Monday, July 20, 2009


By: Kyle Elden

We can only begin
to grasp you
through metaphors,
through beliefs,
squeezing tiny drops
of the Infinite’s sweet nectar,
golden as dawns first light,
shedding layers of truth
upon humanity

It is through You,
upon your breath
streaming through
branches of trees
swirling out
of the open mouths
of orange poppies and
that Life is sustained

The name Father or King
Mother or Friend
cannot capture you fully
all these names
used to describe you
allow us to be submerged
in the ocean of You
but we have only swam
in the palm of your
hand, have only heard
whispers of your wisdom
we do not know
the entirety of You

These metaphors
and beliefs
both give you to us
and tear you to pieces
once a sacred
and still river
your image is now
broken across that
same water
we must stop
throwing stones
stop fighting
let the waves settle
and wait for You
to emerge clearly

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

The Summer Day

By: Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down,
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Lost Love

By: Kyle Elden

when you can still taste
the traces of a broken dream
sweet in your mouth

when you still salivate
with desire
the raw honey
of what could have been
still golden
and sticky on your lips

when your face is tear streaked
shining in the light of
the morning sun

when you play the same sad song
on repeat in your parked car

when you feel like you’ve hit bottom
face planted against black asphalt
shards of glass embedded in your skin
thrown hundreds of feet from where
you thought you were going
from that place that marks the
impact of the crash
marks the moment when
everything changed

when you lift your head
and notice how the entire world continues
to live

when you see the bright blue sky
still against a kaleidoscope of green leaves
brushstrokes of pine, birch, and maple
swaying gently
when you listen carefully
and begin to hear
a splattering of sounds
the humble song of a bluebird
a truck grumbling up the avenue
the church bell calling for worship
the low buzz of a bee gathering nectar

when you are ready
you begin to move forward
grabbing hold of the outstretched hand
standing up
steadying yourself
one foot in front of the other

when you look back from this distance
tracing your hands softly over what once was
you feel the rugged mark of that love
engraved on your heart

Monday, July 13, 2009

What Did You Think?

By: Chris Bursk

That you'd get older,
old enough
to make sense of things
that never made sense
before, clarity
a sort of reward
for living this long,
the recompense
for making so many mistakes?

Did you think you'd stop
walking away
from what should be faced
and facing
what you should
walk away from?

Did you hope for,
if not wisdom,
at least patience, if not
a highway, at least
a trail you could follow?

Did you think the rain would fall
more understandingly
on your face, the wind
let you off the hook,
a fish that'd fought so long
it deserved to sleep now
at the pond's bottom?

Did you hope to be so old
you'd have worn the world out,
won from it
begrudging acceptance,
to live in this body
so long you'd stop
yearning for what
it couldn't give, your mind
less greedy?

That you'd tire
of worry, terror?

Did you think
you deserved better?

Better than what?
The trees?
The stones? The dried up creek?

Did you think you'd be
better prepared
for what was to come?

Think again.

Friday, July 10, 2009

How to Say Goodbye

By: Kyle Elden

In the morning I wake
no longer in the same bed
in the same house as you

always before the sun rises
grappling with choices and decisions
that have wrung out our lives
as we have known them together

before the rest of the world begins their day
I face myself in this illustrious unwavering silence
in this darkness that,
dawn after dawn,
crescendos to daybreak
and all the noise of traffic and other people
who mean well but don’t really know our story

there are so many ideas of what it means to love
so much advice….don’t give up, fight for love
you should do this, don’t do that….

somehow we migrated together
to our own battlefield
of buried landmines, stockpiles of weapons
somehow the picture we saw of our love
in the beginning never came to fruition
a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle we struggled
to put together with misshapen and missing pieces

and this is the time
we have parted
each left in the wake
of waves from a ship
we never quite boarded

how does one say it?
throbbing in my throat
a thistly unfurling finality
a door closing softly for the last time
the wail of a grieving mother
a siren screaming down the heart of a city
a heart slowing to a stunning stillness
a human soul exiting a body

Sunday, July 5, 2009


By: Shelia Packa

Because the world comes to your door
and you don't always answer

Because you don't recognize all of your desires

Because the center moves
and you lose your balance

Because you did not hold the opposites
or know how much is too much

Because darkness comes
a season turns and the neighbor's branch
offers deep red berries upon a brown stem

Because the wind extends to your hand

Because you depend on uncertainties
and each one contains a seed

Thursday, July 2, 2009


By: Hafiz

Today love has completely gutted me.
I am lying in the market like a filleted grouper,
Every desire and sinew absolutely silent
But I am still so fresh.


By: Hafiz

When the words stop
And you can endure the silence
That reveals your heart's pain
Of emptiness
Or that great wrenching-sweet longing.
That is the time to try and listen
To what the Beloved's eyes
most want to say.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009


By: Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whomever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.