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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 this blog I offer you heartfelt, homemade recordings of some of my favorite poems. I invite you also to spend time with their pulsing vibrations and pregnant pauses, to savor the luscious sensual syllables on your tongue, and to feel the subtle changes in your being as you play with the poems.

Listen, read and then slowly speak them out loud. The medicine of poetry will endlessly surprise and delight you as a portal into your own wild multidimensionality!

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Annunciation, for Winter Solstice

12/20/2020

 
Picture
Painting by Kelly Hall.
Used with permission.

Even if I don't see it again--nor ever feel it
I know it is--and that if once it hailed me
it ever does--
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as towards a place, but it was a tilting
within myself,
as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
it isn't--I was blinded like that--and swam 
in what shone at me
only able to endure it by being no one and so
specifically myself I thought I'd die
from being loved like that.

    - Marie Howe

Visitor

11/29/2020

 
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Vision Tree
Painting by Alex Grey


​​I am dreaming of a house just like this one

but larger and opener to the trees, nighter

than day and higher than noon, and you,

visiting, knocking to get in, hoping for icy

milk or hot tea or whatever it is you like.

For each night is a long drink in a short glass.

A drink of blacksound water, such a rush

and fall of lonesome no form can contain it.

And if it isn’t night yet, though I seem to

recall that it is, then it is not for everyone.

Did you receive my invitation? It is not

for everyone. Please come to my house

lit by leaf light. It’s like a book with bright

pages filled with flocks and glens and groves

and overlooked by Pan, that seductive satyr

in whom the fish is also cooked. A book that

took too long to read but minutes to unread--

that is—to forget. Strange are the pages

thus. Nothing but the hope of company.

I made too much pie in expectation. I was

hoping to sit with you in a tree house in a

nightgown in a real way. Did you receive

my invitation? Written in haste, before

leaf blinked out, before the idea fully formed.

An idea like a storm cloud that does not spill

or arrive but moves silently in a direction.

Like a dark book in a long life with a vague
​
hope in a wood house with an open door.


​    - Brenda Shaughnessy


For the Sleepwalkers

11/15/2020

 
Picture
Collage by Cindy Wood, www.cindywoodart.com.
Used with permission.


​Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible

arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.

I love the way that sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,

palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.

And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like:  our hearts are leaving our bodies.

Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music

of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests.


We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds

and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.

    - Edward Hirsch

Faithful Following the Flow

11/8/2020

 
Picture
Painting by Kelly Hall. Used with permission.

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
ancient, drunk
on the richness of gaining
absolutely nothing at all.

- Brooke McNamara

A Place Like This

11/1/2020

 
Picture
Painting by Amelie Locke

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​
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Terra Incognita

10/18/2020

 
Picture
Painting by Kirsten DeBoer.
Used with permission.


There are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed of
vast ranges of experience, like the humming of unseen harps,

we know nothing of, within us.

Oh when man has escaped from the barbed-wire entanglement

of his own ideas and his own mechanical devices

there is a marvelous rich world of contact and sheer fluid beauty

and fearless face-to-face awareness of now-naked life

and me, and you, and other men and women

and grapes, and ghouls, and ghosts and green moonlight

and ruddy-orange limbs stirring the limbo

of the unknown air, and eyes so soft

softer than the space between the stars,

and all things, and nothing, and being and not-being

alternately palpitant,

when at last we escape the barbed-wire enclosure

of Know Thyself, knowing we can never know,

we can but touch, and wonder, and ponder, and make our effort

and dangle in a last fastidious fine delight

as the fuchsia does, dangling her reckless drop

of purple after so much putting forth

and slow mounting marvel of a little tree.


    - D.H. Lawrence


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  • Home
  • Wild Words Poetry Blog
  • Ecos de la Marea
  • About
    • About Pam
    • Spiritual Midwifery
    • Client Experiences
  • Services
    • The Emotion Code & The Body Code
    • Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy
    • Quantum Touch
    • Reconnective Healing
    • Death Midwifery & Home Funeral Guide
    • Animal Healing
  • Events
    • Trips & Retreats
    • Workshops
    • Ceremonies
    • Four Petal Gathering
  • Hours & Fees
  • Contact