Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body.
In these moments I let myself thaw
from noun to verb, finding my own
liquidity, and let gravity begin
to pull like an old, sweet summoning,
I then sluice through labyrinthian cracks
in my own becoming, flowing faithfully
right to the feet of this great mountain
of stillness behind my sternum.
And then - here I am
on the richness of gaining
absolutely nothing at all.
- Brooke McNamara
Once it was in my dreams, a place that could home angels.
Their spirits and beauty captured in a moment, so pure and white.
A building, surrounded by draping plants and rolling slopes,
covered by small olive trees and lavender bushes.
A building stretched, touching the sky, not reaching the clouds,
yet they leaned over, rolling down the slopes
enveloping the worshipped state of mind.
Drinking its sweet milk, admiring its white columns,
watching the love angels dance,
while bathing in the sun's gaze.
In my dreams I am always taken back to a place like this,
my hopes end here; peace, love and hope fill my heart.
I am the clouds, I watch and admire, I see the angels,
I see the rolling slopes covered in fragrant flowers,
I run down the hill,
I watch the people living simple colorful lives.
Every upcoming step is a mystery,
they do not seek to satisfy their needs by traveling to achieve it somewhere else
but mold what they have, carving their lives out in the hills surrounding them.
Feeling the safety of the tall revered temple that stands on the hill,
hold them, embracing them,
filling the empty holes they once felt inside when they questioned the great meanings.
Their loved ones living close, down the street
in that slender Italian stone house they spoke their first words in.
In their arms the light of their life gurgles,
a halved toothed mouth smiling up at their gleaming faces.
This bundle of joy,
part of a new generation of beautiful souls.
As you walk through the stony streets, towards the mountain top
the smell of cigarette and coffee dwindles,
pushed away by the vibrant notes of geranium and lavender.
These paths hold generations of memories, and memories yet to come.
Some day when I return, I'll walk these streets
listening to the stories held by the rocks,
their emotions, the happy and melancholy,
Maybe one day it will no longer be a dream.
- Amelie Locke, January 2019
In honor of Amelie Locke
August 14, 2002 - October 1, 2020