Hawks, Poetry, a Cemetery in August

On Mogul

For me, there is no death, there is only life.

Places of burial are sacred to me. They provide me with immense peace. I am at home standing upon the thin line between worlds I wholeheartedly walk into. It is natural for me to be among the living and the departed. 

Since May, I have been physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually weighted. I use all the tools I learned thus far in this mad, crazy, beautiful ride called life to rid myself and space of negative energies, feelings and thoughts to prevent negative actions. Holistic body healing modalities work wonders, yet sometimes they are not enough.

As a physical being, every thought, experience and action requires use of energy, my own and others. This results in the absorption of energies of thoughts, which are quite powerful; to later settle into the physical self, the body, showing up as illness or pain. This is a red flag to rid yourself of what weighs you down.

Spiritual weight I am used to. I am an ultra-extra sensitive empath, among other things, so I kind of have no choice in that matter and accept spiritual matters humbly and with reverence. This is climbing up another rung of the ladder, learning new things about self and others, about shadow and light, discarding head-trash, fully accepting those I love, those I lost, loving the child within me and the woman I have grown to become. Preparing myself for the woman I am growing into. These weights I do not mind. They are necessary to a seeking soul.

Emotional and mental fatigue is disabling. Once negative thoughts and/or energy embeds itself within the physical body, and it does, for everyone, with or without consent, illness sets in. Illness can range from being distracted and crabby to outright disease. This begins in the mind. Things you tell yourself, the way others treat you, how you accept that treatment, the way you treat yourself, what you choose to allow and do not allow with self and others.

Boundaries are crucial. I have strict boundaries. Apparently, I like to play jump rope with my own boundaries. I mean hey, it is life and life is meant to be experienced but suffering is not part of the deal. Not this kind of suffering. This kind of suffering I am able to control with my mindset.

This is why, this day, is surreal.

Upon waking, I wished to get down to the water, my ultimate grounder. Instead, driving to the lake, I was diverted by a cemetery. I have never been on this land. A few days ago, driving past this cemetery, the need to go there was so intense it felt like magnets pulling me there.

I drive and stop where I am told to stop. I pull to the side of the grass and walk. There are a lot of Celtic crosses, artwork and design. This is my ancestry, part of it. Immediately, I take photos. The carvings, the messages, enthrall me and the time people took to pay homage to those they loved.

Artists created statues of angels and birds, of intricate scrolls and mandalas. I am blown away. I keep walking and kneel before a most divine angel.  I take several shots of her wings, her face, and her gentle outstretched palms in supplication. I turn to see Mother Mary, humble with her head down, palms out. I keep walking and see row upon row of trees.

Wandering around, I find rocks, feathers and pine cones. I crouch down low and listen to the birds singing -  drowning out the crows that attempt to add dissent to the chorus. The wind blows my hair around my face and I am fully awake and alive staring up and into trees. I place my palms lightly upon bark as I pass by each tree and find an accepting tree to place my spine against. I look to my right and stare up and down row upon row of intrinsic artwork, ages of lives and love carved into stone and marble.

Kneeling down in reverence and awe to those before me on this strange Earth, I know now why I have been guided to this healing place.

I find absolute refuge beneath a huge pine tree in the shade. I sit cross-legged in the grass, place both palms upon the tree, and ask, what do I need to do?

Immediately, I am answered.

Several things are answered, pleasing answers to issues that plague my mind and soul. I smile and move on and see a single tree far in the distance. I have no desire to walk to this tree because it sits in the blazing sun, yet I go, my legs decide for me. I walk around and around the tree in wonder and I am always "looking up" and when I look down, there are three feathers, barred, black, brown, white, tall and thin. Cooper's Hawk I believe. Strong medicine.

Overcome with gratefulness for the significance of the feathers, for this is exact, necessary and on purpose, I look to my left, see a multicolored rock glinting in the sun with minerals, and place that in my palm. It feels good and right there.

There are no coincidences.

Wandering back to my shelter, the pine, I sit and listen to birds and wind, to the beauty of nature, to existence itself rumbling within and around me. Freely, open and accepting of all that is, I know I am in another world, standing and praying on holy ground.

All of my angst and worry leaves me.

The night before, I wrote a poem about existence. The birds above me sing divinely and I record that poem as I walk up and down row upon row of life. My hair whips in the wind, nature is alive and on fire and the spirits of those around me guide and teach me. They tell me to keep going and that everything is fine. They tell me that I am loved and watched over. They tell me not to worry so much. They tell me that life, my dear soul, life is good.

This is what I shared with them and what I share here, with you:

Beneath the Midnight Sun

On Mogul

Image © Mogul

We bear witness
to our birth,
our death,
to days that go by
spent beneath
the sun of the mystery,
only to rest
upon the breast
of Autumn's breath.

We are witness to change
and fall then rise
like leaves and snowflakes,
drifting and landing
on the lashes of children,
such dear souls,
playing, innocent,
upon the mighty banks
of Mother Nature.

We are witness to our birth
as Spring arrives,
unannounced,
unplanned for,
bearing buds
and bees that buzz
and blooms in June,
beneath the deepest eye
of the sun of the spirit.

She is on fire,
dear bright star,
dear friend.

- Miss Majestic Mother Nature,
Oh, how you make sweet love with Father Sky -

The night falls.

I sit beneath ancient raiment,
staring up,
above,
and into us all -
existing
here.

Nothing to fix,
nor change
or even say -
but to simply be
here
now -

sharing my heart
beneath the Midnight Sun.

Begins The Crying Of The Guitar

My soul needs more than what is tangible in this foreign land. There are realms I may never experience, although I have fallen into quite a few, however, in times like these, the crying of the soul is not something I am able to taste or touch.

Federico Garcia Lorca understood when he wrote, La Guitarra or The Guitar: 

It begins, the lament   

of the guitar.                                                

The wineglass of dawn                                                        

is broken.                                                                                      

It begins, the lament

of the guitar. 

It's useless to silence it. 

Impossible

to silence it.

It cries monotonously

as the water cries,

as the wind cries

over the snow. 

Impossible 

to silence it.

It cries for 

distant things.

The physical body perceives a spiritual yearning, a natural state of being, as "sadness" or "something that cannot be placed" yet I am not sad, or confused, quite the opposite. I am an empathic creature, human after-all and am supposed to be feeling. There is no "one way" to feel or be, just as there is not one path to anywhere.

This pull is lasting for months. There is a blind spot in my field of vision. I am not supposed to see that far yet, although my soul knows. I allow my intuition to take over and walk along trails left by those that trudge before me. I trust my instincts.

Every evening, I stand outside, both feet planted flat on Earth and watch the sunset and wonder: How may times can I write about this? I answer: Many.

The clouds do not take rest in the sky the same way twice and the canvas is alive with colors that humankind has yet to create. At dawn, I greet the day. I give thanks for all that is, as well as gifts on their way. This is prayer. These times are mine and only mine. These are times I feel most protected and guided.

When I step out into this world, and it depends on the day, I view everything in either black and white or bursting with color. This is nothing new, yet can be maddening to the mind for the soul instinctively understands. The mind attempts to rationalize what is divine.

There are times I must create space between myself, this reality, you, reading my words right now, and the one I exist in as I write them. They are indeed, two different realms.

My tribe is scattered across the globe and I am, wide open.

Inspired by 5 Things Your Soul Wants To Know

Review of "Eulogy" By Lecturer Muhammad Ehtesham of Edwardes College

Lecturer Muhammad Ehtesham of Edwardes College, Peshawar, was kind enough to review/critique a poem of mine titled "Eulogy" published on Women for One. I am truly indebted to him. He not only has insight, wisdom and is learned, but is by far, the most knowledgeable mind I have met regarding literature. 

The poem is published on --> Women for One  and Rebelle Society & Black Elephant

Spoken word audio is above and on --> Soundcloud  

 Review of Susan Marie’s "Eulogy"

The voice of the divine – so transcendent yet anthropomorphized – is heard singing from a mountain of the “grandeur” of female spirituality and intellect. Susan Marie’s Eulogy has the voice of the woman Ubermensch that appropriates the tone of masculine assertion hence subverting the way power is seen.  Yet the tone is far from feminine itself. This power is the life-force, the voice of an animating spirit.

The duplicity of the female voice, one from the mountain and the other mediating is an “unapologetic” fragmentation of the consciousness that is “magnificent” yet “shrieking”; “unabashed” with all the vulnerabilities of nakedness.

Her brow wet
with brine,
upturned to the most holy sky,
arms raised
in supplication
to a dying world,
embracing,
all that is.

The Ubermensch transcends suffering through suffering. And while the stanza is intertextual with:

    Here the stone images
    Are raised; here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
 
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone. 

  - T.S Eliot; The Hollow Men

Yet the voice is far from hollow and rather than being an empty spectator to the death of man as a whole, the voice in Eulogy is messianic.

The “she” sits “cross-legged” (not cross-armed) in “brazen” sexuality in an earthly transcendence flaunting “gods” and “goddesses” yet quite beyond sexuality in the sense that the voice like Gaia encapsulates the whole of the Earth in it: all the “desire” and “madness.”

The Paradox of desire and madness makes the voice a neutral whole in its fragmentation.

Her howling
becomes one with the wind,
distress signals to the raiment,
the ancient raiment
that poets and sages
sat under and above
for millenniums.

The masculine image of “ancient poets and sages” is problematized by the female Ubermensch as she “howls” distress into the androcentricity of history.

Throughout the poem, the body parts of the “she” that are foregrounded are her legs. There’s a tinge of subverting the androcentricity of society and history through complicating spirituality and sexuality.

A eulogy to the past,
a welcome to the present,
an embrace to the future.

What it holds
is of no concern,
for she knows
where home is,
away from this society,
away from the busy-ness of life,
away from monotony
and dramatics,
away from this life
consumed
with triviality.

She is here
now,
waiting for you,
to set you free
from chains
you have bound yourself with.

Whip your shoulders back,
allow them to fall.
Feel the weight
vanish.

Grab her hand, willing,
loving,
kind,
calm,
pure and desirous.

Show her
how your soul
shines,
show her
how your eyes light up,
show her how you have released
from your very soul,
all the toxicity
of existence.

Henceforth, she becomes the voice of universal emancipation from what holds back humanity -- from all of its triviality. She becomes a part of all of us – in a very Jungian way. She becomes that part of human psyche that is female – the one that liberates; the one that nurtures and nourishes; the transcendental; the spiritual; the purgation of all that is “rotten.”

Spirituality is feminized and femininity is celebrated as a universal part of Nature – if not the whole of it, rather than a mere gender.

The present is to be captured, to be realized in a holistic experience when all the fragments of self-hood come together in a union, glued by the collective anima of being. This part of the human self is celebrated as a cleansing, invigorating, pulsating vibrancy -- the realization of which shall cause one to:

Sing of the grace bestowed upon you
for you are born to be supreme,
you are born with the ability to fly,
you are born with the gift to see
with six senses,
seven.

This force that is pushing man beyond his limits – so to speak, blowing up possibilities where he can see with six or seven senses, has less to do with fact and more to do with the force of language.

Muhammad Ehtesham
Lecturer in English
Edwardes College Peshawar, Pakistan

 

dreamcatcher

On Mogul 

 
A threshold, she stood.

Feet, bare, body clad,
in white cotton raiment
swirling about her ankles
as the wind sang like a lute
upon the still night sky.

A woman's song
carried upon the breeze
playing with the edges
of light and dark,
night and day,
the precious time
between dusk and nightfall.

Her ravensong
burst forth from mouth
wide open in awe,
chin upturned,
jawbone outlined,
tears precious
gifted in humble grace,
against the light
of the coming
of fresh eve.

A dreamcatcher
she was,
weaving lives within lives,
connecting dots
with fingertip raised
pointed at stars,
moving them across Father Sky
to meld into one another -
just
like
lovers.

Bare feet
slapping upon
concrete,
she pulls both arms outward
like some holy crucifixion
and met the maelstrom
head on -
for this
is
all
she
knew.

- Forward -

And he waited there, silent.
He knew she would not falter
yet kept watch upon her -
for his path led
in a line etched
from his soul
to her own.

And they tread into ancient firmament
where Gods and Goddesses exist, eternal,
and celestial wars rage.

Together,
yet apart,

- holding hands
as children tend to do -

they walked into the great abyss -

beyond all
that
is.

I Do Not Have An Answer

On Mogul 

The universe we exist in is in a constant state of flux, just as our bodies are. True balance is inconceivable, an untruth, nearly impossible. Maybe for a short time, then everything changes from millisecond to millisecond.

The world we live in operates with short periods where things are peaceful then tumultuous. There are times when you see people show great compassion for one another and times when the seething darkness embedded in the human soul completely takes over.

These are tough times, hard times. The times you feel utterly helpless or extremely enraged far beyond anger.  For me, it does not matter if the issue directly affects me, what matters is that things are set straight, that truth is told, that people treat one another with love and kindness and that justice is met.

Values embedded within my own soul guide me to what is right and wrong and what is harmful or helpful. What I myself stand for, with and behind, in solidarity, usually has nothing to do with me directly, except for, and most importantly, my role as a human being.

Our world is a dangerous and beautiful place. This is the light and dark at play. 

However, I cannot nor will I even attempt for one moment to know exactly what it feels like to be repeatedly raped as in sexual trafficking, to have a different skin color and be condemned and killed for it, to be jailed for my beliefs, to follow a faith that directs me to hurt and judge anyone, as well as be abused for my faith, and carry myself as if I know what any of that feels like. I don't. I only know what I have experienced.

Yet what I feel is horror and hope, simultaneous. I am unable to control any government, nation, any political or religious organization and any group of people that have power and control in the name of fear, which equals hate.

What I am able to control is myself. That I am 100% accountable for.

As a human being, I stare out at this world, our world, sometimes fully engaged, sometimes as an observer, and always, in utter confusion wondering how people do not know how to be kind. Take that a step further and witness people being outright hateful. Another step further and witness murder, beatings, rape and abuse.

What am I to do?

A hell of a lot, that's what.

I stand in solidarity. I do my best to not project negativity, and in the very least, use my voice as one of reason to say, This is wrong. I am with you. You are not alone. 

Sometimes that is not enough. Sometimes this world needs a good shaking up. Sometimes it takes going through the deepest, most frightening tunnels in order to get to the other end where there is light. Sometimes it takes upheaval of all that is in order to retain some sort of balance. Sometimes.

No, I cannot nor will I ever claim to know what it feels like to be anyone but myself. What I can claim is that I am a rational thinking, extremely empathetic human being that cares for the rest of our race, the human one,  as a whole. Not just a skin color, a sexual gender, a faith, a group, or a nation.

All of us.

I ask please when you open your eyes everyday to in the very least try and put yourself directly into the shoes of another human being that experiences existence much differently than you do.  It makes a difference. It helps to take away some of the hate that is rampant in all societies. It helps you to understand what others are going through. It helps you to connect to your own town, city, state, nation and the world. It helps you to connect to other people. It helps you to connect to yourself. 

Make all kinds of friends, learn of other cultures, sexual genders, faiths and ethnicity. Expand your mind so far and wide that you cannot even conceive of allowing hate to settle within your bones for a solitary second.

As Leonard Peltier wrote in Prison Writings: My Life is My Sun Dance -

"“I don’t know how to save the world. I don’t have the answers or The Answer. I hold no secret knowledge as to how to fix the mistakes of generations past and present. I only know that without compassion and respect for all of Earth’s inhabitants, none of us will survive – nor will we deserve to.”

Born of This

On Mogul

It is tiresome
being human
with a beating heart.

I wish to close my eyes to horror,
yet my soul was made to speak.

I shout atrocity from rooftops
with rusted gutters,
my jawbone clenched tight.

Hoping that the blind shall see,
and the deaf shall hear;
dead-men nod to my supplications.

The sky quivers and quakes,
roaring untold stories of ancestors.

Nature does not judge.

Instinct is the root
of coming
into becoming whole.

Oh, such peace
to be among the birds and trees,
the grass, green.

The deer and raven dine side by side.

I shall recharge like Walden,
gain clarity,
go home where I feel peace.

The human race confuses me,
and I am often ashamed to admit
that I am born of it.

This Is How We Are Blessed

On Mogul 

Selfless and passionate
birds cry,  melodic.

Rivers and lakes
streams and oceans,
the great majestic seas
roil like thunder,
yet rest our weary souls
onshore.

This is how we are blessed.

The trunks of trees bear limbs
reaching down and out
from heavens sweaty brow,
holding our hands
made of elm and birch,
of oak and fir,
thunderous heads of hair,
crowns of chakras, all colors,
falling, falling as leaves,
blanketing grass, emerald and awake,
blinding our senses silly –

And this, this is how we are blessed.

Listen -
the human heart beats
like tribal drums,
circled by ancestral fires,
pounding treble and bass,
prodding the spirit onward,
towards destiny,
towards fate,
towards the next step -
forward.

In this mad world,
this great globe,
this utterly insane
human existence,
is beauty.

Yes.

This, this is how we are blessed.

Mother Nature, Father Sky

Mother Nature, Father Sky

Check out this wild lightning! I stood out here staring up wondrous and in awe at the sky. Now this, this is Mother Nature, Father Sky.

Also linked HERE