You Can't Start The Spiritual Journey Until You Have A Broken Heart

Source: Favim

Take the edge of the past,

not the whole

just the edge,

the way the art teacher

said You Blink Too Much,

the way the English teacher said

Your Father Must Have Written This-

It's Too Good . . .

This must be why

God started talking to me

in my own voice with

thoughts of

consequence and

ideas I never knew,

in my own voice,

even though I thought

a better one surely

should be found,

and certainly could be found-

It sounded at first

like a fiery sun

and a silk moon

spinning through me,

in tongues

and languages

I finally understood

but fast- so fast-

by the time I got the pen

it was gone.

~ Grace Cavalieri 

You Can't Start The Spiritual Journey Until You Have A Broken Heart

Source: Favim

Take the edge of the past,

not the whole

just the edge,

the way the art teacher

said You Blink Too Much,

the way the English teacher said

Your Father Must Have Written This-

It's Too Good . . .

This must be why

God started talking to me

in my own voice with

thoughts of

consequence and

ideas I never knew,

in my own voice,

even though I thought

a better one surely

should be found,

and certainly could be found-

It sounded at first

like a fiery sun

and a silk moon

spinning through me,

in tongues

and languages

I finally understood

but fast- so fast-

by the time I got the pen

it was gone.

~ Grace Cavalieri 

Sometimes, I Am Startled Out Of Myself,

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com

like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.

Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.

You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.

All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again. 

~ Barbara Crooker

Sometimes, I Am Startled Out Of Myself,

Photo credit: taliesin from morguefile.com

like this morning, when the wild geese came squawking,
flapping their rusty hinges, and something about their trek
across the sky made me think about my life, the places
of brokenness, the places of sorrow, the places where grief
has strung me out to dry. And then the geese come calling,
the leader falling back when tired, another taking her place.
Hope is borne on wings. Look at the trees. They turn to gold
for a brief while, then lose it all each November.

Through the cold months, they stand, take the worst
weather has to offer. And still, they put out shy green leaves
come April, come May. The geese glide over the cornfields,
land on the pond with its sedges and reeds.

You do not have to be wise. Even a goose knows how to find
shelter, where the corn still lies in the stubble and dried stalks.

All we do is pass through here, the best way we can.
They stitch up the sky, and it is whole again. 

~ Barbara Crooker