its distant crossing.
Rare the rain
That blesses here.
Maybe this spring, or next.
I await your touch, your kiss.
And tomorrow’s new sea blooming.
Blues, gold-yellow, scarlet, orange.
And green as valley’s summer.
Sweet days of life renewal—
Your love and blessing.
.

Rain Dance

2009-06-04T23:03:00.004-05:00

It hasn’t rained in too long here. They say it is a record. But I, and my garden, fear not . . .

Rain Dance

I know how to make it rain
And it’s never failed yet
Takes a talent
All but the arrogant can learn
Rain dance of determination
Barefoot and free
Naked if you don’t have a better dress
Fresh from the store
Or a raincoat for sure
If you can’t
First stand alone
When you’re out in a crowd
Shout out your song
Without breaking silence
Except to those with the ears
Listen to the ancients
Hear the word of your soul
Understand the ocean
The sun, and the sky
And the spirit of creation
That made them and we
Every tree and seed
And bird that sings there
For shelter and food
And rain.
There is a rhythm that links us
A connecting chord
Strike it once with imagination
Pluck it twice. Anticipation
See the clouds approaching
Forming from thin air
There is nothing like
A storm front
Of love.
Live like the sky is the cover
Warming just you and every lover
For soon the wind is a tempest
to carry the scent of parched soil
Being quenched and satisfied.
Boughs of oaks lift their leaves
Exposing their undersides—white
Petticoats of no shame
Saying, Take me!
There’s only one chance left
Before the rain
Open your arms in adoration
Open your heart to this blessing
Your mind to the knowing
There’s just one force
Of love.
Rain feeds the leaves and the grass
Rain feeds the furrowed fields
And my brow
That once doubted
The power
Of love.
Feeds the rivers with creeks
The creeks with rivulets
The dripping, not stopping
Dropping from dark clouds
Coalesced from white wisps
Out of thin air
And seeded by love
All feeding the ocean
Of mercy.
Fed by all rivers, all souls
Sky is the height of my reason
Love is eternity
And rain.

The Law of Allowing: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness

2009-05-17T10:38:00.002-05:00

I usually post pieces of this nature on my ShareTree blog, but I believe this is worth the space on River-Tree Whispers.

Last night we watched the movie, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Watch it if you dare. After seeing it, as well as a few other significant news items lately -- like the forced medication of Danny Hauser, and the torture memos -- I decided to distill into words my outlook on the matter of liberty. Here goes:

There is one law -- the Higher Law -- that all others or based on, either in support of, or in defiance of that law.

The Law grants the freedom to do anything . . .

But because we live here, and the Higher Law is manifest in this world of opposites, it proceeds in statement as:

. . . except denying others the same freedom.

And because the passivity of allowing has an opposite activity, it continues:

Only the defense of freedom will assure it. Passivity in its defense is activity in its corruption.

* * *

There is awareness and there is action. Where do I stand?

What do we do when we become aware that freedom is denied to another who is not being justly defended? Should we speak out, state the obvious and make others aware? Or is not doing so passivity in defense of The Law? Passivity, I believe, will result in heightened action -- either in defense of The Law, or its corruption. Revolution need not be violent.

* * *

Be aware that
what and when and where
to speak and act
is best guided by
a more direct connection
to The Source
of the Higher Law.

The Spirit of Life
does not degrade it.

* *

There are no Others. We are all Soul. Soul is a spark of the Divine.

Beware!

2009-05-16T12:48:00.002-05:00

.
Beware!
the poets and philosophers
and others
who talk to themselves.
Or is insanity just apprenticeship
to mastership?
.

Wisdom of Brothers

2009-05-10T10:03:00.003-05:00

I have a brother down-under. We trade stories almost every day. I know it hardly seems possible that the two of us, with such dissimilar lifestyles would ever even touch base more than once or twice a year. Yet the depth of this morning’s conversation helped me see once more that our connection is deeper than kin, and more complex than the crossing of chromosomes in the evolution of race. Let me take you there.

We were both relaxed in our places, I on the recliner in my suburban home, and he in sandals, maybe barefoot. Yet it was as if we were together—met half-way on a tropical island—paradise of color and ancient sea breeze. Time did not call, but left us to the whim of every past event we shared in recollection. Slowly flowed the river and quick, like an egret’s pick for minnow-bits after waiting with evening’s shadow to claim the east bank. He told me once he watched one for hours, not knowing how patience could apply to his world of survival. Then, he said, the gangly bird, white and sure, turned and looked at me, looked me in the eyes. I became the egret. I was surrender. Home on the wind.

And there was the Museum of Mobridge. We viewed the displays of glass and steel, historical vignettes of lives we never knew—each somehow becoming part of us in the eternity of now. From the mezzanine, where we had tea and strudel, we watched the morning light on two levels change the forms from crimson, gold, and ships dancing to the beauty of maidens in the secret of our dreams. Caves of illusion re-lit with wisdom unwound and not worded—even by Rumi, Keats and Thoreau. It’s told in many forms by all.

We took many journeys. More than usual this morning—to heavens and hells. Comfort and protection in the brotherhood of wisdom dreaming. Better to drink with a friend than alone. And better if its water after long days of thirst. Oasis in the desert. Lights in the darkness renew. Danger only comes with fair warning, and fortune is not free. Soul equals Soul, they say. He does. And I . . . .

I’ve never met my brother outside my recliner or rack. I’m not even sure in what age he lives. There is this daydream world together. Nights too we journey. Its contemplation is an exercise of Soul.

A Moment in Eternity

2009-05-09T10:39:00.002-05:00

.
Whether we see sacred space
in a temple
or a dollhouse
. . . and experience
. . . the freedom therein . . .
that moment
is eternity.
.

Full Gallop

2009-04-26T00:01:00.011-05:00

Dad told me stories of he and his Uncle Crist, a horse trader and sheriff.
While driving a herd to Eureka, South Dakota, dad drove the wagon.
It was several day's journey.
At the end they raced a hailstorm home to cover.

When I was 10, we had a white and black pinto.
He was jumpy at first.
Dad taught us a lot about horses.

(this morning's page from my journal)

Full Gallop

First is trust
by touch and whisper
velvet strokes
and scent shared
till silent's question
answers only
to riding bare-back
at full gallop.
Hold back nothing
in love.

Borderland

2009-04-24T20:42:00.003-05:00

.
Walk in the Borderland daily
Come and go at will
Between two worlds
One always waiting
Meeting where darkness
Becomes the light
And silence calls me
Always.
.

Creation: from Secret to Celebrate

2009-04-20T20:25:00.004-05:00

.
Don't even think it
to yourself
till it is ready.
Silence, ye thinkers!
Crosswords instead.
Or numbers dropping.
.
But when it's ready
your heart beats the drum
and Soul knows.
Speak. Say it out loud.
And write it
in song.
.
Sing what your soul knows.
Sounding the drumbeat,
the heart song
for freedom.
Celebrate
thought Creation.
.

this moment

2009-04-15T23:26:00.004-05:00

.

lock eyes with a baby

discover truth

for soul

is only now

till eternity

calls me

to the next

revealing

.

A Song, a Dream, a Flight

2009-04-15T23:13:00.004-05:00

.
Ears of disbelief
on a day flight to Pheonix
song of a treefrog
I'm certain.
Where is the plumwood?
What seat carries dreams?
A boy of nine once
I walked the woods path
at night. Quickly.

.

On Creative Endeavor

2009-03-29T11:14:00.003-05:00

A passage from The Art and Craft of Novel Writing by Oakley Hall prompted the following.

Some say the craft of fiction writing is the use of skills learned, borrowed or stolen from past practitioners of the craft in recreating events for others previously existing only in the mind of the author. This may be true in part, but I believe this system is but a small, limiting part of the creative endeavor.

Yes, we do pick up skills from others. Our teachers, and the reading of our preferred authors give us a framework for creation, but the foundation of story, its genesis, already exists—on another level, a field beyond the mental realm, in the experience of all. Furthermore, the teachers of great writers are more often past masters of the craft that work directly with, though most often not even conscious to the current apprentice.

Creation to me is not so much the manipulation of ideas and language for mood and possibility, but more the reading of what is and the acceptance of pure inspiration. And this applies to all true art, whether it is of a factual nature or rendition, or of the fanciful. The story, the song, the dance of light and color in performance and visual arts—are all already in being. We could not imagine them were they not of a living form. The idea that we must channel our creativity through the laws of physics is quite elementary in the evolution of culture. Recollection and tuning-in, with the masterful assistance of one’s non-physical staff, are the skills predominant in the art of evoking profound experience in the being of others. So much more than mental reality, a creation in performance or observation evokes all the senses, not just the five physical ones.

To watch the still expression of a mime,
to ponder the Mona Lisa from the bench in the Louvre,
to whisper a word in the ear of your lover
or to imagine it, or all of these events
are … dot dot dot . . .

Who wrote it?
I just transcribe.

Awake - Asleep ??

2009-03-28T18:17:00.002-05:00

Still trying to gain an understanding of the mind's working in that altered state while trying to stay awake. It happens all too often lately.

It’s not like the place of comfort upon awakening from a night's sleep, where the moments linger in bliss and it doesn’t matter if you succumb to slumber a few more minutes or seconds or thirds. For past experience prepares the body, the mind for a degree of alertness. Whether the transition is drawn by the tail of a snail or the start of a jackrabbit jumping the restless leg anxious and running, there is always peace knowing the place you came from. There you can return should the day turn out wrong.

This is different--a reversal of awareness. Though as unreal as the process of gaining consciousness, it is not a place of peace. More the torture of returning to a hell thought long gone and never even then deserved. Still it would be so good to just give in to the blackness, like the sweet death of afflicted pestilence. No. There is the bounce back and forth – light to darkness, from life to death. And an expanse in between where the inner and outer senses mingle...
an attempt to grasp my psyche’s dynamic
in that space between conscious thought
and passive reception of impression’s whisper
fleeting.
I see an amorphous image—
formless, yet spherical,
a cloud of silver,
a tree of tissue teased by breeze
and seasons color.

Symbols, words, thoughts in a storm, swirling
I try. I try and fail. I try again. I try to catch with my mind
like the mouse clicking to capture or escape in a game of video pursuit
variable, flowing, fleeing
the leaves of a tree
in a fire storm
life or death
awake
asleep
no answer...

.

Affected

2009-03-13T18:50:00.003-05:00

All I want is to hear the truth.
To tell the truth
To live it
But what is truth?
Is it the record of objectively observed events?
Or is it the source of initiation
of all events?

A stone is thrown into a lake
The smooth surface is disturbed.
A wave of liquid compression
is radiated outward
and at once reflected back to the source.
Each wave spawns a duplicate
but lesser child—
all in depreciating effect
resulting from its own reactive offspring
which passes back through the source
to follow in successive generation
its mother’s mother
until the reactive force
weakens to the point of
imperceptible motion
as the final tail hairs of
this long line of events
the thread-bear coattails
of great grandmother.
Yet each radiates out,
and back in when it reaches shore
and any other object in the lake
including other waves
seeded by similar events—
affecting the genesis of many new family lines.
A disturbance, an action
a decision of conscious manipulation
or blundering unconsciousness
applying an element
of truth.

What is the original element?
If truth exists whether it is believed in or not
Is it static?
Or ever-changing?
If my belief
does not align with truth
does my acting from it
have any less effect?

What wave will regenerate without depreciating?
What act will most benefit myself, my mother, my Source
And all life?
.

High Cuisine -- It's About Love

2009-03-11T19:31:00.005-05:00

It's not poetry, but also of the heart.

It's About Love

The other night while enjoying my bowl of soup, I had to reconsider what really makes food good. This was not just a warmed up can of Campbell's. Marily makes a pot of soup most every weekend in the winter. We enjoy it in the evenings the rest of the week. And she does other cooking on the weekends too, for our lunches. For her it is a way to eat good and save money. That, I appreciate. Not just with gratitude for a job well done within our household budget. What others may consider left-overs, I relish with joy. I realize now that what Marily has done for me all these years is not just her best effort to fulfill certain traditional duties in our marriage. It is a matter of love.

This week's soup was apple-brie. Last week it was vegetable bean. Other dishes we've enjoyed over the past few weeks are butternut squash, cubed and steamed, over ravioli and wilted spinach, Swedish meatballs in cream sauce with Chardonnay, on brown rice, and crusty butter-crumb vegetables. Why is it all so good?

It's the love. I have to say, the love. We do eat out occasionally, probably twice a month on average. And we enjoy some good meals out. But why are they good? Again, it's because of the emotional experience. I can't imagine having a pleasant meal at a café or restaurant by myself. It is the friend or friends we share the meal with. Or even better—just the two of us. Menu selection, ingredients and technique are a small part of cuisine. Love is the larger part.

And of course, besides the love shared in the company of others, there is the same energy applied by the chef. Is that why some restaurants stay in business year after year, and others fold? Is it the love that is put into the recipes and presentation by the chef? And the staff? Love infused into what we do, I feel, is the key to success.

Think about it. We love our cat, Miles. We treat him with love and he loves us. He is a living, breathing entity sensitive to energy, to feelings—to love. Food too is of a living life-form. Life detects life. All matter can be considered a storage device for energy. Energy it re-radiates. Transformer of life and of love.

Food, being closer to life than say, a rock, has perhaps more potential to redistribute energy. But anything we handle with positive intent will pass on the uplifting energy. Our craft is an art when we give it our love and out of love.

Marily puts a lot of that love energy into her food and cooking. It starts the day before when she is thinking of what might be the menu for the following week. Upon awakening Saturday morning, or maybe even half way back from a dream, the decision is made. As I start my day of writing, or basement cleaning or needed repairs, Marily is starting an orchestration of kitchen utensils, grinding flour or chopping vegetable. Checking the culinary score sheets and amending the recipes as she proceeds has advanced the quality of her productions over the years.

I am a lucky man. I would have it no other way than to be married to such a woman. I'm a lucky man. But it didn't start with us. Marily's mom has always been an excellent cook, as well. She passed on the tradition of loving service to her family.

My mother too. I remember taking Marily to mom's kitchen after we were married. I wanted to have her learn to make the bread I grew up with. She learned it well. From a city girl to a gourmet chef, who uses the harvest of my garden through the winter—I couldn't ask for a better partner. In March we are still enjoying recipes with the butternut squash stored in the basement and Ramano beans in the freezer.

Marily's Swedish and Italian heritage serves us well. With love. Love nourishes, love heals, love grows.

See a related peice about my garden: The Kitchen Garden. It is in poetic form.

Lightning and Fog

2009-03-05T22:42:00.004-06:00

Have you ever had a time staying awake at the keyboard?
Not that it has ever happened to me.
I write, but I should have slept more the night before.

Sleep. So good. But trying to stay awake. Not so. First the fog, then—a cold-sweating wave of torture. Worse than the pangs of death remembered of past incarnations. O, give in. I give up. Take me out of this condition of schism. I try to stay alert—forcing thoughts of consciousness, of reason. Rationale. Objective observation. Simple math or alphabet. But it does not hold. Milliseconds seem like minutes, and minutes—hours, while lifetimes of strangers pass through the visions dancing. Advancing. Retreating. Edicts and off-hand compliments. Criticism of each unexpected appearance—saints applaud and demons mock this stream of unconscious flocking. Though grand insight and dull devotion intermingle in this distortion of space and time, a wealth of story, intrigue, inspiration unfold in silent succession. Plot and character pours forth from the final place of muse reflection. Song-writers, poets and mystery writers take weapon and battle to death for this. But death stops no pain, and not is retained. Memory gives way to a starry voyage. A river of light. The cave of echoes mocking. The fog is closing. Soft. In peace. And Snap! A crack of lightning. Bolt awake. No going back. And forth—the raging storm of peace. Succumbs to apple pie, the crumbs of hope and holy stones complete. It's all a dream somewhere. The fog and shocking truth that all is of a plan. Harmonic in its light. A stab now right to soul. So lonely in the snow. Keeps calling. All in the last seven seconds. Calling me awake. Takes a gentle rocking, despite a desperate attempt at return. But no. It’s not to be. Eyes clamp and chin drops. Hand to key repeating Vs, unending. Tapped the place of ancient passage. Slipping. Slipping. Sleep—so good. Damn the keeper of bad dreams.

The Kitchen Garden

2009-02-28T21:33:00.007-06:00

I garden. I eat. I love.

The Kitchen Garden

What do I know of food, but love?
Marily prepares it
I eat and love it.
It is the love that nourishes.
The love superimposed on every molecule
in every morsel.
She is among the best I know
at doing this, surpassing mother
and grandmother
and every old lady
who lived in a shoe.
Better than bakers dozen
and fairytale cook of stone soup.
What do I know?
I don’t cook.
I just eat it.

But wait!
Who grew those potatoes?
I did.
Who planted the carrots
and hoed in the row
keeping the weeds to their knees?
Tomatoes bowing to sun
and growing red
peppers green
while moon offers harvest tips
before the beans can climb the fence
escaping to neighbors
'cause a garden won't walk out the gate.
Shovel and clipper, a wheelbarrow load
and squash à la carte
side salad salsa
and blueberries à la mode.
I know, I know.
I grow ‘em.

Ever wonder why homegrown is better than bought?
I found out as a boy on the farm.
Mom was the gardener and cook.
Dad milked the cow and plowed till dusk.
On our 20 acre plot
we had a garden and a barn
an orchard and grape vines.
Once mom made dandelion wine.
It tasted great before I was old enough
to know.

We knew all living things were by the love of God.
We worked together for the food.
Even hard work was good
on the farm.
Someone told me once—
was it Mom or Aunt Louise?
who made goat cheese
like none other:
It’s not the food that feeds you.
Love those seeds before you plant them.
Hold ‘em in your hands
give them your breath and teach 'em
what love is. Put them in your mouth.
Caress them.
They’ll learn to know your needs
and track all past disease to present.
Infuse what’s needed for prevention
in their pods and roots and leaves.
Peas and beets and spinach
need clean water.
But better that you first
soak your feet in the bucket from the well
and water after dinner
when the tree-line hides the sun.
Or in the morning before it rises
higher than your shoulder blades.
And grass is not to mow,
but for sheep and goats to eat
providing what is needed for those beets.
Brown the springtime garden before it grows.
Love your seeds before you plant them.
Walk barefoot on the dirt.
It works to love
the plants you grow
and let them know you.

Life is love's expression.
Love is God in food.

© 2009 Ardi Keim

(For more on Marily's cooking see High Cuisine.)
.

Sings from the Window

2009-02-28T14:04:00.003-06:00

Our writers group meets for an annual retreat at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. Today is the day.

Sings from the Window

View to the west this winter day
an abundance of life
and the light.
Chickadees in trees preening
and swiping their beaks.
Woodpeckers exploring each bark crevasse
one red-headed and another
speckle-striped
black and white.

Two cardinals at the feeder and more in the bush.
A fat crow sunning in a high branch
overlooking the footbridge
and frozen lake.
Two, no three others
now light to form a tree-top flock
and call themselves
to sovereignty.

A fiefdom of other birds
join the lower ranks.
Most of them
I do not know and need not.
Their beauty is
the knowledge of Soul,
a waking dream
of Thanksgiving,
of Gratitude,
of Love.

I rest in this peace,
this retreat of nature
and supernatural ambiance.
It sings.

Out of the Blue

2009-02-25T21:10:00.004-06:00

Note the right-hand sidebar icon of the book Out of the Blue--Preparing for Other Worlds under Recommended by River-Tree Whispers. This book of spiritual poetry was written by a good friend of mine, and includes one of my poems in the introduction.

An example of her work is reproduced below. It is a favorites of mine in the collection:

Breath
by Melanie Payne

Like the air we share
Not belonging to one
More than another
God embraces us individually
Equally
Simultaneously cared for
Loved
We share atoms with ancients, newborns
All life
Connected at the core of survival
With each encounter
All are blessed
Both teacher and student
From first breath of life

Poetry

2009-02-22T11:52:00.001-06:00

Head submits
to heart and soul
so hand and voice
can yield a poem.

--ak

Free

2009-02-21T19:44:00.002-06:00

The original version of this poem was written in my spiritual search about thirty years ago. The nature of Soul is of Love, of Truth, and of Freedom. Recognizing we are all of the one divine Source is the starting point of that true nature.

Free

Free to look into your eyes
and see that you are me
that we are one
despite apparent differences
the union of spirit
is strong and eternal
though ego plays the games
spirit reigns.

We need not know
or see, or play
just be.
Then and now
forever after we
are Free.

Kissing Baby Feet

2009-02-11T21:01:00.003-06:00

Love comes in many ways. Once I made a Valentines Day card for my wife. It said (I wrote), "Valentines Day - big deal - just another day - I love you more." Pure love can fit convention. Often it doesn't. Then there are babies. Thirty-some years ago--our daughters . . . . And ever after.

Sweet as a spring bloom

Warm like fresh bread

Autumn leaves

The forest scented

Kissing baby’s feet.

© 2005 Ardi Keim 1/29/05