The Inspiration :
In 2023 from the ending of March to the second week of April
many of the wayward sentient pilgrims celebrated the holy days of Ramadan ,
Passover , Good Friday and Easter . These mystical consecrated days
included the celebration and onset of mother earth's own resurrection
season . One particular sign of the oncoming transformation for one pilgrim
was the appearance of a Sparrow's nest with eggs comfortably
sitting in a wreath on the front door of his home.( pictured above)
As he silently slipped secretly to secure a picture of the sanctified moment
the mother Sparrow caught the pilgrim's eye staring him down as if
to say "This is 'sacred space.This is my home" and she took flight
diverting the human away from her nest and chicks waiting to hatch.
Within three days of that holy event visiting the front door nest the seeker
dutifully wandered to the local Quaker Meeting House. After a a short
period of sitting in sinful silence his spirit felt compelled
to witness about the incident with the Sparrow .
Without notice another spirit filled member of the congregation
spoke softly how her heart was open to the fact that everything everywhere
is a sacred space - a Holy Home. Surprises sometimes spark a rekindling
of that dormant flame within.
The pilgrim was wakened to how amnesia and being tethered
to the world can be quite distracting from the truth.
The Writing:
Sanctuary and Sacred Spaces
How is it that you fall with clown-like ease from the present
To the next moment , the here and now ,
In the blink on an eye?
These waves you sail, the paths you walk, with
The birds that sing in hallelujah
- all trying to proclaim that
The promised land , just might be the hallowed safe harbor
You have been screaming for in the dark of the night.
The proverbial insane sea sickness consumes some
Solo sojourning sailors seeking solace.
Yet, in the distant horizon shines a light
Becoming brighter and brighter as
Breaths are counted and the cold
Sweat meanders down your weary worn face.
Hands dip deeper into the frayed
Lint filled holed pockets
Grabbing for one last smoke
While magically a parting shot of sacramental bourbon
Reaches your parched lips.
Your soul wonders why
You are not holding one
Who loves without demand.
Like the wind blowing in from an unknown source,
It is the nourishing unconditional arrival of April rain that
Quenches those most parched and present
With that thirst for sanctuary and sacred space;
The ever persistent mystical consolation.
"Now" is resurrected , the exalted awakening
Of the sweetest concord , the great consecration,
In every aspect of creation and experience.
- JF Sobecki
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The Poems and Such:
"Poetry is a gateway into intuitive consciousness. It knocks on the doors
of the heart and the heart opens" - Mirabai Starr
" To see the world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower.'
- Wm. Blake
-------
Gratitude
- Gary Snyder ( After a Mohawk Prayer)
[Read by a member the same day
as the witness was made about sacred spaces]
Gratitude to Mother Earth, sailing through night and day
and to her soil, rich , rare, and sweet
in our minds so be it
Gratitude plants, the sun-facing light-changing leaf
the fine root hairs, standing still through wind
and rain , their dance is in the flowing grain
in our minds so be it
Gratitude to Air, bearing the Swift and the silent
Owl at dawn, breath of our song
clear spirit breeze
in our minds so be it
Gratitude to Wild Beings, our brothers and sisters
teaching secrets, freedoms and ways
self-complete , brave, and aware
in our minds so be it
Gratitude to Water, clouds, lakes, rivers, glaciers
holding or releasing, streaming through all
our bodies salty seas
in our minds so be it
Gratitude to the Sun, blinding pulsing light through
trunks of trees, through mists, warming caves where
bears and snakes sleep -- he who wakes us ---
in our minds so be it
Gratitude to the Great Sky
who holds billions of stars--and goes yet beyond that
beyond all powers and thoughts and yet is within us ---
Grandfather space
The Mind is his Wife
so be it
----
Carrying The Songs
for Triona and Maighread Ni Domhnail
"Those in power write the history , those who suffer write the songs. "
(Frank Harte)
It was always those with little else to carry
who carried the songs
to Babylon
to the Mississippi ---
some of these last possessed less than nothing
did not own their own bodies
yet, three centuries later,
deep rhythms from Africa,
store in their hearts, their bones,
carry the world's songs.
For those who left my country,
girls from Downings and the Rosses
who followed herring boats north to Shetland
gutting the sea's silver as they went
or boys from Ranafast and Horn Head
who took the Derry boat,
who slept over a rope in a bothy
songs were their soul's currency
the pure metal of their hearts,
to be exchanged for other gold,
other songs which rang out true and bright
when flung down
upon the deal boards of their days
- Moya Cannon
The Music:
